"Interesting. You say no one has seen her?" Eddie pulled up a browser on his phone and typed in the name—Erin Crawford. He found a Facebook page—locked down; an Instagram account—private; a sparse Linked-In profile; and a website, advertising coaching services. None of them included a photo of Erin Crawford, and he couldn't find any other references to her, except a couple of college articles and an obituary from some 89-year-old in Florida. Definitely not the same Erin Crawford.
"She lists her credentials here, but there's no way to verify any of them," he said.
Catherine quickened her pace. "Who cares, as long as she's doing her job?"
Eddie cared only because the mysterious Erin Crawford was one of many odd people and events itching at his brain throughout this train-wreck of a singing competition. He wasn't sure how all of the strange elements fit together, and maybe he didn't want to know. His mind flitted from poltergeists to ghosts, to spirit possession, to demons, to Otherworld portals like the one in that hideous movie Hellraiser—another one that his freak of an ex-wife had made him watch when they were still married. Nothing murderous had happened yet, so he could probably rule out Pinhead and the gang. Small mercies.
An annoyed sigh from Catherine woke him to the fact that he hadn't answered her. "Sorry," he said. "Lost in thought. Yes, I guess you're right. As long as the coaches are doing what they're paid to do, we shouldn't worry. But we can wonder."
"I don't have time for wonder." She passed through the open door to her office and tossed some papers into a tray on the desk, snatching her purse and keys in the same sweeping movement. "Let's go get that coffee."
Eddie found it surprisingly easy to talk to Catherine. She had been divorced, too—no kids, though. She shared his frustration with the music industry in general and Archambeau's haphazard management style in particular. And she shared his love of old-school, offbeat rock—Blue Oyster Cult, Deep Purple, Styx. By the time they were halfway through their cups of coffee, he was feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time.
And then she got a text, and she squinted at it, annoyed. "This Erin Crawford is an odd one," she said. "Says she 'doesn't do TV.' She says the footage of Kiyo with the choreographer will have to do." She huffed in disdain.
"Maybe she's butt-ugly." Eddie burst into harsh laughter.
"Maybe." Catherine didn't seem too amused, so he reined in his merriment. "Well, I don't have time to chase down this woman and deal with her issues. I've got enough to worry about."
She set the phone down flat on the table, and Eddie glanced at it aimlessly. Startled, he looked again, more closely, turning the phone toward him.
"What?" asked Catherine.
"This number—this text—is from Kiyo's voice coach?" He could barely form the words.
"Yes. That's the contact number on the form she turned in."
"And no one has seen her or him? The coach, I mean?"
"Him? Well, I guess it could be a him. No, no one has set eyes on him, or her. Why?" She was peering at him, clearly disturbed by his behavior.
Eddie raked the scattered pieces of his composure back together. "Yeah, I think you should leave well enough alone in this case. Better not to dig too deep. Just let it go. Hey, we should be heading back for my meeting with Archambeau."
"Sure." Frowning, Catherine rose and led the way back to the car.
Eddie followed, clutching his chest and trying to quell his rising terror. The number on Catherine's phone, the number for Erin Crawford, matched the number of the resident poltergeist.
Kiyo Darcy's voice coach was a ghost.
-26-
Early Birdie
Mel sat in the beat-up Nissan, running the defrost and tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the tinny music from the car's ancient speakers. It wasn't her car, of course. Catherine had a few on hand so the staff could run errands as needed, and this one, as the least desirable of the three, was usually available.
This date had been Kiyo's idea. He needed a morning off, he said, and time to get to know her. She had split herself apart, in a sense, to fit into the roles of Mel and Erin, and she understood why it might take him a little time to come to terms with the new amalgam of the two.
Revealing herself to Kiyo had been terrifying and liberating. She had shown people her face before—but as in the case of the men by the Zapz Mart, she usually intended to scare them off when she did it.
Kiyo had been revolted at first, like everyone else. Who wouldn't be? But the tenderness of his hands when he touched her a minute later, when he kissed her—when he looked past the scars and saw her—well, she loved him now. How could she not? He was sweet, talented, smart, handsome—and if he could be clueless sometimes, shy, fearful, and prone to anxiety, she could forgive that. She had far greater flaws within herself.
I love him. She said it, clear and quiet, in her mind.
Kiyo rapped on the passenger-side window and she jumped. Tugging her scarf up higher and her hat down lower, she pressed the unlock button.
He slid in, bringing a draft of icy air with him. "Getting a pass to leave this complex is like trying to get out of prison," he complained. "So many questions from Madame Boucher, about where I was going, and why, and with who—or with whom. Which is it? I can never remember."
"Whom, I think. You didn't tell her this was a date, did you?"
"No, I said I needed sheet music and a few other things. But I think she might have guessed otherwise."
"And she let you out anyway?"
"Yeah. I had to sign a bunch of papers and dodge the security guard who was supposed to come with me. I guess I'm important to the show now, and they don't want anything happening to me." He squared his shoulders.
"I'll take good care of you, I promise."
Their first stop was an adorable indie music store that Mel had visited on her first day in town. She'd been too busy to come back until today, but she wandered the rows of bins, shelves, and tables with delight, touching CDs and record envelopes and band merch reverently with her fingertips, inhaling the shop's dry, papery scent overlaid with a faint aroma of lemongrass from the diffuser on the counter.
The shop was a warm little world of its own, with everything in it that a pair of music-lovers could want—and they stayed for an hour, sitting on the rough carpet side by side, flipping through books of sheet music, or digging through bargain bins to unearth treasures. When Kiyo unknowingly picked out the T-shirt Mel had wanted for herself, she refused to be the girl who bought matching shirts with a boy, and she chose a different design.
After they purchased their shirts, sheet music, and CDs, Mel took Kiyo to a café down the street, and they ordered soup, sandwiches, and coffee and talked for another hour. She learned which town his family lived in, why his sister had enlisted, and why he didn't have a girlfriend—too shy, and reluctant to start a high-school relationship before leaving for college.
"I get it," she said, nodding. "But I'm pretty sure you've left a trail of broken hearts behind you in school. And if you went back, you'd have a flock of fan-girls now. I mean, you can sing like an angel, you've been on TV, you're hot—"
"So are you."
She scoffed.
"Stop it, Mel. You know you are."
She didn't know where to look, or what to say.
"Speechless, huh?" He grinned.
She stood abruptly, dropping cash onto the table for the server. "We should get back."
He lunged out of his seat, rising right in front of her, so close they were nearly touching. The entire surface of her skin shivered with awareness, with the heat of him. He didn't move; he maintained that infuriating inch of space between them until she looked up at him, into that too-pretty face of his, into those dark eyes.
She wanted to stand there forever. But the café had other customers, and they would start to stare before long, so she backed away, and went out to the car. Since all the spots at the front of the café were taken, they had parked around back, in an empty lot oc
cupied only by a couple of snow-crusted dumpsters and a few employee cars.
"You didn't tell me anything about your family," Kiyo said, settling into the passenger seat.
Mel shut the door on her side and flipped the car keys over and over in her hand. "Did you ever hear of Monde 64?"
"Yeah! They were big in the indie rock circuit. I like some of their stuff." His brows drew together. "Although if you're thinking of having me sing one of their songs, I have to say I don't think that style is right for me."
"Oh, heck no. Definitely not. They're too hard rock for you. No, I was wondering if you ever heard about what happened to their bass player, the original one."
"I heard something about it. Happened years ago though. Didn't he kill his wife?"
"Girlfriend. And yes, he did. He poured acid on her face. And then he tried to do the same thing to their daughter, but he didn't have enough left to finish the job." She tapped her right cheek.
Kiyo's face froze in horror. "That was you?"
She nodded.
"And your father's in jail now."
"Donating the necessary sperm doesn't make him my father. He never acted like a dad, anyway—always treated me like I was an obnoxious pet that he had to pretend to like whenever he came over."
"Ouch."
"Yeah, it hurt. So you see, the damage to my psyche started long before he poured acid on my face." She laughed, a sound like shaken ice. "At least my mother loved me. I still kinda hate her, though."
"Why?"
"She chose him." The poison of seven years tainted the words. "She chose to stay with him, to have a child with him, knowing why she shouldn't, knowing who he was and what he might become. She chose. And she died. And I suffered. What we choose, the people we're with—it affects others. Something you might want to think about before you get too involved with me."
"Involved," he said, as if savoring the word. "Yeah, that pretty much describes it. Entangled." He shifted his hips, canting them toward her, and cupped a hand behind her neck, drawing her face closer, triggering an allegro heartbeat. Not a twinge of disgust in his eyes when they flicked over her face. "Captivated." He whispered the last word against her mouth.
"Can you spell any of those?" she whispered back.
"Probably not." He touched her lips with his, lightly, and again. The teasing drove her wild and she pushed him back against the passenger seat and swung herself astride him, kissing him long and slow, pushing into his lips, his mouth, his soul with her own. For a while, all that existed in the world was the heated space between their bodies, and the tingling delight at every point where they touched. Mel had never imagined that she could want someone this desperately, with this much of herself.
At last Kiyo pushed her away, his breathing ragged. "Okay, wow. Let's take a break."
She withdrew to the driver's seat, moving her hair across her right temple and cheek. "If you want."
"I don't want. But I need to." His embarrassed flush told her what he meant.
"Oh. Sorry."
"Don't be." He leaned back in the seat, and she started the car.
On the way back, he said, "The theme for the next episode is 'Duets.' Six couples, contestants, singing together. They'll kick off six people this time, since they let us all go through the last round."
"Wait, six couples—but there are only eleven of you. Is someone going to sing twice?"
"Yeah, Jalana said she'd sing with me and with Diwali. They're already set on doing 'No Air' together."
"They'll be perfect substitutes for Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown."
"I know, right? It's gonna be epic."
Mel's heart pulsed with a longing she couldn't define—a blend of jealousy, desire, ambition, and a half-dozen other emotions.
"I don't really want to sing with Jalana," Kiyo said slowly. "Nothing against her—she's amazing. But I'd rather sing my duet with you."
"You can't. I'm your coach."
"But no one would have to know that. They said I could sing with Jalana or with anyone else who isn't a professional singer. So you could sing with me as yourself, as Mel."
"I can't."
"Because of your face."
"It's more than that. I just—I don't want to."
He didn't answer right away, but Mel could sense that the discussion wasn't over. "Well, at least you can help me pick out a song. Jalana and I will be rehearsing together, so we'll be using her practice room and her coach. I won't see you as often this week."
"That's fine." That's terrible.
Glancing aside, Mel noted the tension in Kiyo's jaw and lips, and her fingers itched to soothe it away. He was upset with her because she wouldn't—couldn't—sing a duet onstage with him. She couldn't very well don a mask or a hoodie for it. What did Kiyo expect her to do? Show her scars, not only to the entire cast and crew, but to the whole live audience and the TV viewers as well? Not possible. No way. Her gut shriveled in horror at the thought.
They pulled into the parking lot and climbed the stairs at the end of the building, heading for the fourth floor. But when Mel opened the stairway door, she saw three of the camera crew and two girls from hair and makeup, being herded along by Catherine. Thankfully their backs were turned, so Mel eased the door closed again.
"They found our practice room," she said. "Catherine was going to barge in and start filming! I can't believe it!"
"Good thing we took the morning off," Kiyo said, peering through the narrow window of the door. "Otherwise she might have actually caught you on camera."
"Ugh." Mel shuddered. "The complications, the explanations—I can't even think about it. Come on, let's go upstairs to my attic. We can choose a song there."
They spent the next half hour listening to duets on YouTube—everything from "All I Ask of You" to "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." Finally Kiyo shoved back his chair. "This is pointless. I know what Jalana's voice can handle, but she's not the one I want to sing the song with, Mel. I'd rather sing it with you. And without knowing your voice, how can I choose the right duet?"
"I already told you, I can't do the song with you."
"Not 'can't.' You won't." He leaned forward. "Look, if it makes you more comfortable, you can put your hair all in your face like you do, or wear a mask—whatever. I don't care. I just want to sing with you."
She didn't want to say no to him, not again—but if she did this, she'd be in trouble. Aunt Lotta would never know about Mel playing the keyboard at the party, but a duet on TV would be impossible to hide from her or the other Lianhan Sídhe. Mel would be questioned, condemned, and maybe kicked out of the clan. Called a rogue and a law-breaker. And as much as she wanted to perform before an audience, she wasn't sure if she was ready for something this big. Not yet.
"I can't," she whispered. "Please don't ask me."
She could see him struggling, riding the line between his desire and her wishes.
"Okay," he said finally. "Then sing for me. Right now. And I won't ask about the duet again."
She froze.
He leaned toward her, smiling a little. "I'm not so scary, right? Come on. What could happen?"
What could happen?
They were in the attic, after all. No one could hear. No one had to know.
A private performance, for him.
"One song." She wagged her index finger at him. "And then you won't pester me about performing any more. "
He laid both hands dramatically over his chest. "Cross my heart."
"There's one that I play sometimes—it's usually got a big dance-club beat and background stuff, but I like it raw." Sucking in her emotion with her breath, Mel sat down at the piano.
Notes dribbled from her fingers, coalescing to chords, the prelude to a song she knew in the deepest recesses of herself. She started to sing, fragile and soft at first, growing stronger, fiercer, until she was burning, blazing, molten metal. She belted Sia and David Guetta's "Titanium" full voice, the notes launching from the bottom of her soul and soaring, fart
her, higher, carrying her with them until she was somewhere far out in the echoing chasm of space, and the stars were listening.
Her voice broke on the last lines, because he was kneeling beside her, tears glistening on his cheeks. She leaned her forearms on the keys, mangling a myriad notes, her shoulders shaking. His fingers gripped her knee; his forehead rested against her thigh.
"If you can sing like that," he choked out, "why the hell are you hiding?"
-27-
Just a Dream
Over the speakers in the Green Room, Kiyo listened to Jalana and Diwali singing "No Air." Even without seeing them, he could tell that the performance was compelling, electric—everything he'd known it would be. Two performers could sing together and be technically, objectively great, but nothing compared to singing with someone when you shared not only talent, but true chemistry. That's what he had with Mel. He bent forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, twisting his hands together, fighting the sinking disappointment. He'd hoped that Mel might reconsider, but he hadn't seen her much in the past few days, and he didn't dare ask about the duet again. He had promised to leave it alone.
Diwali and Jalana bounced past the Green Room, arm in arm. "See you next, boo!" Jalana called to Kiyo. "Gotta get my makeup freshened up."
Kiyo waved and nodded.
The next couple was Harley and Ramon doing "Airplanes" by B.o.B. Harley did Hayley Williams' part to perfection, and Ramon was actually a decent rapper. Kiyo expected they would both be safe.
And then the stage manager motioned to Kiyo from the doorway. He rose, cracking his knuckles, wiping his hands on the small towel he'd brought with him to the Green Room for that very purpose. He wouldn't be playing guitar this time, but he couldn't afford to literally drop the mike because of a nervous sweat.
He moved into the hallway with the manager. "Wait, where's Jalana?"
The Monsters of Music Page 18