She'd married a musician, and managed his career for a while, always watching and waiting for signs of the supernatural—watching so intently that she missed other signs. Signs of her husband's misery that ended with him swinging from a beam in their garage.
Lisette's hand shook, and she swallowed the rest of the wine.
Ce n'est pas ma faute. Not my fault. She repeated the words, the mantra of years.
After all this time, all the heaviness and the dashed dreams, she craved two things—validation of her belief in magic, her pursuit of it—and a way to begin her life again. Maybe, with Mel and Kiyo, she could have both. She had studied the symbiotic relationship between muse and artist, between Lianhan Sídhe and protégé. She could help them find balance in the push and pull of the magic, could guide them through the human side of the music business. She could protect them, and yes, enjoy a bit of their success along the way. Through them, maybe, she could taste a little of the brilliant life that was stolen from her when Shannon left.
But she would have to move delicately, carefully. The girl was jumpy, as Shannon had been, and much more dangerous. And the boy probably had no idea what was being done to him, or what might happen to him when it ended.
It wasn't her place to tell him, though. She would let the girl handle it—let the contest run its course. And meanwhile she would do what she did best. Watch, and wait.
-14-
Colors
"Did you do it?" Kiyo's eyes burned into Mel's—or Erin's—as she entered the room behind him the next morning. "Did you choke that woman?"
Shock flared in the large, limpid eyes of Mel's reflection. "Of course not," she said, keeping her voice musical and mellow. "But I did speak up on your behalf. I already told you that. After she didn't show up for her performance, I suggested they keep you in her place."
"You didn't have anything to do with the attack?"
You're not Mel, you're Erin, she told herself. From that point of view, it's not technically a lie.
"I didn't," she said. "And I'm hurt that you would think me capable of such violence."
"I'm sorry." He sank onto the stool, brushing a long-fingered hand over his face. "I guess I'm on edge. I don't really know you that well, so—well, I was wrong, and I'm sorry."
"That's all right." She drew closer, curious."How do you feel today?"
"Amazing. Do you know I actually stayed up late last night and wrote a song? A song!" He laughed, delighted. "I've never done that before."
"Wonderful! May I hear it?"
"Not yet. I'm still tweaking it. But maybe, if I get through the next round, I'll play it for you." He grinned at her reflection, and she smiled back.
"So this morning they announced the theme for the next round," he said. " 'Roots.' "
Mel nodded. "What does that theme, 'Roots,' mean to you?"
"I don't know—like, plants? Gardens?" He looked adorably confused and quizzical. She wanted to spin him around on the stool and kiss him.
"Maybe it's more about where you come from. Your roots as a person."
Understanding cascaded over his face. "Like family roots. Past generations, and all that."
"Right. Or possibly your culture. Have you thought about covering a song by a Japanese singer or band?"
He shifted uneasily. "My culture is mostly American. My mom grew up in the States, and I've never even been to Japan. And there are some anime shows I love, but it's not like I watch or read anime all the time, or stuff my face with sushi every chance I get."
Mel's laughter bubbled out, surprising her—and him, too, judging by his wide smile.
"Okay, I get the message," she said. "But it would be nice to pay tribute to your Japanese heritage, right?"
"Sure."
"Which Japanese groups do you like?"
"Joe Inoue is pretty cool. And Flow. Here, listen to this." He tapped and swiped on his phone for a minute, then began playing a catchy song with a fast-paced beat. "This is 'Colors,' an early theme for the anime show 'Code Geass.' "
She nodded along, paying close attention to the shift of the melody, the peak notes, and any bits that might be tough for Kiyo.
"I like it. I think you can sing this better than the original guys, actually—you have more strength and range in your voice." And with her magic to boost his confidence, it could be an electrifying performance. "I can ask about getting the rights to cover it on the show. Might be complicated, so I'd better go deal with it now—if you're sure this is the one you want to do."
The sparkle in his eyes answered for him. "Yeah, I'd like to. If it's not too much trouble to get it approved."
"I'll check on it right now." She turned, heading for the door. "Warm up and practice whatever you want until I get back."
"Wait!" His voice carried a half-hidden ache, a note of longing she recognized, because it sang in her soul, too. "Are we going to talk about yesterday? About the—the kiss?"
She kept her back to him. "What is there to talk about? It was just a kiss."
"Oh. Um, yeah." The stool creaked as he slid off it, and his voice drew nearer. "Want to do it again?"
Her whole body said yes, yes, yes—but she couldn't give in so quickly, couldn't let herself fall into a relationship with him right away. She had to keep him at arm's length for a while.
"I've been thinking about it," she said evenly. "And since I'm your voice coach, I don't think we should do any more of that. It's not appropriate."
"You talk like you're so much older than me. What are you, like twenty? Twenty-one?"
Seventeen. Maybe the mirror made her look a little older, too. "Somewhere around there."
"I'm eighteen, Erin. It's fine."
"Your contract clearly forbids that kind of thing, Kiyo. And I think we both got carried away yesterday. It was an emotional moment."
"Okay." The disappointment in that single word almost made her change her mind, but she steeled her resolve and walked out.
Getting permission for a song that was so far off the approved list would be tricky. While she changed into her jeans and T-shirt and the ubiquitous hoodie, Mel chewed on how to make it happen. She could terrorize the guy who doubled as the show's accountant and licensing manager—maybe send him some hair-raising texts and follow them up with a clever prank or two. But somehow, now that the acid of her pent-up magic was gone, that tactic didn't seem nearly as fun and challenging.
She decided to simply try asking. She bought the licensing manager a caramel macchiato with a double-shot, gave it to him, and told him that Kiyo Darcy and his voice coach had a special request. Could he please try to get the cover rights to perform "Colors" on the show by the next filming day?
The licensing manager gaped at her. "A Japanese band? And the song is connected to an anime series? Do you know what I'll have to do to make this happen?"
"Please," said Mel, and although every muscle of her face protested, she forced a smile.
He sighed. "Give me a couple days. Have him practice something from the approved list, too, just in case, okay? And make sure his coach clears the song choice with the producer and the stage manager."
"Thank you so much! And next time, I'll bring you a bagel with that coffee."
"Make it a danish, and you've got a deal."
"Up top." She held out her hand, and he half-smiled and gave her a high five.
She walked out of his office, frowning and grinning at the same time. Who knew that being nice could achieve such results? It wasn't as wickedly satisfying as being scary, but it was a lot less risky.
After switching back to her "Erin" outfit, she approached Kiyo's practice room door. He had apparently recovered from her rejection and was singing enthusiastically with Flow, the "Colors" song cranked up full-volume. She listened, entranced by the way his voice could be warm and smooth, velvet and cedar—and then high and bright, with the clarity of pure water and the brilliance of sunlit air.
He was flubbing his way through the Japanese words, singing "la la la
" for entire sections and then fumbling through a few phrases semi-accurately. She pinched her lips together with her fingers to keep from laughing out loud. But overall, it was good.
She peeked in to make sure he was facing the mirror. His back was to her as he bent over his phone, probably trying to decipher the Japanese lyrics. She crept up behind him and clapped her hands over his eyes—a childish impulse that she regretted the next second, because he immediately caught her wrists and tugged her arms around his neck, pulling her face beside his. She shifted just in time to ensure that it was her smooth left cheek touching his skin.
"Kiyo," she said warningly.
He let go. "Sorry. But you touched me first. So how'd I sound?"
"Good. But you'll need to work on those lyrics a lot."
"I know. Did they approve the song?"
"It's in the works. You'll need to have a second song ready, from the approved list, in case it doesn't work out."
"So I have to practice two songs, while everyone else focuses on one? Is that a wise use of our time? Won't it put me at a disadvantage?"
She almost laughed. He had no idea the advantage he now had over all the others. It wouldn't hurt him to work a little harder—might even the odds a bit for everyone else.
"You can handle it," she said. "One good thing about a small competition like this—there's not as much money for gadgets and gizmos to make your voice sound better than it is. Which means people like you, with natural talent, can really shine."
He winced. "Harley and Diwali were having an argument about that same thing recently. About how anyone can go to a studio and get their voice modded and mixed and layered until it sounds good."
"But it's what you sound like raw, without any of the gear or tech, that determines your talent level," said Mel. "Producers look for that, of course, but they're also interested in marketability—your brand, your personality. Tell me, Kiyo Darcy—what is your brand?"
He ruffled his hair. "Um..."
"Oof. Not promising. You're the 'um' guy?"
"I don't always think quickly, okay? I've never had to consider this before."
"Allow me to consider it for you, then. Let's look at your strong points—obvious talent, height, long legs, slim build, broad shoulders—"
He frowned into the mirror. "That's all physical stuff."
"Absolutely. When you're out there onstage, singing, everyone is looking at you. Your body. The way you move, your expressions, your mannerisms. They're judging you on a scale of dull to sexy."
She noted the deepening flush in his cheeks. "I don't usually think of myself as sexy," he said.
"You can't be that naive."
His frowned deepened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you must know you're attractive. You must know the effect you have on girls." She tried to keep her breathing slow and steady. Until now, she'd had control of the situation, of herself—but she could feel it slipping from her grasp. Her heart had moved from allegro to vivace in the space of two seconds.
"Harley seems to feel something around me," he said. "She won't leave me alone."
The perfect lips of Mel's reflection curled with a sneer. "That's because you're pretty," she snapped. "And Harley likes pretty things."
"Pretty?"
"Yes. Pretty. Handsome. Too sexy for your own good, okay? And you need to learn to work with that onstage. You need to loosen up. Just be sure you don't swerve from Michael Bublé sexy to Magic Mike sexy. That would be taking it a little too far." But the mental image of a bare-chested Kiyo gyrating his hips to pounding music sent an unexpected thrill through her body.
And Kiyo, "good-boy" innocent-looking Kiyo, gave her a wicked grin in the mirror, paired with a flicker of his eyebrows that turned her knees weak.
Dangerous ground, she told herself. Pull it together.
"They're teaching you some dance moves, right? And they'll probably have you work with a choreographer before the next show. So let's start prepping for that. We'll watch a few videos and you can try to copy some of the moves."
"Whatever you say." He winked at her reflection.
Oh hell. She was in serious trouble.
-15-
Walking the Wire
None of the other contestants enjoyed their voice lessons as much as he did, Kiyo was sure.
Each morning he and Erin worked on the two songs, "Colors" and the backup song. She was right—the contestants did have a couple private sessions with a choreographer to work on moves for their performances. He showed Erin the choreography in front of the mirror. Now and then, as he practiced, she would touch his hip or his arm, correcting his form. It wasn't intended to distract him, he knew. She was deeply immersed in the music, fiercely intent on making him the best singer and performer he could be. But when she touched him unexpectedly like that, his skin heated and his heart rate quickened, and he had to force himself to draw deep, strong breaths to support his voice.
She affected him so powerfully he could hardly stand it sometimes. And he knew she was attracted to him, too. But his rational mind understood the danger of being with someone like her—someone so deeply damaged that she couldn't stand to have another human being look her full in the face. He couldn't comprehend it, couldn't fathom why someone so beautiful would feel that way. But he didn't want to force her to take any steps she wasn't ready for. Between them, the topic was like a bruise—greenish-purple and obvious, but painful only if he pressed on it.
Maybe if he talked to another girl about the problem, he could gain some insight.
"I have to cut this practice short," he told Erin one morning after an intense choreography practice. He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face. "My sister's calling me in about twenty minutes."
"Your sister—the one who's deployed." Erin's eyes lingered on his abdomen until his shirt fell back into place.
"My only sister. Yes."
"Do you have any brothers?"
"Nope. Just me and her."
"You two are close, then."
"Really close. She's the best." He watched her expression in the mirror. Sadness, maybe. A little envy. "You have siblings?"
"No. Don't feel bad for me," she said quickly, as if she'd read his mind. "It's better that way."
"Why is that?"
She took a deep breath, and then, in a rush, words spilled out. "My mother is dead, and my father's in jail for murder."
Kiyo froze, eyes wide. Say something, say something! What do I say to that?
"I'm so sorry."
She pursed her lips and looked down. "It was years ago. I'm over it."
She's not over it.
Erin released another breath and said, "Sorry, that was way too personal. Unprofessional. I hope you have a nice chat with your sister." She turned away, and he spun around on the stool.
"Don't do that," he said impulsively. "Don't regret telling me something private. I like it. I mean—I'm honored." Why did everything out of his mouth sound wrong and stupid when she was around? Why did they always have to be facing one another's backs? Why couldn't he look at her face to face?
She hesitated in the doorway, and he slid his gaze over the dark waves of her hair, the rich purple of the fabric clinging to her waist and hips, flowing down to the floor.
"Why do you always wear the same dress?" He'd noticed it before—he just hadn't worked up the nerve to ask. "It's like you're—wearing a costume, or something. Like you think you can't be yourself when you come to me."
"If you don't like it," she said crisply, "I can wear something else."
"It's not that I don't like it. It's just—dramatic, you know. Theatrical. Something a—" he steeled himself— "something a ghost might wear."
She chuckled. "You still think I'm a ghost?"
Kiyo shook his fingers through his hair and grimaced. "I'm not sure."
"Maybe you're the ghost," she snapped back.
He laughed. "We can touch each other, right? That means we're not ghosts."
"Being corporeal is definitely a good sign that neither of us is dead."
Kiyo felt torn in two. He was bound to the spot by her clear order not to pursue anything between them. At the same time, he was pulled toward her like a comet to earth, flaming bright in the very aura of her, yearning to collide with her in a kiss like the one they shared days ago.
Impelled by that irrational force, he moved forward. She didn't stir from the doorway, not even when he came so close that his breath shifted her hair. He didn't touch her—but he shut his eyes and drank in her nearness until he felt the waft of air as she left the room.
He stayed in that spot, eyes closed, for another few minutes, in case she came back. But nothing happened, so he went downstairs to his room. As he pulled on a less sweaty shirt, his phone jingled brightly with Masayo's incoming call.
"Little brother," she said in a sing-song voice. "How are you? I watched your show the other night."
He winced. "You did?"
"Yeah. Sure, you were nervous, but you did an incredible job with that song, like you always do."
"Uh-oh, you're being sweet. Did somebody hit you on the head?"
She laughed. "I'm fine. Okay, so you kinda blew it. But they let you stay, right? Because someone else dropped out? They had a little blurb about it at the end of the episode."
"It's not quite so simple. There was an attack on one of the contestants." He told her the story.
"Dang, that's some drama," she said.
"It probably doesn't seem that scary to you," he acknowledged. "I mean, you're facing a lot worse. But everyone here was kinda shook."
"Hey, I get it," she said. "How are you doing with all this?"
"Weirdly, I'm doing really well." Kiyo leaned back against his pillows. "I'm—I'm writing music, Masayo. I'm thinking of new arrangements, I'm learning new ways to use my voice. It's wild. And I think I'm in—I mean, I like someone."
"Did you almost say you're in love?"
The Monsters of Music Page 11