He couldn't breathe.
"Kiyo! Come on!" snapped the manager. "You two freaks, get out! I'm about to punch your ugly faces!"
Kiyo ducked through the arch of clown arms and hurried after the manager. This time, no amount of deep breathing could slow down his heart.
What was that? A prank to throw him off his game? Part of the show? After all, lots of people hated clowns—maybe those two creeps were here to film an introductory bit about common fears for the episode.
Whatever the reason, it was over. He needed to forget about it.
He swallowed, inhaled, and sauntered out onto the stage, waving to the cheering crowd. The microphone sat in the tall stand, front and center, as he had requested for his performance. He stepped up and grabbed it—and something squirmed and crunched under his hand. He jumped back, dropping the mike. Several long, leggy centipedes wiggled off it and scuttled away. The one he'd squished with his fingers tumbled to the boards and lay twitching.
"Well, well, that was an interesting first act." Eddie Carver was grinning. "What's going on there, Kiyo?"
"A practical joke, I think," said Kiyo, forcing a smile.
Centipedes were not a common fear. This was personal.
Somehow, Erin was behind this. She was getting back at him.
He didn't deserve this. He had apologized.
Something was very wrong with her.
A stage hand scurried out to dispose of the insects and replace the microphone, and then Kiyo stepped forward again, a determined grin plastered across his face.
The judges rattled off a series of questions, and he replied automatically—he'd been briefed on the list so he could prepare coherent answers.
"And your sister, is she following your progress on the show?" Eddie Carver asked.
Kiyo nodded. "She's been very supportive."
"Could you spell that?"
"Excuse me?" Kiyo's head went light, and his hands turned moist.
"Could you please spell 'supportive'?" Eddie's venomous grin turned Kiyo's stomach.
Amarynth turned to stare at Eddie. "What the hell are you doing? Why you askin' him to spell words? This ain't a spelling contest, Eddie. It's a singing contest."
The crowd laughed, and Kiyo found his brain again. "S-u-p-p-o-r-t-i-v-e," he said crisply. "Long live my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Mulroney!" He chuckled, and the audience laughed again. He was back in control, and had managed to turn an awkward moment into a positive one.
"I'm bored and dying over here," said Ferris Manson, knocking his forehead against the judges' table. "Just sing. Go. Surprise me. I could use a good surprise."
Kiyo nodded and moved into position—but he was shaken. He yawned to open his throat, lifted and dropped his shoulders, and settled into his stance as the music began.
His version of Nirvana's "Come As You Are" was inspired by Civil Twilight's cover of the song, and it began with a slowing, unnerving beat that swelled into a massive, growling rush of sound. There was a delicate falsetto note in the center that he had to build in volume and momentum over several beats—a challenge he'd had to tackle without Erin's coaching. But he killed it and moved on, launching into the climax with the most raw rock sound he'd ever produced—and at the same moment, a horrible grinding noise split the air, nearly deafening him. Two men in stocking masks, carrying chainsaws, approached from either side of the stage, walking slowly toward him, blades roaring.
Kiyo's heart kicked into overdrive.
They won't hurt me. They won't hurt me.
He kept singing, the wavering of his voice partly disguised by the growl of the chainsaws as the men came nearer, and nearer.
They won't hurt me.
She wouldn't hurt me.
But he didn't know for sure. The microphone nearly escaped from his sweat-slick hands, and he sang the last note as if his life depended on it, feet planted, skin crawling and cringing, his brain screaming at him to run, run, run!
As the music died, so did the chainsaws. And then, the men simply walked away, offstage.
Kiyo nearly crumpled to the boards, thanking all the lucky stars in the sky that he hadn't peed himself.
Ferris Manson jumped up, clapping. "You surprised me! Live chainsaws to punctuate your performance—nice touch."
"Well, we're not doing 'Lumberjack' here," muttered Eddie Carver. "But I'll admit that the introduction of the chainsaws was—interesting. Are those a personal fear of yours?"
And Kiyo could truthfully answer, "Yes."
"Very brave of you, facing your fear in front of an audience like that." Amarynth nodded approvingly. "And nice vocals. Although I feel that the chainsaws drowned out a couple of important notes. Still, good job."
"Thank you." Kiyo's voice was barely audible, even to him. The second he was in the hall, out of sight of the cameras, he crashed against the wall and sank to the floor, knees trembling. Harley threw him a condemning sneer as she strutted past on her way to the stage.
From where he sat, he could hear her clearly, giggling, answering the judges' questions with her usual charm. He thought her speaking voice sounded a bit thin and hoarse. Maybe the sound was bouncing off something, reaching his ears at an odd angle? As if that made any sense. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
The intro to Kelly Clarkson's "Dark Side" began, and he wondered how on earth Harley would pull that one off. It required a big voice, deep lungs, and a massive range—all things Harley didn't have.
Harley's voice cracked on the third line. And the fourth.
Kiyo's head snapped up, his eyes flashing open. He met the stunned eyes of the stage manager, who shrugged.
Harley croaked again, wavered, went flat, and corrected enough to push through a few more lines. The chorus turned into a squeak, then a squall—and then silence. The music played for a few more minutes—probably the sound guy hoping she would recover and move on. And then Kiyo heard unmistakable sobs.
He jumped up and dashed to the edge of the backstage wall, where only a narrow section of the audience could see him. Harley was hunched, her caramel curls hiding her face, her shoulders shaking. No one was doing anything, or saying anything. She was supposed to be their darling, their number one, and when she failed, all they could do was stare.
Fury propelled him onto the stage, to her side. He put an arm around her shoulders, taking the microphone from her limp fingers. "This is a very emotional song for Harley," he said. "I wonder if we could all help her out?"
Kiyo nodded to the sound board tech, who started the music again, and waved to the audience to join in. He sang the song cold, helped along by the crowd, and Harley mouthed the words, her fingers gripping his wrist so tightly it hurt.
When he hit the bridge he felt it again—a power beyond himself, drawing the words out of him, clear and compelling. He sang beyond the stage, the judges, and the crowd, the notes soaring past the lights and the ceiling out to Erin, his muse, wherever she was, begging her not to run away.
As the last note died in his throat, he realized that the crowd had fallen silent. He wasn't sure how long he had been singing alone.
Eddie Carver cleared his throat. "Well, I think that was a successful theft of Harley's thunder."
But Amarynth was wiping her eyes, and Ferris said, "That was freakin' beautiful, man."
Harley smiled through her tears and kissed her hands to the crowd, but the instant she and Kiyo were in the back hallway, she shoved him away so hard he hit the wall.
"You," she spat, her voice raw. "What gives you the right to come rushing out onstage and save me? What do you think you are, some kind of stupid medieval knight? Prince Charming? You're not. You're a fraud, a fake, and all you want is the spotlight, all to yourself. How dare you? How dare you?"
She smacked him across the face. He was too shocked to move. Her hand whipped back again, but the stage manager and one of the security guards intervened, hustling her away down the hall.
"Don't touch me!" she screamed h
oarsely. "None of this is my fault! It's sabotage! I'm telling you, someone messed with my voice!"
As her breathy shrieks faded into the distance, Kiyo stumbled back to the Green Room. He felt as if someone had scraped out all his emotions, shaken them together, trampled them, and then stuffed them back into his body in a crushed jumble.
"We're on for the elimination lineup in thirty minutes."
At the sound of the low, rough voice, he looked up. Mel was there, holding a bottle of water. The heavy makeup around her single visible eye was smeared, making her look more raccoon-like than ever. Had she been crying?
He took the bottle and drank, but she didn't leave.
"You okay?" she asked.
"No," he answered. "No, I'm not. I almost had a heart attack during my performance."
"How come?"
"Those chainsaws? They weren't planned. Someone sent them onstage to scare me, to make me mess up."
"Geez. Do you know who did it?"
"Someone I trusted. Someone I care about." He pressed a palm to his forehead.
Mel's voice sounded thicker than usual, strained. "Care, or cared?"
He laughed helplessly. "Oh, I care. There's something about her—she's got this intense, beautiful spirit. Scary, like you. And smart, smarter than I'll ever be. She might be a genius. But she's got bad damage, you know—really deep. I hurt her, worse than I realized, I guess. Or maybe she's just insane. Maybe I'm insane. Hell, I don't know."
He studied the lip of the water bottle, wiping the condensation with his thumb.
When he looked up, Mel was gone.
-22-
Natural
"How did this happen?" demanded the voice, rage crackling through the speakers of Archambeau's laptop.
Eddie Carver licked his lips and held his hands palms up to Archambeau, who grimaced and said, "It's one of those things, sir—"
"Don't give me that crap, Archambeau. I've poured hundreds of thousands dollars into this show."
"I know, sir."
"You promised you could deliver what I asked for."
"But the circumstances—"
"Damn the circumstances! It's your job to handle the circumstances! That's what I pay you for. That's why we have a damn judge in our pocket. That's why we rig the ratings. It's all for one thing. And that one thing is priceless to me."
Eddie didn't know the man on the other end of the call. Only Archambeau knew the identity of their mystery financier, the one who had bankrolled most of the show. Sure, the competition had sponsors, supporters—but according to Archambeau, most of the money came from one source—the man on the opposite end of this connection. And he was pissed.
Eddie wasn't an idiot. He knew that the man was closely connected to Harley, the pre-selected winner of the show. He had investigated her a bit, tried to figure out who it was—but apparently Harley didn't live with her father or share his name, so Eddie was stumped. The man could be Harley's dad, or he might be a brother, an uncle, a friend—even a lover, though he sounded older than forty. Whoever it was, he wanted her to win—wanted it so badly he was willing to spend a fortune to make it happen.
So far it had been easy to get Harley through each round. She wasn't a jaw-dropping talent, but she did well every time. Maybe a few who were worthier had gone home in her place, but everyone knew that the industry was subjective. They wouldn't question it too closely, beyond a little fuming on social media.
But this? This was different. Harley had flubbed the song badly. Didn't sing at all, basically. If the Kiyo kid hadn't stepped out and saved the moment, the show's episode would have ended on a very embarrassing note. As it was, Eddie knew ratings would skyrocket because of that romantic, knight-on-a-white-horse moment with Kiyo—and he suspected that Archambeau and the mystery donor knew it as well.
But whatever beneficial boost the extra drama might be for the show, the bottom line was that Harley hadn't sung the song. They had to find a way to push her through to the next round without the live audience rioting. And they had thirty—no, twenty—minutes to do it.
The instant the filming break began, Eddie had sidled out of the judges' private lounge, muttering something about taking his medication, and then he'd raced to Archambeau's office. He thought he might burst a lung or a blood vessel on the way. How long had it been since he actually ran anywhere? There was something freeing about it. This whole fiasco was invigorating, in an odd way. If anyone discovered Eddie was being paid to throw his vote behind a specific contestant, it could ruin his career. Then again, the ragged remnants of his career weren't worth much. Not as much as he was being paid, that was for damn sure.
"Was it sabotage?" asked the invisible man on the laptop.
Archambeau hesitated, glancing at Eddie. He laid a finger across his lips. "I'm certain it wasn't, sir," he said. "She merely had a bad day."
"She texted me, claiming otherwise. She is sure someone is after her—one of the contestants. Maybe this Kiyo person? He's the runner-up, yes? Probably jealous."
"Kiyo Darcy is brilliant," said Archambeau, with a fervor that surprised Eddie. "He doesn't have to be jealous of anyone. He's the best we have. Did you know that a representative from CBH Media approached me yesterday, asking about taking the show outside the state? He wants to broadcast it beyond what we planned or imagined."
"Our priorities differ, Archambeau," hissed the voice over the laptop speakers. "You want notoriety, fame—a marvelous success to add to your resume. Carver wants money, that's clear. And you both know what I want—what I will have. Harley must win the competition. Do whatever you must to make it happen."
"But how can we get past today's performance?" Archambeau's voice rose with frustration. "What possible excuse could we have for sparing her from elimination when she didn't even sing? Everyone else did so well."
"Reshoot her performance tomorrow."
"We can't. The audience—"
"Damn the audience! I pay the bills."
And then Eddie Carver had an idea.
"Let's put them all through to the next round," he said. "We'll air this episode—it's TV gold, and we can't not show it. But we could skip the elimination this time. Claim that backstage pranks and unapproved theatrics made this round unfair to some of the contestants, so we've decided to move everyone through."
"Everyone?" Archambeau's eyebrows rose.
"Make the next episode a duet round. We'll throw twice as many off the show so we can catch up."
"What do you think, sir?" said Archambeau.
The third man was silent for a moment. "I'd rather get rid of the chainsaw boy."
"We can't. Everyone loves him."
"Fine. Then do it. We'll kick twice as many off for the duet episode." The call ended, and Archambeau exhaled.
"Great save, Carver." He clapped Eddie on the shoulder. "I honestly had no idea what to do."
Eddie couldn't hide a proud grin. He felt better than he had in years. "Give me a minute to get back to the lounge, and then you can come in and announce it," he said. "I don't want my fellow judges to know that we were in conference."
"Of course. Thanks again. You saved all our necks."
Eddie sauntered out, chest swelling. He saved the show, with a single excellent idea.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he checked the message.
"Harley must stay in the show. —R. P."
He texted back. "She will. It's all fixed. But I thought you arranged this so she would be kicked off? And I thought we were done talking."
The poltergeist—or whoever it was—responded within seconds. "Clever boy. But plans change."
So Harley was a victim of sabotage. Something in her water, maybe? He could tell someone his suspicion, maybe have the water analyzed—but the poltergeist had probably emptied the evidence by now. And why should he invite the mischief-maker's wrath on his own head? Better to stay out of it. Better to observe, and to wait.
He touched the charm around his neck. At this point
he doubted that anything supernatural was going on. Much more likely that it was a prankster with a very practical purpose—with a stake in the game.
-23-
Jenny
Kiyo plugged the electric guitar into the amp and sat down on the stool in front of the mirror. He preferred acoustic, but for this song, electric was the only way to go.
He started strumming, nodding, and then he sang softly, caressingly, the first stanza of the Click Five hit "Jenny"—except whenever the lyrics called for "Jenny," he replaced it with "Erin."
He played it three times before she appeared behind him, and even then he kept playing and singing, holding her gaze in the mirror. He rose off the stool and kicked it aside, channeling his anger, his frustration, his pain into the music.
When he ended with a violent riff and a clashing chord, she spoke two words.
"I'm sorry."
"So you admit it. You did all of that today. To wreck my performance."
"I did."
"Why?"
"I thought you slept with Harley."
"Are you crazy? Why would I sleep with Harley?"
"You went into your room with her. What was I supposed to think?"
"I hurt my ankle that night, kicking ice because I was mad at you. She helped me get back to my room. And yeah, she wanted something to happen, but it didn't." He set down the guitar against the table. "Honestly, it's scary that you'd do all that out of jealousy."
"Not just jealousy." She pressed her hand over the right side of her face, an oddly familiar gesture that he couldn't quite place. "It's more complicated than that."
"How did you pull that off, with the clowns, and the chainsaw guys?"
"It wasn't hard, really. I provided the props and costumes, and I bribed a couple of the stage crew to do the dirty work."
"I'm going to have nightmares for weeks."
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
"And I'm supposed to forgive you. Just like that."
She looked down, wordless.
"Wait a second. You thought I slept with Harley—did you have something to do with Harley's problem today? Her voice?"
Her lashes lifted, and she shot him a dark look. But she didn't deny it.
The Monsters of Music Page 16