And then Kiyo tackled an Adam Lambert number, and when he screamed at the peak of the song, chills ran over Mel's skin, again and again, and she felt a crackling surge of magic in her fingers, unbearable in its intensity.
Blue sparks flickered over her fingertips, and she stared in mixed horror and fascination—but she didn't stop playing, and Kiyo didn't stop singing. Another song, another magnificent high note bursting from his lungs, another terrifyingly elaborate solo from Mel's fingers—and the magic exploded across the room, a storm of bluish-purple lightning, illuminating every upturned face. Instead of dispersing, the energy floated near the ceiling, sparks crawling and clustering over the pipes and wires.
No one seemed to care. They kept dancing, and Mel played, and Kiyo sang. But in the smoky lavender gloom, Mel began to glimpse things—a set of sweeping puca horns, the flare of a red forked tongue, a pair of glowing white eyes. Rainbow wings burst from a man's back, and a woman's cheekbones grew suddenly sharp and jagged. Harley, sashaying at the front in a tight little dress, grew sparkling blue scales and a merrow's sinuous fishtail. It didn't seem to stop her from dancing.
Mel blinked. Shook her head. She lifted her hands from the keyboard, pressing her fingers to her eyelids through the holes of the mask.
When she opened her eyes again, the crackling magic was gone, and normal human shapes gyrated in the dusk. She stared at Harley, whose long legs gleamed pale and perfect from beneath her short skirt—no merrow tail to be seen.
Harley caught her staring and glared. "What's your problem, weirdo?"
Mel ignored her, sweeping the room with her eyes again. Everything was normal. A little stuffy and sweaty—too loud, perhaps—but normal.
Kiyo's voice glided through the last notes of the song, and she leaped up from the keyboard, clutching his arm.
"Stop," she said. "You'll tire your voice, and we're filming tomorrow."
"Okay." He shrugged and handed off the microphone to the DJ again. The DJ stopped dancing and accepted it, nodding dazedly, using his shirt hem to wipe sweat from his forehead. Kiyo was sweating, too—his palm was so wet Mel held only the tips of his fingers as they slithered through the crowd to the exit and climbed the steps.
She stopped him halfway up the stairs, bracing herself against one peeling wall while he leaned against the opposite side.
"That was weird," she said. "Did you notice anything weird?"
"Weird like what?" He grinned at her, panting.
"Weird like—never mind." She smiled. "You had fun."
"I did. That was amazing." He bent forward. "Where did you learn to play like that?"
"Everywhere."
He laughed, shaking his head. "What does that even mean? You're such a mystery."
He pushed himself away from the wall and kissed her, and she swept her fingers into his hair and kissed him back.
His left hand moved up, fingertips grazing the edges of her mask. "Erin, please let me see you."
She recoiled. "You know the rules."
"I know you don't like people looking at you face to face. But why not? You're beautiful. Brilliant. So talented. There's no reason not to let everyone see it. Or me, at least. Just me." His voice, so gentle, broke her heart.
"You won't like what you see."
"But—" He cocked his head, confused. "But I've seen your face in the mirror."
"You only think you have." She slapped a hand over her mouth. Too much. She was saying too much. "I shouldn't have encouraged you to sing tonight. And those high notes—you probably strained your voice."
"Weirdly, I don't think so," he said. "It feels fine. Terrific, actually. But you're changing the subject."
"These rules I have—they're for the best. For me, and for you."
Something dark glittered in his gaze. "You think you have the right to decide what's best for me?"
"In this case, yes."
"So I still can't look at you."
"No."
Words that she knew he'd been thinking broke out of him at last. "It's weird, Erin. Too weird for me to handle."
She agonized, tempted to pull off the mask. Terrified of the look she might see on his face if she did. "Then you should go."
His jaw tightened. He turned and jogged up the stairs, each pounding step an echo of his anger.
Mel cursed and slammed her hand against the wall, her nails raking off flakes of curling paint.
"Something wrong?" Harley's honey-sweet voice floated up the steps.
Mel whipped her head toward the sound, teeth bared. "Stay out of it."
"Who are you, anyway?" Harley's eyes narrowed. "You seem—familiar."
"Unlikely."
"If you're not feeling chatty, I'll ask Kiyo." She winked a lavender-glittered eyelid and stalked past Mel. Mel's fingers writhed with the urge to clutch that sequined dress and hurl its owner down the stairs—or maybe kick in her the face. She wanted to ruin those smooth cheeks, those creamy eyelids, that unblemished nose.
Instead she sank her nails into the ancient drywall, balancing on the knife edge of her anger and despair. Waiting until Harley was beyond her reach, until she couldn't do something regrettable.
And then she crept, like a creature of the night, through the deepest shadows of the courtyard and up to her attic. It didn't look charming or cozy to her now. The colors grated against her eyeballs, hideous and clashing. She clawed off her clothes and threw them against the wall, screaming a note that cracked the glass of the salvaged lantern hanging over her desk.
Why couldn't Kiyo deal with things as they were? Why did he have this obsession with seeing her face? And what was a face, after all? A skin-mask, a casing for the scarlet sinews and white bone underneath.
A strong soul, an agile mind, and unique talent—those things were important. Not her face.
Why couldn't he understand that?
She dressed and paced the room for several minutes, but she couldn't settle down. Maybe it was time to show him her true face. Time to tell him that she was Mel and Erin, both, and that the mirror was a trick—she could explain it away as advanced technology, rather than magic. Kiyo actually seemed to trust her, to respect her talent, to care about her. Their bond was in place now—he was hers, altogether.
Maybe it would be all right to tell him. If she didn't, she might lose him anyway.
She had to do it now, before she lost her nerve.
As she ran down the stairs, she rehearsed phrases in her mind, words that would explain without revealing too much. She was still Lianhan Sídhe—she had inborn charm in spite of the scars. Surely that would be enough to hold him, to keep him.
At the door to the third floor, she paused, slowing her breathing, collecting her thoughts. Her fingers pried at the mask, sweat-stuck to her forehead, and she peeled it off, rubbing the grooves it had left behind, wishing she had applied some makeup before coming down here. Too late now. Better that he see her naked, unadorned face, so he could make an informed decision. Nothing hidden, nothing held back.
She peered through the narrow window in the stairway door, to make sure the hall was clear before crossing to Kiyo's room.
Two intertwined figures wandered down the shadowed hallway. Mel recognized Kiyo's tall, thin frame and Harley's caramel hair and blue dress. They entered Kiyo's room together, his arm hugging her shoulders.
His bedroom door closed behind them.
Mel stared at the empty hallway. Stared, and did not breathe for a long moment.
Slowly, thoughts began to coalesce.
Why?
How could he?
Mechanically she turned. Climbed the stairs back to the attic, the thoughts tumbling faster through her brain now.
She went to her bed, to the spot where Prince was curled in ball of white fur. Reached for him, the way she always did when she needed comfort. And then realized, before she touched him, that he hadn't stirred earlier, when she let loose with that frustrated scream.
He hadn't moved at all.
&n
bsp; Trembling, she stretched her fingers toward the soft patch of fur between his ears.
And she knew, the instant she touched him, that he was gone.
It wasn't something she could have anticipated, or prevented. When she and her mother adopted him, he'd been six or seven, as far as the vet could tell—and that was ten years ago.
He was old. It was that simple, and that tragic.
It was too much.
She crumpled for a while, crushed under the weight of being hopelessly, irreparably alone. And then she put on her coat, wrapped Prince's body in a velvety dressing gown from one of the costume boxes, and carried him downstairs.
There would be no sleep for her. Not tonight.
First, she would lay Prince to rest. And after that, she would be very busy planning the most intricate and rewarding revenge on Kiyo Darcy.
-19-
Hello
After leaving Erin on the stairs, Kiyo paced along the dark path at the side of the auditorium, around the corner from the exit so he wouldn't have to face her when she emerged. He kicked at a chunk of ice hanging off the curb until it broke off, and then he ground it to granules under his heel. The sensation was oddly satisfying. Hands in his pockets, he started kicking more ridges and clumps of ice and snow, crushing each one.
"Am I interrupting your 'crazy time?' "
He whirled, pulse leaping—but it was Harley, sashaying toward him in her skimpy blue dress and a furry white wrap.
He said the first thing that popped into his head. "Aren't your legs cold?"
"A little. But they like getting attention." She smirked, planting one foot on the curb and bending her knee. If she bent it a little deeper, her tight skirt would inch up past the point of decency. Kiyo returned his attention to the ice.
"Who was that insane person with you tonight?" asked Harley.
He glanced up, opening his mouth to tell her—but the greed in her gaze stopped him. "No one important," he said.
"Really." She sounded unconvinced. "You two seem to have a connection. A history, maybe. And what was up with her creepy mask, and the cape?" She sneered. "Did she think this was a costume party? So lame."
Kiyo stamped on a rock-hard chunk of ice and felt pain shoot through his ankle. "Damn."
"What?" Harley stopped snickering.
"I hurt my foot. How stupid is that? And right before the show tomorrow." He tested the ankle, then swore again, sinking to the curb.
Harley crouched in front of him, pushing his pant leg up. "Let me see."
He snatched down the hem of his pants. "I don't think it's too bad. Could you find Diwali for me? Maybe he can help me walk back to my room. If I don't put too much weight on it, I can probably still dance tomorrow."
"Diwali is probably tangled up with that girl he was kissing," Harley said. "I'll walk you back to your room. I'm stronger than I look." Her mouth curved at the corners. "Come on, hero. Let's do this."
He rose and laid his arm across her shoulders. He tried not to put too much weight on her, but if he wanted to get through tomorrow's round, he would need to dance—so he had to baby the ankle and lean a little.
Harley smelled like violets and something sweet and herbal—lavender, maybe? He wasn't sure. Tonight Erin had been hard edges and wicked curves—a dark, wild wind, different from the elegant beauty she seemed in the mirror. But Harley was cream-colored softness in a glittering blue sheath, her shoulders a fluffy pillow of white fur, her hair trailing scented and silky over his arm. The kind of girl he should like. The kind of woman any guy would want.
Harley chattered about song choices for the upcoming "Lights" episode, and the ridiculousness of having a party on the night before filming. "They said 'no alcohol,' but I'm pretty sure I smelled it on some of the guys in there—and the women, too," she said. "Do they not care about their future? I care. I care so, so much. I really want to win this. But I suppose we all do, right? And technically you're my competition, so we should be enemies. I shouldn't be helping you. But I'm not the kind of person to leave a fellow singer stranded, you know?"
He liked the talk; it distracted him from the trickles of pain in his ankle. Before long she had brought him to his door on the third floor.
"Why are you sleeping up here by yourself, away from everyone?" she asked.
"Not sure. They assigned me this room."
Her eyes narrowed. "They?"
"Whoever is in charge of room assignments."
"That was freakin' Mel. You know—the weird girl with the hair all over her face? The one who thinks she's so Goth cool? Yeah. My room was right next to the bathroom, and I had to go have it changed. I blamed the woman with the accent—Busher or whatever her name is—I was like, 'What do you have against me? What did I do to you to make you give me the smelliest room in the place?' And she said she didn't pick the rooms, that her assistant did."
"I'm sure Mel didn't mean anything by it," Kiyo said.
"Of course she did. She's been rude to me since Day One. And if she stuck you up here, all by yourself, it's probably because she has some wacko stalker crush on you. That, or she's planning to axe-murder you one night, and she doesn't want anyone to hear the screaming."
Kiyo swallowed hard, remembering the incident with Mel and the knife. "I've been fine so far." He unlocked the door, reaching inside to flip the light on.
"So far." Harley said, sidling through the doorway with him. She had her fingers wrapped in his, holding his arm pinned across her shoulders. "It was so cold out there! Mind if I hang out in here for a minute to warm up?"
"Sure," he said absently, inspecting the room in case stalker knife-murdering Mel might be concealed in a dark corner.
Harley shrugged off her wrap, revealing smooth bare shoulders. She pranced around the room, touching his guitar, smelling his discarded T-shirt, spraying a bit from his bottle of cologne. "Mm, woodsy," she said. "Who picked this out for you? Your mom?"
"Yeah." He sat down on the bed, wondering when she was planning to leave. All he wanted to do was sleep.
Harley plumped down next to him, the scent of violets washing over him again. She leaned closer, trailing delicate fingers along his jaw. "You know, the dating ban was lifted for tonight," she said. "Probably means that other things are allowed, too. Like kissing, and—" She dropped her hand, stroking along his thigh. "If you're lonely up here, I could stay. We could have some fun."
Kiyo leaped to his feet, favoring his ankle. "You should go."
"Why?" She pouted at him.
"Thank you for your help, but please go."
She rose fluidly, her hips cocked, eyelashes drooping. "Do you understand what I'm offering, Kiyo?"
"Yes. And no thanks." He opened the door and held it for her.
She huffed, her cheeks reddening. "Well, I guess we know what you're into. The crazy emo kind of girl. Trust me, that never ends well."
"Maybe not." He remained motionless, waiting, until she flounced out.
***
Erin didn't text him. Didn't meet him after the next day's "Lights" round to congratulate him on another victory. He had shaken the stage with his voice in Owl City's "Dreams and Disasters," until even Eddie Carver was left speechless and staring. After his performance, two reporters had intercepted him, begging for interviews. He spoke with both of them, then did a third interview via email for a blog, and another interview by phone for an e-zine. When he checked the contestant ratings on the show's website, he was ranked #2 by the judges, right under Harley. In the audience popularity polls, he was number one.
He called his parents and gave them a glossy version of the contest, highlighting all that he was learning and all his recent successes. And then his mother said, "Masayo mentioned a woman you were becoming interested in, Kiyo. Your voice coach?"
"Masayo talks too much."
"Is she much older than you, this coach?" asked his father.
"No."
"Then why would they assign her to you, if she doesn't have much experience?"
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Kiyo dragged a hand through his hair. "Look, I already had this conversation with Masayo. Erin is really good at what she does. She has made me so much better than I ever was before the show."
"How, exactly?" asked his father.
"Well, she—she taught me better warm-ups. Helped me with my breathing and stamina. We've been working on my range, too. And my falsetto is stronger, less likely to crack. But it's more than that. She's just—inspiring."
"Inspiring?" He could hear his mother's incredulity.
"I don't know how to explain it. She makes me see things a different way, I guess. I'm getting all these ideas, new things I want to do with my music." He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing them to understand what he was trying to say. What was he trying to say? He'd stomped away from Erin the night of the party, because she wasn't ready to be seen. Was it over? Had it even begun?
It couldn't be over. It was just a matter of deciding what he was prepared to put up with, what he could sacrifice, for the chance of being with her even in the weird, limited way she would allow.
"Kiyo?" His father's voice broke through his thoughts.
"Yeah, sorry. I, um... I don't want to talk about it anymore. How are things with you guys?"
They took the hint and dropped the matter. He had sensed they were uncomfortable discussing it, and relieved when he switched topics. His parents had never been demonstrative in their own relationship, and he figured they wouldn't know what to do with this intense, fiery, dark thing between him and Erin. Hell, he didn't even know what to do with it.
Maybe she was a black hole, sucking him in. Unhealthy. Wrong for him.
Or maybe Life, like the Hulk, had picked her up and smashed her over and over again, until she was broken, all painful edges and jagged cracks. But he could see the sweetness and light and humor inside, glinting behind the damage.
As soon as he finished the call with his parents, he texted her.
"Are you still willing to be my coach? Can we please meet tomorrow morning? I'd like to talk to you."
She texted back, "Are you sure you wouldn't rather replace me?"
"You're the only teacher I want. Please."
The Monsters of Music Page 14