A memory stirred in his mind, an image of a tall, stately woman warning someone against touching a mirror. "Galadriel," he said.
The girl's dark brows contracted. "What?"
"Galadriel, in the Lord of the Rings—she tells Sam not to touch the mirror." Kiyo knew he was talking nonsense, but he couldn't stop. The words kept pouring out. "Sam looks in, and he sees all this bad stuff happening to his village, and he wants to go home. But the mirror isn't reliable, of course. Well, it's less like a mirror and more like a pool of water. Like the Pensieve in Harry Potter. A lot like that. Dang. Wonder if Rowling got the idea from Tolkien."
"Shut up."
"Sorry." He shut his mouth, still staring into the mirror. But he couldn't stay quiet. "Can I say one more thing? You're obviously some kind of mirror ghost, right? And I've gone totally nuts. Batshit crazy. Jack Sparrow crazy."
"You like movie references." A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "And no, I'm not a mirror ghost. But I don't like to be looked at directly, so you will either look at me in the mirror, or you will wear this."
A pale hand passed his arm, dropping a black strip of cloth on the table. A blindfold.
"What the heck is this? Look, I'm flattered, but I don't do bondage or whatever it is, I—"
"Relax. I'm not seducing you, Kiyo Darcy." The bewitching timbre of her voice, so close to his ear, told his body otherwise. He started counting, fast and fiercely, in his head. "I'm Erin, your substitute voice coach."
"You?" He laughed. "But you got here so fast. And you—you're gorgeous."
She sneered at him. "Does that matter?"
"No, I just meant—"
"I know what you meant. Exactly what all men mean when they see an attractive woman. Her beauty becomes the most noticeable and valuable part of her."
Crap. "No, I didn't mean that at all. I'm sorry, I—"
She brushed off the apology, sighing. "It's fine. Forget it. Let's talk music."
He gestured to the phone. "I was doing some warm-ups." He scooped up the phone and started to turn toward her.
"Face the mirror!" she snapped, and he whipped back around.
"Okay, okay. Facing the mirror." He watched as the terror in her eyes subsided. "This is super weird. You know that, right?"
"I have my quirks," she said. "That's why I'm a sub, not the first string. But I've been studying music since I was four. When I was ten I moved to L.A., where I trained with top musicians and vocal coaches. I'm qualified to help you out on a temporary basis."
He lifted his hands, palms up, surrendering. "Where do we start?"
"We need to work on your voice strength and your breathing. Your range is already good, but I think you can go higher."
"Higher?" he repeated blankly. He felt oddly disconnected from everything but her. She practically gleamed, with that milky skin and shimmering purple shape and glossy dark hair. The rest of the room had faded to drab, blurry beige.
"Yes, higher," she murmured, gliding behind him, trailing her fingers across his shoulders. "No, don't look directly at me. Look in the mirror. Now, you know the difference between your chest voice and your head voice, yes?"
She paused, just behind his right shoulder, her voice flowing through his head like music. He blinked, scrabbling for the answer to her question.
"Head voice—is that falsetto?"
"Yes," she answered. "I think we can increase your range in both zones—chest voice and falsetto. But first, let's warm up those vocal chords a little more."
Under her direction, he did a series of scales with an open "ah" sound, tongue depressed for the uninhibited flow of the notes. He was already familiar with the concept of breathing from the diaphragm, the powerful muscle right under his lungs, at the base of his ribs, but she put him through several more breathing exercises.
"You haven't had any formal training, have you?" she asked.
"No, just a couple YouTube videos and some tips from a friend—he's the lead in a band back home."
"You're an amazing natural talent, Kiyo." She laid her hands on his shoulders. "But you're too tense. Relax, relax the shoulders." Her fingers slid to his throat. "Your throat is too tight. You're holding tension right in here. When you're working on your range, don't think about going up to the note—that increases the strain you feel. Think horizontal, level, like you're staring across a flat, open field, and the note is on the other side of it. You can even shrug your shoulders or swing your head from side to side while you're practicing—not for performance, of course."
He nodded. "You're good at this. And you've had voice training, so you can obviously sing. Why didn't you enter the competition yourself?"
She pulled away. "I can't."
"You have some kind of anxiety thing, right? Like agoraphobia, or something? And that's why you don't like anyone to look at you directly?"
"No more personal questions," she hissed. "Do you want to improve your range or not?"
"I do. Sorry." He adjusted his shoulders, swung his head, and settled back into the scales, climbing first one octave, then the next. And another.
-8-
Symphony
Mel couldn't believe it was working. For four days, Kiyo had seen her every morning as Mel, bringing the coffee, and then again an hour later as Erin—and he never recognized her. It helped that besides fixing her scars, the mirror gave her an overall makeover—slightly larger eyes, smoother cheeks, and a complete hairstyle change. And she wore the purple gown, one of her most magnificent finds from the attic trunks of the Leroux School. She wore it not only because she loved it, but because it aided the illusion, the sense of the surreal she was trying to create. Still, every time she walked barefaced into that practice room, she flinched, fearful that maybe this time the magic wouldn't work and he would see her for what she was—an imposter, a wreck. A monster.
So far, the mirror's magic had held, and so had Kiyo's commitment to look only at her reflection.
Catherine hadn't been a problem, either. Mel went to her in the afternoon, right after "Erin's" first meeting with Kiyo. She announced, "Erin Crawford is going to coach Kiyo Darcy."
Catherine barely looked up from her phone. "You found a replacement coach for him already? That was quick."
"I work fast."
"You got the paperwork? Her signatures?"
Mel handed over the sheaf of forms. "And I updated everything in the computer system, too. She wants to be paid through Paypal. Weird, huh?"
"Hm." Catherine flipped through the papers. "Well, you know these artistic types. Weirdness abounds. All right, I'll sign off on these. Go see if Boucher needs your help." She pronounced it "Butcher," and while it was technically an accurate English translation of the name, Mel winced at the mangling of the French word.
But she was too pleased with herself to make any snide remarks at Catherine's expense, and she couldn't afford the woman refocusing her attention on the shady matter of the new voice coach.
Mel had been hired as a part-time employee, and with all the contestants busy with their coaches during the mornings, she was able to switch her work hours to the afternoons. The second half of the day was louder and busier than the mornings, cluttered with group dance classes, sessions on public appearance, and lessons in brand management and social media presence. Whatever else the show's producers may have skimped on, it wasn't the enrichment portion of the contest.
Mel wouldn't have minded sitting in on some of those sessions herself, but she had to maintain her cover. She was already risking discovery by living in the attic instead of in the tiny, drab room she had been assigned. To conceal her absence, she made a habit of going in and out of her assigned room a couple times every day. But she couldn't live in that small space—she couldn't breathe there, couldn't do the playing and singing and painting that kept her sane and alive. Those late-night music sessions were survival, pure and simple, and the magic pressed at her edges so painfully that she had less and less time or inclination for sleep. And if she grew thinner and pa
ler and more exhausted every day, no one seemed to notice. As Mel, she was nearly invisible; as Erin, she existed only in the magic mirror, for Kiyo.
He was improving with every session. Already his stamina had increased, his breathing was better, and his range was slowly inching upward. They had consulted the approved song list together on the second day, and he chose to do an acoustic version of "Swing, Swing" by The All-American Rejects for the "Showoff" episode—the first performance round of the competition, where contestants were supposed to show the full extent of what they could do. Mel approved of the choice—it would stretch him, but not to the point of over-exertion.
Tomorrow he would perform on-stage, in front of the cameras; and she was nervous, not only because he might flub the performance, but because he hadn't kissed her yet. Not that she gave him much of a chance to do any such thing. If his head so much as twitched too far, she would jump backward with a sharp warning, "Face the mirror!"
After warm-ups, he ran through "Swing, Swing" for her again. "That's enough of it for today," she told him. "I want it to feel fresh and exciting for you tomorrow, when you're performing."
She didn't miss the throb of his throat as he swallowed his nerves. "Hey," she said, her fingers creeping over his arm. "No need to worry. You'll slay them all. And if they don't cheer for you until the rafters ring, I'll make sure you get the recognition you deserve in the next round."
He met her gaze in the mirror, and the rapt intensity in his eyes unnerved her. She tried to shake off the discomfort. This was how it should be, how the Lianhan Sídhe had always captivated the men they chose to champion, or ensnare. Thanks to the mirror, he was already under her spell. She needed only to push him a little further, and he would be completely hers.
She backed away, withdrawing her hand from his arm. "Are you ready for the next step?"
"Yes." His voice was low, thrumming with something hot and wild. Mel sucked in a long, slow breath, trying to steady her racing pulse. It was terrifying and thrilling, having this kind of potential at her fingertips, having the power to take it further.
"Go ahead and grab the guitar, then pull the stool in front of the mirror and have a seat," she said. She turned her back to him while he did it, playing nervously with the folds of the purple dress she wore, drawing up the skirt in clusters to watch the fabric shimmer, and releasing it in sheets of violet gorgeousness.
"I'm ready." Kiyo's voice cut into her reverie, and her stomach thrilled. Be cool, Melpomene, she told herself. Don't screw this up.
"All right, we're going to work on your range a little bit more," she said. "Start with those scales I showed you yesterday."
He groaned. "The difficult ones."
"You can do it."
Strumming the first chord, he begin to sing—but she stopped him almost immediately, forgetting all about the possibility of a kiss. "No, no! What was that? Your voice is so tense now. Relax, relax." She laid her hand over his throat, where she could sense the stress. "Again."
He repeated the scale, so smoothly and gracefully that it shocked her. She looked up at him in the mirror. "Did you tense your throat like that on purpose?"
He chuckled, and she felt the vibration of the hard cartilage in his throat, the magical voice-box that created such lovely sounds.
He'd wanted her to touch him. The realization thrilled and horrified her. This was real. He was actually attracted to her.
But no boy who had seen her true face had ever wanted her touch. And Kiyo wouldn't either.
Recoiling, she snapped, "Keep singing."
Uncertainty wavered in his eyes, and he looked away from her as he climbed up and down the next arch of notes.
She regretted snapping at him. The pain in her head was beginning to spike again, the magic testing the bounds of her temper and her sanity. So many conflicting emotions and impulses—the desire to charm him and kiss him, the fear of taking it too far, the urge to shove him away because people meant danger, and pain. Even people with honest, open eyes like his.
Mel watched him sing the scales, mesmerized by the flex of his slim hands over the guitar strings, the surge of his chest under the black T-shirt as he breathed.
"Do the whole set again," she said. "I know it's more difficult from a sitting position, but as a guitarist you have to be able to handle it. Push harder. You're stronger than this. Feel the notes from your legs all the way through your torso. You're not just lungs and a larynx, Kiyo—you're a whole person." She reached over his right shoulder, her arm sliding down to grip the instrument in his hands. "Do it without the guitar one time, so you can focus on your voice. I'll play the notes for you."
She felt the shiver that ran through him at her touch, at the caress of her breath on his ear. When she looked up, into the mirror, they were nearly cheek to cheek—two pale, beautiful faces in a shadowed room, their black hair blending, her arm a white slash across his dark-clad chest. She snapped the photo in her mind, to paint it later.
He moved one hand up, toward her right cheek.
Swiftly she drew the guitar away, backing up and throwing a single hard-bitten word at him. "Again." She thrummed out the first chord, fierce and wild.
Kiyo's eyes locked with hers, and instead of merely climbing the scales, he ripped through them, his voice resonating with power, until each note burned like a glowing coal in her chest and she was full, full to bursting of that exquisite fire. The sudden explosion of painful magic in her head was nearly unbearable. She ground her teeth, fighting to stay in control, as wave after dizzying wave of agony crumbled her senses.
When Kiyo reached the peak of the next scale, she stopped him. "Enough for now. Try to go higher too quickly and you'll strain your voice." She set the guitar against the wall.
"But we don't have much time," he said. "I need to improve fast. The first round is tomorrow."
"Do you want to burn brightly and flame out, like a phoenix?" she snapped, spinning back to him. "Or do you want to achieve a new range and maintain it for the rest of your life? The easy way might get you a win. The hard way will gain you years of admiration." She leaned close to his ear again, whispering the words. "Think of it. Wealth you can't even imagine. Throngs of shrieking fans, all eager to—touch you." Her hand floated up again, nearly brushing his cheek but not quite.
"What about you? Don't you want adoring fans of your own?" He smiled, swiveling on the stool, left to right, right to left, just far enough to make her nervous. She moved back, toward the small table by the door, ready to snatch her mask from her bag if he turned around.
"I don't want an audience," she said.
"Why not? You must be good. Why won't you sing for me?"
In his dark eyes she read sincerity, and hope. Hope that she had to crush. "I don't sing for people."
"I didn't either, before all this."
"I'm no good, really. Some skills can be taught, others you have to be born with." Let him think that her voice was terrible. It was easier than the truth—that the Lianhan Sídhe of her clan weren't allowed to perform, write, paint, or act for anyone. Their magic was a gift to be given away, not to be used. It was an old law, forsaken by the two rogue branches of their race, but rigidly enforced for Mel's clan.
Aunt Lotta had managed to finagle an exception to the rule in Mel's case, since Mel was determined to study voice and music. Performing for a human, even a private instructor, was a breach of the Lianhan Sídhe's laws; so Mel took voice lessons from a merrow, studied dance with a pixie, and learned piano from a musically gifted selkie. They were all members of the Fae community, so Lotta could claim that the law was unbroken and sidestep any repercussions.
Mel despised the rule, as a holdover from ancient times when the role of the Lianhan Sídhe was practically sacred and they acted more like priestesses than muses. But another part of her was deeply grateful for the prohibition, because it meant she would never have to stand on a stage, perform in a studio, make YouTube videos of her keyboard skills, or hawk her paintings at art m
arkets. The bare thought of doing those things constricted her heart with a heady mix of exhilaration and terror.
"Erin." Kiyo's voice shattered her thoughts. "Where did you go?"
She shook her head. "Nowhere. We're done for the day."
He rose from the stool and turned to face her.
She nearly screamed before she realized that his eyes were closed. He took a step forward. "Are you coming to hear me sing tomorrow?"
"I will. You won't see me, but I'll be there."
His face melted into a warm, cheesy, teenage-boy grin. "Awesome. Thanks for everything you've done for me so far, Erin."
As he spoke, she picked up her bag, edged to the door, and eased out of the room.
"Wherever you're listening from tomorrow," he said, "I hope you know that I'm singing for you."
The last words floated after her as she raced away, down the long, dark hallway to the empty storage closet at the far end, where she changed for every performance as Erin. She closed the door silently and tore off the purple dress, her good cheek hot and flushed, her scars as cold and twisted as ever.
Damn that beautiful boy and his beautiful voice. Aunt Lotta had warned her that falling in love with him would be easy—but she always seemed to forget that for Mel, life would never be as easy or simple as it was for other Lianhan Sídhe. The gorgeous ones, the ones with whole, perfect faces, could love and be loved back, with nothing in the way.
She hadn't thought far enough ahead, hadn't planned this out carefully enough. What would happen when the film crew asked to shoot footage of her rehearsal sessions with Kiyo? They hadn't yet, because every spare second of the upcoming two-part episode would be devoted to the performances of the twenty first-round contestants, with a bare minute or two of intro for each one. But for future episodes, the producers would want footage of Kiyo practicing, of her coaching him. And that simply couldn't happen, because she wasn't Erin Crawford—she was Mel. And scarred. And Lianhan Sídhe. Too many layers of secrets.
Shivering in her underwear, she sank to the floor of the closet, propped her arms across her knees, and buried her face in them. She should have done what Aunt Lotta advised—found an offbeat musician or artist, latched onto to someone who thought her scars were more dramatic than disgusting, and drained her magic into him for a while. But no, she had to complicate things and craft a dramatic, detailed plan to hijack a singing competition and ride a contestant to fame. Once they succeeded, once her protégé realized he couldn't thrive without her, she had hoped he wouldn't care about the scars. She could be the genius in the background, and he would play the crowds.
The Monsters of Music Page 7