The Monsters of Music

by Rebecca F. Kenney

  "All right, all right, sit down," snapped Eddie Carver. He consulted the papers in front of him. "Kiyo, was it? That was an easy one for you, yeah? Thought you'd hit us with a little crowd-pleaser, hop on through to the next round?"

  Mel grimaced. As if the other contestants hadn't done exactly the same thing.

  "You seem a little stiff on stage. Sure, you swayed a bit, but you didn't move your feet an inch. You need confidence, and a better stage presence. And I'll tell you right now, this show isn't gonna be about skating through on easy songs. There's a record deal and cash at stake here. You've got to push yourself harder."

  Kiyo was deflating, shoulders sagging, shame in every line of his body. The fragile confidence he had mustered for the song evaporated before Mel's eyes.

  Eddie was right. It was an easy song for a voice like Kiyo's, in spite of the embellishment and the extra high note. It didn't show off his true power and potential.

  "Dang, Eddie," said Amarynth, glaring at her fellow judge. "Did we just listen to the same song? That boy's voice is hella gorgeous, and he's goin' through to the next round. That's a 'hell yeah' from me."

  The host nodded. "One 'yes,' then. Ferris?"

  Ferris clasped both hands to his chest, rolling his eyes heavenward. "When you sang, it was like an angel of music had descended to earth. Yes, mate. So much yes."

  "Oh, kill me now," moaned Eddie.

  "So you're a 'no,' then, Eddie?" asked the host.

  A rebellious murmur rumbled through the crowd.

  "The boy sang it well. I suppose he deserves another shot," Eddie said. "Fine. 'Yes' from me, too."

  Mel nodded, her grudging respect for the man resurfacing. He had obeyed her order, but he did it on his terms, without compromising his role as a judge. Well played.

  Filming stopped after the next contestant, who left the stage in tears after a botched rendition of Sia's "Chandelier." The crew, contestants, and audience scattered to have lunch, and Mel returned to the dormitory attic to visit Prince and make a call to her aunt.

  "Damn, it's chilly up here," she said, adjusting the temperature settings on the three space heaters she had placed strategically around the room. She flopped onto the bed, running her thumb through the silky bits of a golden tassel, while Prince curled against her side and settled in for a nap.

  Aunt Lotta answered Mel's call immediately. "Melpomene! You are banished from my sight forever because you haven't called me in days and that's simply not allowed. How are you, my darling?"

  Mel took a deep breath. "I think I found someone."

  "Brilliant, my precious heart!"

  Mel smiled in spite of herself. Aunt Lotta was always a little—extra.

  "Tell me all about him," her aunt bubbled. "Is he hot? Of course he is, or you wouldn't have chosen him, right? You have to send me a photo of him, preferably shirtless and flexing. And darling, you have to remember the rules, every single one of them."

  "I remember."

  "Run over them again, will you, baby girl? Humor me."

  Mel sighed. "Rule One, don't tell him what I am."

  "Obvious. And the second?"

  "Rule Two, no performing for him, or for any other humans." She hadn't exactly broken that rule—her performance of "Lotus Flower" was incognito, so it didn't count.

  "And number three?"

  "He has to kiss me willingly, initiated of his own free will. Once I pass on the magic, the bond will lock in, and he'll be mine." There was something glorious about those words—glorious, and frightening. Kiyo wouldn't know what he was getting into. He would think it was just a kiss, but it would be so much more. It would mean a brilliant career, financial success, fame—all because of the magic and inspiration she could give him. So why did the prospect of the bond make her feel so uneasy?

  "Mel my lovely?"

  "Yeah, sorry. Rule Four—if he kisses anyone else, the bond breaks and must be reset, or abandoned."

  "And the last rule. A very important one."

  The tension in her aunt's voice echoed Mel's own anxiety. This was the rule her mother broke.

  "Rule Five. Don't pour too much magic into him at once. Don't push him too far, too fast." Or he could snap. Become obsessed and manic, like her mother's boyfriend Shane. The word "father" coiled in her mind, and she crushed it into oblivion. That monster would never be her father.

  "Very good, angel. I think you're ready for this. So exciting, my precious girl falling in love for the first time!" Aunt Lotta cooed.

  "I don't intend to love Kiyo," Mel said. "I'm just going to be his teacher. A few kisses now and then don't make a romance."

  "Ah, the innocence of youth," said her aunt. "Just wait, baby doll. Once you start, it's so hard not to love them. That is, until it isn't. And then you move on to the next one."

  Her aunt bored of her protégés quickly, linking with them long enough to jumpstart their careers, and then leaving. Some of them put out brilliant first albums or gave inspired debut movie performances, only to spend the following years wandering, struggling, trying to recover that first blush of success, while critics posited theories about why their genius flamed out so fast.

  Mel wouldn't do that to Kiyoji. She would stay with him long enough to ensure that he could flourish on his own. He had the talent already—all he needed was an extra shot of brilliance and confidence. A little magic.

  Her aunt was still speaking. "You know, it would have been much easier for you to play groupie to some startup indie band. That's how most of us begin our careers as muses."

  "You know I can't, not with the scars. And even if I could manage it, I wouldn't get to actually coach, to use my musical training. I want to have a career along with my magic, like Mom did."

  "Because that worked out so well for her."

  Mel clenched her teeth so hard her molars hurt. She released the pressure a bit, because it wouldn't do to crack a tooth when she was this close to getting her first protégé.

  She waited for the apology she knew would come. Aunt Lotta might be sharp-tongued and thoughtless at times, but she wasn't cruel—or if she was, she usually regretted it within seconds.

  "I'm sorry." Her aunt's voice was subdued, aching with the same loss that punched Mel in the gut at the most unexpected moments.

  "I know." Mel stared at her reflection in the phone's glossy surface.

  "I hope this boy is everything you need, my love."

  A whisper was all Mel could manage. "Me too."

  ***

  The mirror arrived that afternoon.

  Mel had ordered it weeks ago, from a Dark-Net website specializing in rare magical items. Its price ate up most of the startup money her aunt had given her, but she didn't care. The mirror was the key to it all—Kiyo's admiration, and the bonding kiss that would begin their partnership.

  Inch by painful inch, she lugged the box with the mirror up to the fourth floor, to a student rehearsal room she had cleared of dust and debris. The rest of the fourth floor was abandoned; no one from the competition would be using it. The other contestants would practice in the dormitory's soundproof basement studios.

  Mel propped the mirror against the wall, slit the cardboard, and ripped it aside. Slabs of foam and thick paper, secured with tape, covered the mirror's entire surface. She traced the curlicues and crests, the leaf sprays and spiked crowns carved into its frame. Its gilding had worn thin in places, and when she tore away the paper, she saw dark spots speckling the edges of the mirror itself. But it was still richly gorgeous, and brimming with magic. The power within it tugged at her own energy, drawing her, until her need to see her reflection won out over her reluctance.

  She locked the door. Carefully, bending at the knees, muscles straining, she hoisted the mirror first onto a chair, then onto a table by the back wall, opposite the door.

  Then she pushed back her hood and her hair, her fingertips brushing across the network of rigid scars. And she looked into the mirror.

  A jolt shot through her at the sigh
t of her face—smooth, unblemished, and beautiful. Without thinking, she put her hand up to her right cheek, suffering another odd shock as she felt the twisted skin and knotted flesh. It looked so smooth in the mirror—for a second she had thought the illusion was real.

  She stared at herself for a long time, as the ancient queens who once owned this piece must have done.

  Her eye caught a flutter of ivory at the mirror's corner—a tag, attached to the back by a loop of wire. The fresh piece of cardstock bore a few lines of verse—probably a reprint of whatever ancient warning once accompanied the mirror. Or maybe it was simply the previous owner's idea of a joke.

  Mirror, mirror, only mine

  Grant me elegance divine

  Beauty bloom in symmetry

  For all who my reflection see.

  Mel read the words three times. The blurb on the Fae auction website had said as much—the mirror showed everyone accurately except for its owner, whose reflection would appear inhumanly beautiful to all eyes. Useless in real life, especially in a time of filters and Photoshop. But for people like Mel, who needed a few moments of surreal beauty in the non-digital realm, this mirror was priceless.

  What if her plan didn't work at all? What if Kiyo refused to play along?

  What then?

  Humiliation. She couldn't explain everything to him, so she would have to leave. She'd have to find an indie band somewhere, as Aunt Lotta suggested—someone into whom she could pour the magic, a musician or singer who didn't mind a scarred face as long as it came with a hot body. Mel closed her eyes, retching inwardly at the thought.

  "I'm better than that," she whispered. "I'm more than a groupie. I'm a freaking muse."

  If it weren't for her horrific face, she could have anyone she wanted. Anyone in the world.

  Her skin was beginning to feel too tight again, her heart swelling and crashing against the walls of her chest. A few more hours of work, and then she would have to escape to her attic to expend her magic, to play and to paint, and to plot the demise of the human assigned to be Kiyo's voice coach.

  -6-

  Toxic

  "I thought we had an understanding." Eddie Carver's voice shook with suppressed rage.

  "Close the door, Eddie," said Gils Archambeau, without looking up from his laptop.

  Eddie closed it as roughly as he dared and dropped into a leather chair across from Archambeau. "Could you stop working for five minutes? This is important."

  Archambeau pressed his lips together and raised his eyes. "A moment, please."

  He tapped on the keys for a few more minutes while Eddie stewed in his chair. Then Archambeau closed the laptop. "Mr. Carver, what can I do for you?"

  "I said, I thought we had an understanding. About the competition."

  Archambeau's gray eyes turned icy. "And part of that understanding was your silence. You agreed not to speak of the arrangement."

  "Right, so then why have I been getting these?" Eddie shoved his phone into the other man's hands. "Threatening text messages, by someone calling himself the Resident Poltergeist."

  "Poltergeist?" Archambeau chuckled. "A little dramatic."

  "Oh yes, very dramatic. As dramatic as death. Or did you not hear about the attempted murder this morning?"

  "Murder?"

  "Yes. Someone tried to drop a crowbar on my head."

  "Oh, that. An accident, Mr. Carver. Carelessness on the part of one of the workers, no doubt. The crew manager already fired three of the lighting crew members, the ones in charge of installing the fixtures last night."

  "But you see, it wasn't their fault," Eddie protested. "It was whoever sent these messages. He wanted to scare me, or kill me."

  "Well, he certainly succeeded at one of those." Archambeau sighed, leaning back in his desk chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Mr. Carver, I certainly didn't send any of those messages, and neither did my partner. Our agreement with you doesn't involve any of the other contestants—just the one."

  "That's what confused me. How am I supposed to judge a show that's rigged six ways to Sunday?"

  "Simple. You and I make sure that our backer's candidate wins the whole thing. How we get there is up to us. But if that particular contestant is cut, the money stops, and the show is financially wrecked. No win—no money. I'm not sure that I can make it any simpler."

  "But what about the poltergeist?"

  "There is no poltergeist, Mr. Carver. At most, there's a jokester messing with your head. Ignore him, and he'll go away."

  "Because that always works." Eddie sneered.

  Archambeau tilted back upright. "Look, why don't you talk to your fellow judges? Find out if any of them have received similar messages All I ask is that you deal with this yourself, and keep our other arrangement private, all right? I have enough to handle at the moment."

  Eddie scraped his phone off the desk. "Thanks for nothing, Archambeau."

  Archambeau's voice followed him out the door. "Do some meditation or yoga, Mr. Carver! It works wonders for me."

  Eddie stormed down the hallway to the judges' lounge and slammed inside, taking a fierce delight in the way Ferris Manson jumped, spilling a wave of amber liquid over his silk shirt.

  "Good Lord, Eddie!" Amarynth exclaimed. "Take a chill pill, babe. We've got another couple hours to go."

  "Have either of you had any encounters with a—" Eddie hesitated before saying the word, suddenly realizing how it would sound.

  "A what?" Amarynth leaned forward, bracing her silver can of sparkling water between sleekly manicured hands.

  "A ghost. Or a poltergeist."

  Ferris stood, stripping off his ruined shirt. "Yeah, I've met plenty of them. Demons too. Ugly bastards. You ever seen one?"

  "A demon? No. I'm talking about ghosts. You know, hauntings."

  "What you sayin', Eddie? Are you claiming this place is haunted?" Amarynth's eyebrows rose high.

  "Um..."

  "Because you are a professional. And professionals don't have any business believing in nonsense like that." She pursed her lips.

  "What makes you think there's a haunting, mate?" said Ferris.

  "I don't know. Weird things have been happening." Eddie threw himself into a chair. "And drop the fake Aussie accent, mate. It's not fooling anyone."

  "I like it." Ferris shrugged, dabbing with a napkin at the splatters of liquid across his lean chest. Eddie could see each of his ribs.

  "You eat, man?" he asked.

  Ferris's eyes took on a glazed look. "Does gin count as breakfast?"

  "It's the afternoon, Ferris," Amarynth cut in. "What'd you have for lunch?"

  "A candy bar, I think."

  Eddie shook his head. "You've got to straighten up. As Amarynth says, we are professionals. This is a big deal for me, this show, and I don't want you messing it up. Okay? So get your crap together."

  "Sure, yeah." Ferris stared around vacantly. "You got a spare shirt?"

  "No," growled Eddie. "Call that runner kid, the goth girl. I think her name is Meg? Or Mel. She can run out and get you a shirt."

  "Okay." Ferris staggered to the doorway and shouted, "Mel!" at the top of his lungs.

  Amarynth did a face-palm. "Ferris! Turn down the volume."

  A moment later, the hoodie-wearing girl entered the lounge. "Someone call me?" she said. "You're lucky I was nearby. Just got back from break."

  "Yeah, no one cares," said Eddie. "Just get the rock hero a shirt, would you? There's a good girl."

  "Of course." The half of Mel's mouth that he could see lifted in what resembled a snarl. She spun on her heel and stalked out.

  Ten minutes later, she was back with a shirt and a few bottles of mineral water. "These are from Catherine," she said. "She wants you each to drink one. Says you all look unhealthy."

  "Unhealthy?" Amarynth scoffed. "These jokers, sure, but me? I'm the picture of health."

  Mel shrugged apologetically. "I think you look amazing."

  She left the bottles on the
table and handed the shirt to Ferris before leaving.

  Catherine, huh? Eddie took one of the bottles and turned it over in his hands, pondering. Catherine was hot, in a curvy Rubenesque way. Not that he wanted a woman in his life, but it couldn't hurt to make an effort to be healthier.

  He cracked the seal on the bottle and chugged half of it. "You should drink some of this, too, Ferris. It's not half bad. And you're probably dehydrated."

  "Okay." Ferris opened a bottle, swallowed a sip, and made a face. "Ugh."

  "You'll drink gin, but not mineral water? Crazy." Amarynth chuckled. "Okay boys, time to play judge again."

  They followed her back to the judges' dais and settled in for the last handful of televised auditions. After that, they would congratulate the twenty finalists and be done for the day.

  Eddie would be glad once they got past this part. The bunch today had been a mix of quality voices and horrible ones—some decent, polite people and some absolute idiots. He found himself questioning the opinions he'd formed about some of the contestants. Judging could be subjective as hell. What felt original and fresh one day might be odd and off-putting the next. A lovely rock growl might transform into a phlegmy croak by the next performance. What he thought was an appealing detached falsetto could end up sounding breathy and weak.

  He let Amarynth run through the questions for the next contestant, pressing a hand over his gurgling abdomen. Something was wrong. That mineral water wasn't settling well.

  Halfway through the song, he leaped up and ran for the bathroom. For the next twenty minutes he sweated in agony in a stall, until the stage manager came in and knocked on the door.

  "Mr. Carver? Are you okay?" The tightness in his voice indicated poorly hidden frustration.

  "Oh, I'm fine," snarled Eddie. "My insides are pouring out of my butt-hole, but otherwise, I'm super. Thanks for asking."

  "Well, sir, we have an entire volunteer audience, three more auditions to shoot, and a final contestant lineup to do."