The stage manager swore. "Somebody find Jalana!"
An aide hissed from beside the stage, "Quick! They're waiting! What's the holdup?"
"Jalana isn't here!" snapped the stage manager.
Kiyo's stomach churned, and his hands clenched as they waited. After a few minutes, he said, "She's not coming. I'll have to sing by myself."
"You can't go on alone. It's called 'Duets' for a reason. You need a partner."
Another voice spoke. "I'll sing with him."
Kiyo knew who it was before she stepped out of the shadows, her dark hair rippling halfway across her face. She wore tight black leather pants and a red velvet coat that flared at the waist, ending just below mid-thigh. She looked like a sorceress and a superhero rolled into one.
"You?" The stage manager gaped. "Can you even sing?"
"Does it matter?" said Mel. "They'll be listening to him, not me. And you need someone who's ready to go on, right now."
"I can't let you—" began the manager, but Kiyo interrupted. "I want her as my partner." He looked into her eyes, smiling, hoping she knew how deeply he meant it. "Let her sing."
"This show will be the death of me," moaned the stage manager, but he handed Mel a microphone and waved her forward.
Kiyo gave Mel a sidelong glance as they walked out.
"Jalana's fine," she whispered. "No harm done, just a little makeup mishap to delay her."
"Thank you," he answered. "For this."
"Don't thank me yet."
And then they walked onstage. No questions from the judges this time—the stage was dark and silent as they found their marks and waited for the music to begin.
The rippling intro to "Just a Dream" by Nelly began, and Kiyo gripped his mike and began to sing. Mel joined him, slipping into the harmony as seamlessly as if they'd been practicing it together for weeks. Her voice was light, clear and limpid as pure water, and when she dropped out to let him do his part, he missed the sound of it.
They circled each other on stage, slowly, their eyes locked, their voices dancing, intertwining, and Kiyo forgot everything but the music.
Until a panicked surge of sound from the crowd tore his eyes away from Mel, his voice lingering over "it was only just a dream..."
He gasped and barely found the next note, because out of the audience, shapes were unfurling—columns of blue mist, shooting up to the ceiling and branching out into a million interlaced twigs, bursting into glittering purple leaves. Some of the leaves dislodged and drifted down, exploding in showers of sparkling amber dust over the audience. And where that dust fell, tall figures made of pale smoke emerged—some with curved horns, some with wings, others with the bodies of horses or the tails of fish.
Kiyo's voice faltered for a second, but when he glanced at the judges, he saw that their eyes were still trained on him, focused, evaluating. He couldn't lose his spot in the competition. He had to keep going, to ignore whatever insane crap was going down and sing the hell out of this song.
Maybe he was the only one seeing this. Maybe someone put something in his drink.
And then he saw one of the horned men change into a goat made of dark smoke, and the goat shot a flood of blue fire into the air. The people nearest it screamed and shrank away—unhurt, but frightened. Clearly they'd seen it.
Special effects. It had to be. How—why—
Mel caught Kiyo's hands as they moved into the bridge, her eyes commanding him to look at her, only at her. Above them burst more showers of blue sparks, swirls of mist creeping across the stage, rising, growing into stalks and flowers that opened and released lavender curls of smoke into the air.
Kiyo stared at Mel wildly, desperately, still singing, trying to ask a wordless question with his eyes. Should we stop? But Mel kept going, and he followed her lead through the runs, compelled by a horrible fascination, a hideous need to see what would happen—how far it would go. What it was.
Then Kiyo hit his highest note, and Mel chimed in just above him. The blue sparks and the forest and the strange creatures all exploded into gold and amber light, and that light shot through the auditorium, flooding every inch, every dark corner, every crack, until the place was bright as midday.
And then they closed the last notes, the light went out, and the auditorium plunged into midnight darkness. Not a speck of light—not even the emergency lights.
A scream or two echoed in the dark, and then the lights flickered on again, glowing calm and golden on the stage and the judges' dais, as if nothing had happened. Mel's hand slipped from Kiyo's fingers and she darted backstage.
Kiyo turned to face the judges.
They were blinking, staring, clearly confused.
"Well, that was—" And for once in his life, Eddie Carver appeared to be completely speechless. But his hand drifted down the chain around his neck, and he collected himself. "Those were some crazy special effects. Kudos to the lighting team for that one. Yes, and your duet partner there was very good. Excellent control, great range. But we're here to talk about you, right?"
Kiyo listened to Eddie and the others fumble around, trying to make coherent comments about his performance. Had they seen the same thing he saw? Were they trying to convince themselves that they had imagined it?
As soon as they let him go, Kiyo hurried backstage, half-expecting Mel to be gone. But she was there, cowering in the shadows of a back passage. He pushed in next to her, scraping his arm against a huge piece of old scenery, and blocked her in with his body.
"Don't you dare run away from this." His hands were shaking, nausea coiling in his stomach.
She nodded.
"I have to do the elimination lineup. And then, you and I are going to talk."
She nodded again.
He went through the motions, walking back onstage with the others, enduring more critique, smiling, nodding, pretending nothing had happened. But he could see, from the dazed faces of the crew and the audience, that he wasn't the only one who had seen the illusions. And he knew it wasn't lights, or special effects, or a drug-induced mass hallucination.
There was only one word for the thing they'd witnessed, and he didn't want to say it, or think it. But he had to face the possibility of—
Magic.
And there was only one person who could have caused it. The same one who insisted that she couldn't, shouldn't sing onstage in front of an audience. Not only because of her face, but because of who—or what—she was.
She lied. She lied to him again. Looked him straight in the face and said she didn't have anything else to hide. Liar, liar.
Fury licked up inside him like searing flames, fear feeding it higher. He barely heard the judges kicking other contestants off the show right and left—half a dozen of them. When everyone filed offstage, a couple of the eliminated contestants were crying. One or two jabbered angrily, and the rest looked defeated, resigned. Kiyo strode past them all. As he passed the shadows where Mel still huddled, he grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him.
-28-
Take a Bow
Mel didn't fight Kiyo as he half-dragged her into one of the dark unused rooms backstage. He flipped a light switch so the room was only half in shadow, and he closed the door. Then he squared off in front of her, palms up and fear in his eyes, mutely asking for an explanation.
"I didn't know," she babbled, barely coherent. "I didn't know that would happen. I didn't, I swear. It was singing, just singing. Why didn't Aunt Lotta tell me about this? Did she even know? And they filmed it—oh God—"
"Stop!" He gripped her shoulders and shook her a little, just enough to snap her gaze to his. "Who are you?" He lowered his voice, as if saying the next words scared him. "What are you?"
Mel felt as if she were standing at the brink of a gaping chasm, cut so forcefully into the flesh of the earth that she couldn't imagine what lay in the darkness of its depths. She was about to break Rule One. Because of a boy.
No other way around it. No deceit that he would accept, no lie sh
e wanted to give.
"I am Lianhan Sídhe," she said. "And that means nothing to you, so let me put it in a way that you'll understand. I'm the Celtic version of a muse, from Irish legend. It's more complicated than that, but essentially, I'm a supernatural—person—who infuses magical energy into humans. Impregnates them with inspiration, you might say." Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile.
"Impregnates—what?"
"We have creative magic—too much to handle. It has to find an outlet. Usually, we connect with a single human, a protégé, and we share our magic with that person. It creates a bond between us, a symbiotic relationship. The human becomes super talented in their field of skill, and we get to enjoy the release of our magic—and the other perks that go along with being that close to a genius."
She could see him working it out, tying the threads together in his mind.
"You did this to me? Shared your—your creative magic?"
"Yes."
"Without telling me. Without my consent."
"Most men would be happy to—"
"I'm not most men. Hell, I'm eighteen. I barely know what I want from life, and now you're telling me that we're—bonded, somehow? How could you do this?"
"I needed you. Simple as that. And you needed me."
His eyes practically sparked, and his fingers tightened convulsively on her shoulders until his long guitarist's nails dug into her skin. Maybe he felt her flinch, because he broke away, stalking to the other side of the room.
"This—this changes everything."
"No! How? It doesn't have to change anything. You're still you, talented as hell. I'm still me. I'm your muse, your coach—"
"You've been helping me cheat my way to the top! And I didn't even know it. You've been pouring magic inside me, freaking magic, Mel! Magic. What the actual hell? When I found out you were Mel, not Erin, I was shaken up, but I adjusted. I accepted you, flaws and all."
She knew what was coming, and she steeled herself, hoping she was wrong, praying to the Goddess and her Fae ancestors that she was wrong, that he would relent and forgive—
"But I can't adjust to this. You're not even human." He faced her. "You. Are. Not. Human."
She shrank from the blistering heat of his eyes, of his words.
"You told me there weren't any more secrets. You lied."
"Because I didn't want to lose you," she said. "If it weren't for what happened tonight, you would never have had to know—"
"You would have kept this from me for months? Years? However long we were together? And how long does your kind stay with a protégé, Mel?"
"It depends on the Lianhan Sídhe," she replied, trying to still her trembling hands. "You're my first, but I know that I wouldn't have left you. Never. Not unless you wanted me to."
"So you can break the bond and move on?" he said. "It's possible?"
"Yes, but—"
"Great. Let's do it."
She stared at him, helpless, on the verge of a flood of tears. "Why?"
He leaned in, his face contorted with anger. "Because you're a liar. And a monster."
She flinched as if he'd slapped her, and for a second she saw hesitation in his eyes, and maybe pity.
"Look at us," he said. "Look what you've done to me. I'm not this guy. I don't get angry like this. I've never been this angry with anyone in my life."
Look what you've done to me.
She saw Shane's face, twisted, holding her mother down. Heard his voice, broken with rage and tears.
Look what you've done to me.
"How do you break it, Mel? The bond, how can I break it?"
She heard herself answering, cool and mechanical. "One of us has to kiss someone else. On the lips, romantically, sexually, whatever you want to call it. With desire."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
He let out a gasp of relief. "That should be easy, then."
"Yes. Easy." She couldn't move, or cry. She could only stare past him, at a place on the wall where the paint had peeled away, revealing a patch of corroded, water-stained drywall beneath it.
"I'm going to do it now." He was at the door, looking back at her.
"I won't stop you."
Out of the corner of her left eye, she saw his shape vanish from the doorway.
She waited five minutes, then went to the attic. She wasn't even sure how she got there, only that she found herself on her knees, piling clothing and cosmetics into her two suitcases. There was no need to bring the cat carrier, or any of Prince's supplies. She left it all behind. The purple dress, her paintings. Everything.
She took the suitcases downstairs, one at a time, set them in Madame Boucher's office, and called a driver.
Madame Boucher came in, nearly tripped over the luggage, and opened her mouth to protest. But at the sight of Mel's face, she shut it again and busied herself with the computer.
After a few minutes, she said, "You're leaving, then?"
"Yes. It didn't work out. I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you wanted."
"Never mind that, mon enfant. I feel bad for you. Are you sure you're doing the right thing?"
"Very sure."
"D'accord. But you should still say goodbye to your other friends here, the contestants and crew."
Mel shook her head. "There's no one I need to say goodbye to."
"Then at least pick up your paycheck from Catherine's office."
She could use the paycheck. She had broken the rules of the Lianhan Sídhe—more than one of them, and her aunt definitely wouldn't be giving her any more startup money. Once she left, her voice coaching fees through Paypal would stop.
"All right, I'll go get the check. If my car comes, hold it for me, please."
Madame Boucher nodded, and Mel raced out of the dormitory, across the courtyard, into the auditorium building. She slowed to a respectable pace once inside, walking briskly down the hall past the video editing rooms and the areas where the crews stored their equipment.
The door to one of those dark storage rooms stood open, and as Mel passed by, she heard a soft laugh and the murmur of voices. She took a step back and glanced inside.
Harley sat on the edge of a table, with Kiyo standing between her knees. He was whispering in her ear, words that had colored Harley's cheeks and brightened her eyes. She met Mel's gaze, and her smile widened, triumphant.
Mel kept walking.
She didn't see the kiss, but she felt the shock of it a few seconds later—a painful jolt to her heart, a buzzing sensation over her skin, and then nothing.
Catherine wasn't in her office, and it was locked. No problem, because Mel had the master key, and she let herself in. Catherine's obsessive organizational system came in handy; she found the paycheck within minutes and darted out again.
Against her better judgment, she didn't choose an alternate route to the exit. She trudged determinedly back down the same hallway, trying to ignore the ferocious throbbing in her chest. Trying to convince herself that this wasn't really happening.
There was the dark doorway to the room where Kiyo and Harley were. Where he had touched her. Kissed her. Touched Harley, and kissed her. Mel couldn't stand the words, but they kept repeating themselves like a sick refrain in her head.
I won't look in again, she promised herself. I don't need this grief.
Quickening her pace, she plunged past the doorway—slamming straight into Kiyo as he came out of the dark room.
He looked down at her, his eyes hard, wiping away a trace of Harley's lipstick with his thumb. "Did it work?"
Her lip curled, and she cut her eyes away from his face. "Yes. I felt it break."
"Good."
She tried to dive past him, but he sidestepped, blocking her way. "Are you going to come after me with chainsaws again?"
"No. I'm leaving."
Uncertainty quivered in his eyes. "Leaving? Like—"
"Like getting out of town. Blowing this popsicle stand. Shaking the snow off my heels and never thinkin
g about this place again." She shouldered past him and stalked away, her eyes blurring with tears until the walls and floor and doorways were one large, amorphous glob of dark and light.
When she turned a corner, she ran full-tilt down the hall. Blasted into the courtyard. Snatched her bags from Madame Boucher, and threw them and herself into the car.
As she looked out the rear window at the receding shape of the Leroux School for the Performing Arts, she gave it the finger. And then she cried.
-29-
Dog Days Are Over
Harley gnawed her pencil to keep from screaming with rage at the lanky boy settling into his seat across the room.
First Kiyo came on to her—kissed her—in a dark backstage room, and then he made some lame-ass excuse and left. He ran into that weird Mel girl in the hallway and they made absolutely no sense for five minutes. And that was it.
She was pissed. With good reason. Of course the idiot boy was trying to throw her off her game, right before the finale, and she had fallen for it.
And now he had the nerve to walk into their enrichment session and sit down by the window, completely ignoring the empty seats on either side of her. Her blood was boiling, steaming words rising in her throat, ready to burst out—
"Something wrong, sweetie?" said a voice at her elbow. Ramon slid into the seat beside her.
"No." She practically threw the word at him.
"Oo-la-la. What has our handsome rival done now?" he whispered.
"He kissed me," she whispered back. "And then he iced me out."
"How terrible!"
Harley sneered. "Like you care. You've had eyes for him this whole time."
"True, but he doesn't swing my way. If he did, he'd have laid claim to this gorgeousness during Week One, baby, and that's the truth."
"Maybe after I win the competition, he'll wise up." Harley pursed her lips.
"Maybe I'll win the competition." Ramon flashed her a dazzling grin.
"Unlikely."
He pressed ring-laden fingers over his heart. "Ouch! I made it to the final five, didn't I? It's you, me, Kiyo, Jalana, and that idiot Diwali. I ask you, which of us five has the balls, the lungs, and the brains to make it all the way?"
The Monsters of Music Page 19