"Fine. Tomorrow morning. The usual time and place."
He was ready and waiting, perched on the stool before the mirror, when she emerged from the doorway behind him. The stiff arch of her lips, the hard line of her neck and shoulders, and the ice in her eyes told him that he was not forgiven.
"I'm sorry for asking you to take off the mask," he said penitently. "It wasn't my place to demand that of you. You're not ready, and I'm okay with that."
"So good to know that you're okay with my personal decisions." Her tone oozed sarcasm.
"I went too far," he said, anxious because she didn't seem to be softening. "I apologize."
"Yes, you went too far," she answered, avoiding his eyes. "Much too far. And I think, from now on, we should keep this professional. Again."
His stomach clenched, sweat breaking out in his palms. No. It couldn't be over. He couldn't have ruined it all, with that one stupid request.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said. "I'm so sorry. Please tell me what I can do to fix it." Desperate tears welled in his eyes, and mentally he cursed his weakness, willing himself to be tougher, to be hard. To be stone-cold, like her.
"Don't make a scene, Kiyo," she said. "Gosh, you're melting like butter in the sun. Stop it. This isn't a good look for you."
He couldn't stand this sensation of brokenness between them. Maybe if they practiced, if he sang—maybe they could fix it. Get back to the way it used to be.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'll try not to—let's just practice."
"Fine by me. Warm-ups. Now."
After fifteen minutes of warming his voice, she stopped him.
"You passed the 'Lights' round," she said coldly. "Only eleven contestants left. And our new theme is 'Fears.' So, Kiyo Darcy, what are you afraid of?" Her dark eyes snapped up, meeting his in the mirror.
An easy question, and a personal one. Good.
"Clowns—that's a typical phobia, I know," he said. "Spelling words aloud in front of people. Chainsaws. Heights. And centipedes! Why so many legs? Why?" He smiled at her, but her icy facade didn't crack.
"Those may be real fears, but they're superficial," she said. "Look deeper. Find a handful of core fears that truly terrify you."
He thought about it for a second. "Failure. Death. Pain. I'm afraid of losing my family." And he was afraid of her. Of disappointing her, losing her—or finding out that she wasn't really sweet or kind underneath. But he couldn't voice that one.
"Fear of failure. Hmm. That could also be fear of yourself, right? Of your personal inadequacies." She raked his form with her eyes, her lashes fluttering disdainfully. As if he were a skinny brown stick insect that she should crush, to put him out of his misery. "Fear of death and pain is universal. Lots of songs about those. Here." She handed a sheet of paper over his shoulder. "The producers have put together a list of a dozen approved songs for each contestant. You have to pick from those."
"This isn't much to choose from." He surveyed the list.
"Yes. Everyone gets a choice, but not too much freedom." Her tight smile chilled him. "I think they're trying to rein things in again, after the mayhem that occurred on party night."
"It was kind of crazy," he admitted. "But I think everyone needed to blow off steam, you know? They shouldn't be punished for it."
"Oh, yes," she purred. "Everyone needs to let go and have a good bout of insanity now and again."
For a second he thought they were back on similar footing—but it proved to be a sheet of paper-thin ice when she said, "I think you're proficient in all areas of your vocal training now. I'm going to sit this one out—let you go at it alone. See what you come up with."
She was turning. Walking away. Leaving him alone, just as the competition was kicking into high gear.
"Wait, Mel—I mean, Erin—" He cursed himself again. Why did he say that name?
But Erin halted, shoulders stiffening. "What did you call me?"
"I said 'Mel'—I'm sorry. She's this girl who gets coffee for the producers and managers—nobody special. Sorry. Slip of the tongue. I didn't sleep well last night."
"Nobody special?" She repeated.
"No. Actually she's kinda strange. Creepy. Stalkerish. I think that's why I have her on the brain—somebody told me she assigned the rooms, and she gave me one on the third floor, away from everybody else. Weird, right?" He bit his lips to stop himself from babbling. He didn't want Erin to think that he had a crush on Mel. "Darn it—what I was trying to say is—please don't leave me alone in this. I need your help."
"I don't think you do. Just let the manager know which song you want to do, and with what arrangement." And she sailed out of the room.
-20-
Wrecking Ball
Mel—or Erin—was as good as her word. She left Kiyo completely alone for the rest of the week—not a shred of assistance from her. She kept an eye on his files and information though, noting when his song choice was approved and which lighting and props he requested. She even spied from the overhead beam during the on-stage rehearsal for his choreography.
She didn't see him with Harley again, but that didn't mean they weren't sneaking around together. Harley did disappear frequently, claiming she had headaches. Whenever Mel imagined her and Kiyo tangled up together, she thought she might explode with rage. It was all she could do to wait patiently until the next performance day.
When that day dawned, Mel spent the morning in a state of vengeful glee and suppressed anticipation. Kiyo's performance slot would be after lunch, followed by Harley's. Mel ate in the attic, far from the contestants, where her face couldn't give away her rioting emotions. After she was sure the contestants would have cleared the common room and returned to the backstage area of the auditorium building, she hurried down to the first floor.
But before she could run out into the courtyard, Madame Boucher called her. "Melanie!"
"Can it wait?" Mel asked irritably.
"One moment of your time, while they are all out," insisted Madame Boucher. She tugged Mel's sleeve, towing her deeper into the dorm's front office, where stained, yellowed filing cabinets clustered along the walls.
"You asked me if I wanted anything in return for keeping your secret," Madame Boucher began in a low voice.
"Yes, I did." Mel smiled, baring every one of her teeth. Let this woman try to blackmail her. She'd see what the Lianhan Sídhe were capable of.
"Well, there is something. And it isn't a payment for keeping quiet about you—I would do that anyway. I do not believe in spreading the secrets of others. But I can help you, and Kiyo. I know the music business because I have been on the inside. And I'm a good manager. I can handle pressure, deadlines, difficult people—whatever you need."
Mel frowned, confused and curious. "What are you saying?"
"I will keep your secret either way. But I would like you and Kiyo to consider hiring me as your agent, your manager, after he wins. You will need someone to help you, and to protect you from those who will try to take advantage."
Mel's shoulders stiffened. "It's not going to work out between me and Kiyo."
"Ah, mais non! But the two of you are perfect for each other! What is wrong?"
Furiously Mel tried to harden herself, to snap back. To tell Boucher that none of this was her business. But she found herself cracking, splitting open, dissolving, until she sank to the floor in a storm of sobs that tore at her lungs and throat and left her eyes swollen and itchy. Madame Boucher sat beside her and patted her back until it was over.
And then Mel told her about the mirror, and how she had posed as Erin. And how Kiyo refused to move forward unless she let him see her true face. How he had taken Harley to his room on the night of the party.
"If I show him my face, he'll know," Mel said. "He'll know I'm Mel, and he'll hate me. And I won't give him any more of me or my magic, because he slept with Harley, and he broke the bond."
"He didn't know, ma cherie," said Madame Boucher. "He didn't know about the bond."
"He can't know. We're not supposed to tell anyone who we are, ever! If I do, I could face repercussions from the Lianhan Sídhe. Eviction from the clan, or worse."
"Ah," said Madame Boucher thoughtfully. "So that is why she left."
"What? Who?"
"Never mind. For now, you simply need to focus on how you will fix this."
"But I've tangled everything into such knots, and I can't unravel them—I can't!"
"Think, Melanie! Think back. What was your purpose in coming here? Why did you choose this path instead of an easier one? Why this competition?"
Mel swallowed another sob. "My mother believed that we could be more than our magic. Not just groupies and parasites, hanging onto a human and using them as a magic disposal, and for the wealth our bonding could bring. She wanted me to learn music and dance, so I could have a career of my own. When my mom died, my aunt Lotta let me continue the lessons, even though she doesn't share my mom's philosophy."
"So you are doing this for your mother."
"I—I was. Maybe. But when I first came here, I was so full of magic that I was started to go crazy. I couldn't think straight." She twisted a lock of black hair, threading it through her fingers again and again until it frizzed. "I took some wrong turns, did some bad things."
Madame Boucher's eyes gleamed with comprehension. "I know. Or, I suspected."
"Why are you being nice to me then?" Mel snapped. "You should call the police. Have them take me away."
"You are a girl deeply wounded, ma cherie," said Madame Boucher. "Should I blame the injured dog because in his fear and pain, he bites?"
"So I'm a dog now."
"You know what I mean." Boucher smiled, and Mel smiled back, dabbing tears from the creases of her scarred cheek.
"I didn't expect to find someone who would understand." Mel bit the words out reluctantly, beginning to hate herself for being vulnerable in front of a woman she barely knew.
"I should thank you," said Madame Boucher. "You have enlightened me on a point that has bothered me for years. But let's talk for a moment about the boy, Kiyo. I think you care about him, or you would not cry so hard or be so angry."
"I am angry. I deserve to be angry. He wouldn't accept me as I am."
"You refused to show him who you are. You never gave him the chance to accept you, or not."
What did Boucher know about it? Mel's brows contracted, and she opened her mouth to protest.
"Once, someone I cared about decided to leave me, rather than show me her true self. She did not give me the chance to accept her, and I'm still angry about it. Even after all this time."
"But he and Harley—"
"He may have been with her, yes. But the two of you were not in a relationship, officially, that he knew of. And he may have done it because he was hurt that you would not trust him with yourself."
"Because I already know what will happen!" Mel felt the tears coming again. "I mean, look at this." She scraped her hair aside, revealing the sagging, melted mess of her face. "And look at him! He's handsome. He's going to be successful. He shouldn't—wouldn't want someone like me."
"And so the problem does not lie with Kiyo, but with you, Melanie." Madame Boucher's eyes shone warm and gentle. "Deep down, you do not believe yourself worthy of him."
"That's not it," Mel whispered. "It's not."
"You are unworthy of him only if you act unworthy."
Mel's insides contorted with guilt. She had spent the past few days preparing her revenge, and it would be unleashed within minutes. The eagerness she felt, the delight at seeing Kiyo humiliated—suddenly it seemed petty, and foolish, and wrong.
"I have to go," she said, scrambling to her feet. "Thank you. And—we'll talk again."
Madame Boucher nodded, and Mel darted out the door, pulling her hair and her hood over her face.
Her phone buzzed, and she whipped it out, Kiyo's name blazing in her mind—but it was a call from her aunt. She pressed the green circle to accept.
"Hi, Aunt Lotta."
"Melpomene, darling, you haven't called me in ages."
"I'm a little busy right now. I'm about to get sweet revenge on my bond-breaking bastard of a rock star."
"Oh no he didn't!" gasped her aunt.
"Oh, yes. About a week ago. I saw him draped all over this rich-girl brat who's been throwing herself at him. He took her to his room. At night."
"Angel, I'm so sorry. How did it feel when the bond broke?"
Mel frowned. "What do you mean?"
"There's always a physical episode of some kind when it happens—not for the protégés, of course. We're the ones who suffer. Did you feel a sort of shock? Or nausea? Or something like a huge fist twisting your stomach into a knot and then batting it around between your lungs?"
"What the heck are you talking about?"
Aunt Lotta sighed. "Did you feel something that night? A strong magical reaction, very unpleasant?"
"No."
"Then the bond isn't broken."
"But he—he took her into his room," said Mel, her world tilting. "He must have kissed her."
"You would have felt it if he had. Although I'm not saying he didn't cheat on you—there are plenty of things one can do without kissing."
"Not Kiyo," Mel said, her heart warming. "If they were doing anything sexual, he would have kissed her. That's who he is."
"Oh, so he's a 'good boy.' "
"Yes."
"Hm. Well, I guess they can be fun, too."
Kiyo hadn't kissed Harley.
Whatever had happened that night, it hadn't broken the bond. Maybe there was some other explanation for Harley and Kiyo's little interlude. She should have asked Kiyo before, should have given him the chance to explain what she saw. And now—
Now her revenge was already in motion.
Horror paralyzed her. The phone slipped from her fingers, falling to the snow-covered pavers of the courtyard.
What had she done?
-21-
Dark Side
Kiyo still felt nervous before every performance, but the anxiety was duller now, overlaid with an unshakeable confidence in the power and beauty of his voice. It was nearly supernatural, this calm certainty that he could handle it. He could own the stage, he could nail every move, hit every note.
In the Green Room, he warmed up with the other contestants, completely at ease with his routine of shoulder shrugs, modulations, lip rolls, and scales. At the end of the "Lights" episode, three out of the fourteen contests had been kicked off. The remaining eleven had been ranged in a specific order today, according to their ranking. Kiyo and Harley would go on at the end of the show, ensuring that the maximum number of viewers would stay tuned in and watch the entire episode, just to hear their favorites sing.
And it was almost time. Diwali had returned from the stage, and Jalana, directly to Kiyo's left, was next. Then it would be him, and then Harley, and after that the elimination lineup.
Harley kept stabbing him with her eyes, in between huge gulps from her silver water bottle. She still jiggled and writhed in front of him whenever they had dance or aerobics or yoga—probably trying to show him what he was missing. Harley was sexy, and a good singer, but he wasn't sure why she consistently ranked at the top of the group. Jalana and Diwali had performed better than her in the last round; yet somehow Harley had scored the coveted top spot again.
He didn't want to think that it was racism on the judges' part. Amarynth would have smelled a racist agenda a mile away and squashed it under her sharp stiletto heel. But maybe she couldn't control the machinations of the producers and backers. Whatever they did behind the scenes was a mystery to him.
His eyes traveled the perimeter of the Green Room, as they had countless times over the past few weeks. If he owned a house someday, he vowed never to paint any part of it the shade of sickly pea-soup green that covered these walls. He also hated the bland rose color of the chair cushions—their hue and shape reminded him of slimy circles of baloney.
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"Would you stop doing that?" Harley hissed.
Kiyo realized he was jiggling his leg up and down incredibly fast. "Sorry." He seemed to have extra energy these days, so much music threatening to burst out of him—snatches of lyrics, random strings of notes, wild new arrangements for classic pieces, cover ideas for his favorite songs. It was thrilling, and strange. Everything was music now, and music was everything.
The frenzy of composing and fantasizing had died down the closer he got to performance day, as if he had been given a dose of genius and had nearly run through it all. He knew he had enough in him for this performance, though. He was going to sing this one for Erin.
If only he could be sure she would listen. She hadn't come to him for days, though he spent every spare minute in the practice room, hoping her slim shape would rise behind him in the mirror. Hoping her fingers would creep over his shoulder and press against his throat. He would never ask her to remove the mask again. Never, if only she would stay.
Jalana's voice faded with the end of her song, and a rush of audience applause followed. The other contestants listened to the judges' comments through the Green Room speakers—mostly positive, so she was probably safe.
"Showtime, Kiyo." The stage manager nodded to him from the doorway. "Come on."
Kiyo rose and stretched, shaking out his arms and fingers and humming softly. His pulse sped up, but he countered it with slow, deep breaths.
The instant he stepped into the hallway, he came face to face with a pair of clowns.
White-painted faces. Grinning red mouths curving absurdly far up their cheeks. Sharp, yellow, triangular teeth. One was bald, with enormous drooping ears, and the other was topped with fiery red curls. They blocked the stage manager's way, peering around him to wave at Kiyo.
Kiyo's legs turned to jelly.
"Come on, what is this?" exclaimed the stage manager. "I don't have time for this jokester crap. Get out of my way, idiots! You're both fired, whoever you are!" He shoved the clowns aside and marched ahead. Kiyo hesitated. The clowns mimed confusion and concern, then nodded wildly, faced each other, and clasped hands, forming an archway for Kiyo to pass through.
The Monsters of Music Page 15