The Monsters of Music

by Rebecca F. Kenney

  She smirked in spite of herself. "You and me."

  "That's right, sweetie. You and me. And when the time comes to draw blood, I promise to avoid your face if you'll spare mine."

  "Oh, I'll won't be interested in your blood, darling," she said, eyeing Kiyo. "I'll be too busy spilling his."

  She seethed through the class, barely listening to the instructor, eyeing the partial profile of Kiyo she could see—mostly his cheekbone and eyelashes. Stupid eyelashes. An Asian boy didn't have any business sporting thick, dark lashes like those. It was just wrong. The bone structure, with the hair and the lashes and the voice and the body—it was so unfair. Like Fate had stacked the deck against anyone trying to compete with him. Or anyone trying to forget about him.

  The kicker was, he didn't seem interested in anyone, except for the mystery chick at the party that one night, right before the "Lights" episode. Stupid bitchy girl in her kiddie glow-in-the-dark mask. Harley thought she had seen Kiyo kissing her. It was too dark to be sure, though. At the very least, they had performed together in a way that nearly made Harley weep with jealousy—until she forgot all about it and disappeared into the music. Weird how she didn't have many memories of the dancing that night. It was all a black-and-neon blur, flecked with strange shapes and riddled with heart-pounding music.

  The instructor finished babbling, finally, and Harley launched herself out of the chair. Another hour of her life that she couldn't get back. Hours that were slipping away, one after another, faster, faster.

  On her way to the door something—twitched—in her head, and she lost her balance for a second, toppling sideways into a chair. Ramon caught her and helped her stand. "You okay, sweetie?"

  "Yes! Gosh." She shook him off. For a second there appeared to be two of him. She blinked.

  "Harley?" If she could turn Kiyo's smooth voice into a drink, it would taste like a mocha latte. If she could make it into fabric, it would be a velvety blanket.

  She shook her head again. Odd thoughts, odd thoughts leaking out of her brain.

  She took a minute, ignoring the male voices and their insistent questions, brushing off their hands, blotting out Jalana's insistence that Harley must be dehydrated, or hungry, or tired.

  She took a minute. And her head cleared.

  Good. There was still time.

  Holding her chin high, she sauntered out of the room. But in the back of her mind, the clock that was always running, running, counting and counting, had started ticking a little faster.

  -30-

  Stop and Stare

  Mel flopped down on the thin bedspread. This motel was painfully bland and boring after the lush, offbeat beauty of the attic at Leroux—but it had its good points, one of them being that it didn't come with a side of Kiyo Darcy. Instead, it had a pool rimmed with floating brown leaves, a wheezing air conditioner, and the promise of a stale continental breakfast in the morning—all things that she'd paid for with cash and a fake ID that claimed she was twenty-two instead of seventeen.

  At least it was warmer here, in the South. She was Florida-bound, aiming for the beach cities where undiscovered bands rocked the coastal bars every night. The idea of the crowds—their noise and their eyes—scared and comforted her at the same time. More chances of people seeing her scars, less risk of anyone finding her when she didn't want to be found.

  Mel flipped through the scant assortment of TV channels. Nothing remotely titillating or fascinating. She caught a glimpse of one of the nationwide singing competitions—a sprawling affair with a massive, glowing stage, red and blue lights, celebrity judges—so much grander than Voices Rising.

  Two days of travel meant that the "Duets" episode of Voices Rising had already aired. She hadn't looked for it—didn't want to see it. The thought of it made her stomach churn. She could only hope that very few actual Fae watched Voices Rising, and that any humans viewing it would chalk the abnormalities up to odd lighting, poor production quality, or very weird special effects. Thankfully the cameras would have been primarily focused on her and Kiyo. Voices Rising was too small a production to have tons of cameras trained on the audience at all times—in fact, she had heard from one of the video editors that they often cut in crowd footage shot from one episode into a completely different episode, depending on the intended emotional and visual impact.

  She unlocked her phone and checked for messages. Her aunt had called several times, the latest being this morning, when Lotta followed up the unanswered call with a text: "Call me back, Melpomene, or you and I are done for good."

  Mel eyed her aunt's number. This was not a conversation she wanted to have. But it was necessary, so she held her breath and touched the screen.

  Her aunt answered within a few seconds. "Melpomene."

  Not "angel," not "precious" or "darling." Mel grimaced. Lotta must be furious.

  "How are you, Aunt Lotta?"

  "Don't," said her aunt. "Don't pretend that everything is normal. You broke the law. Our divine law. Our sacred trust. You performed for humans—and not just a small group of humans—a live crowd. A televised show. You, my girl, are in deep trouble."

  "So the others know?" Mel wasn't terribly concerned about Aunt Lotta's little group of Lianhan Sídhe friends knowing, but if anyone from the Upper Echelon found out, she would be screwed. She'd be summoned for a review and probably kicked out of the clan.

  "None of my friends have mentioned it to me. In this case your reclusive nature may be helpful—I don't think they would necessarily recognize you on sight, even if they did watch the episode. And in that setting, with that boy, you looked—different."

  Mel inhaled, closing her eyes. "So they don't know."

  "Not yet. But if you keep this up, they will find out."

  Why hadn't her aunt mentioned the illusory magic? The smoke, the glitter, the Fae shapes darting and dancing through the auditorium? Mel suddenly wished she had watched the "Duets" episode herself, to see how it all unfolded on-screen.

  "Did you notice anything else—unusual—when you watched the last episode?" she asked tentatively.

  "Such as?"

  "Some, um—some magic. Illusions."

  "No," said her aunt apprehensively. "What are you talking about?"

  Mel didn't want to tell her. But she was bursting with the need to know what it was, and why, and whether it could happen again. So she told Lotta everything that occurred during the performance.

  Panic tightened Lotta's voice. "What the hell?"

  "You've never heard of that happening before?"

  "No. Never. But none of our clan has ever sung with a human protégé in that context—or in any context that I'm aware of. Maybe privately, but certainly not in front of a crowd of humans. Mel, what have you done?"

  "Nothing worth panicking over," Mel insisted. "The audience seemed to brush it off as lighting or special effects. Of course the lighting crew knows better, but who would believe them if they said it was supernatural? I wouldn't worry. Humans excel at explaining things in a way that suits their beliefs." But Mel's mouth was dry, anxiety spiking the acid in her stomach. She'd been so sure that Lotta would have an answer, an old tale to explain the phenomenon. But apparently it was something new and unfamiliar.

  She ran through the key variables in her mind. She'd kept some magic for herself, performed with a protégé, drawn energy from the audience—and she was in love with Kiyo. And he was in love with her. Their music carried a singular chemistry, and maybe, as a result, it created its own brand of magic.

  "Mel?" Her aunt's voice, strained and somber, broke through her thoughts.

  "I'm still here."

  "You can't do it again. I forbid it."

  "You can't forbid—"

  "I can. You're seventeen. I have joint access to your checking account, and I can close it."

  "I withdrew everything," Mel stated, fiercely proud of herself for thinking of it. "It's all in cash now. All mine."

  "This is how it's going to be, then? You graduate from h
igh school, and suddenly I'm nothing to you? My advice, my judgment, my help—all worthless?" Lotta was nearly yelling now, and Mel held the phone further from her ear. "I care about you, Melpomene. I love you! Don't cut yourself off like this, for a foolish personal quest."

  "I love you, too," Mel said, clutching the bedspread in her fist. "But it's not a foolish personal quest, Aunt Lotta. I need to be free to share my art, to perform. I need to find out why I have these gifts. And I refuse to give all my magic away and serve someone else with it for the rest of my life—no matter how much that someone might mean to me."

  Lotta groaned. "I thought you were too much like your mother, but you aren't. You're worse. You'd risk exposing all of us—the Lianhan Sídhe, the other Fae races—because you want recognition and fame? You're more selfish than I realized."

  Her words bit deep—more painful because Mel could see a glimmer of truth in them.

  "Well, it's a moot point anyway," she said. "I won't be performing again, because I left the show. Kiyo confronted me about the magic, and I didn't want to lie to him."

  "You told him what you are? Oh, darling, that was foolish. And of course he rejected you."

  Mel gnawed the inside of her cheek, battling tears, and didn't answer.

  "At least you're away from that place now. If anyone does get suspicious and ask around at Leroux, they won't be able to find you, or trace anything back to me through you."

  "Yes, it's all very nice and safe for you," said Mel thickly. "Like I said, I won't be singing to anyone else anytime soon. Maybe never." She certainly didn't feel like singing at all lately.

  "Where will you go?" asked Aunt Lotta. "Are you coming home?"

  "To be the disfigured muse of one of L.A.'s image-conscious, entitled newbie stars? No thanks. I thought I'd hit the beach bar circuit in Florida, see what shows up."

  "I should probably forbid you from doing that. Your mother certainly wouldn't approve of her seventeen-year-old daughter doing a bar crawl to find a protégé."

  "I may be seventeen on paper, but my I.D. says otherwise. And you know I can handle myself. Just—let me do this."

  "I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Lotta's anger had ebbed, and ennui was seeping into her tone. Mel knew her aunt was tired of the argument, tired of battling for the Fae laws and pretending to be the responsible parental figure.

  "I'll be careful," Mel said. "I promise. If nothing turns up in a couple of months, I'll come home."

  But even as she said goodbye and ended the call, she knew that her aunt's house would never be home—not again. Home was a windswept rooftop with a questionable railing—a dull practice room with a mysterious mirror—a cluttered attic, a sparkling stage, a cozy music shop—wherever Kiyo happened to be.

  She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Without their bond, Kiyo's share of the magic would fade, and he would be completely, humanly normal. She wondered how much of his skill was totally his, how much was her coaching, and how much was the muse magic. He would be shooting another episode in a little less than a week.

  "Let's see how you fare without me," she said aloud, poking an accusing finger at the ceiling fan as if Kiyo were perched on it, watching her. "Just you wait. You're nothing but a big bubble of air, and you're about to pop."

  But she knew that wasn't entirely true. He'd been good before she got involved. Sure, she had helped him improve, taken him to the next level—beyond the next level. But even without her magic, he was gifted.

  She would need to find someone else to bond with, and soon. Within a few weeks, at least. Surely in Florida she could find a random band member with sand in his flip-flops and music in his mind. She could see him now, scruffy and tanned, with sun-bleached hair and board shorts—

  Of course, to cement the bond she would have to kiss him, and the thought of kissing anyone but Kiyo made her sick.

  Closing her eyes, she held Kiyo's face in her mind—smooth skin, delicate Asian features, with a dramatic jawline and narrow nose that hinted at his dad's American blood. She pictured his black hair, always so messy, and his strong throat, how his Adam's apple bobbed and his hands turned slick when he was nervous. She could almost feel those slim hands cupping her face, caressing her scars.

  A tear slipped from beneath her eyelid and trailed hot down her temple, running into her ear. She wiped it away angrily.

  He had called her a monster—and maybe she had acted like one. But not without reason. The Lianhan Sídhe had inviolable rules, and the one they had in common with other Fae was "no self-revelation to humans." Of course, there were exceptions, serious partners being one of those. A bonded protégé should technically be an exception to the rule. Even if most Lianhan Sídhe of her clan never revealed themselves, she doubted that any other Fae would fault her for doing so.

  But Kiyo hadn't taken the revelation well at all.

  Was it the "informed consent" issue that bothered him most—the fact that she put magic into his body without asking? Or was it the cheating aspect, the idea that he'd had an unfair advantage over the other contestants? Maybe it was the lying, or her inhumanness. Or all of it. No way to know, because she hadn't lingered long enough to ask.

  Maybe she should have stayed.

  Suddenly she wanted to see his face again, to yell at him and tell him what an idiot he had been to break the bond. To tell him what he'd given up, what they could have built together if not for his stupid human pride.

  She found his number in her phone and stared at it, frustrated because there was no picture of him linked to the contact. She couldn't stifle the desire to see him. So she typed his name into a search engine and waited.

  To her astonishment, there were dozens of listings about him—blog posts, video interviews, articles, news spots, fan pages. She lost herself in them, scouring every word, scoffing when an interviewer got something wrong and scowling when she uncovered a piece of information he'd never told her.

  And then she found a YouTube clip of the episode. The one with the duets.

  To watch it, or not to watch it. That was the question.

  A million reasons not to torture herself—but she clicked the link anyway.

  For a while she forgot everything but the music, the beauty of the duets that the other contestants had performed—"The Fighter," "Somebody That I Used to Know," and of course, "I've Had the Time of My Life." There was real talent on Voices Rising, in spite of the show's flaws.

  Then it was Kiyo's turn, and Mel gasped when she saw him—his face pierced her calm like a glittering blade. And there she was, coming onstage in Jalana's place, looking dramatic and suitably mysterious—yes, and beautiful. The look Kiyo gave her, that knowing, welcoming grin—she would give the skin off her left cheek to have him look at her like that again.

  She narrowed her eyes, watching closely for the magic—but there was nothing to see. No glitter, or sparks, or Fae creatures made of colored smoke. She could see the audience shifting nervously, glancing around—she caught the widening of her own eyes in the moment she first noticed the magic. And she saw, with a pang that sank deep in her stomach, the horror in Kiyo's eyes.

  But none of the illusory magic had been caught on film. The only thing odd about their performance was the change in their expressions halfway through, which to TV viewers would have been confusing, but not earthshaking. She exhaled with relief.

  When the video ended, she played the final duet again, this time focusing on Kiyo. Watching his face change when the magic started was torture.

  The video ended, and she played it again. And again.

  ***

  Mel didn't keep going to Florida right away. Quirky little Duluth, Georgia, suited her mood, and she wandered its streets like a melancholy spirit, hunched in her thin black hoodie.

  One particularly boring night, she was lying across the bed again, skimming through her e-book collection, when her eyes latched onto the cover of Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë.

  She had read it in paperback last year
, for school, and the second she finished the final page, she flipped back to the beginning and started over—something she'd never done with a book in her entire life. Maybe she found an echo of herself in Jane. Or maybe it was Rochester that sang to her soul—Rochester, with his passionate, wild, artistic personality, pinned down by society's rules, deprived of the love he craved.

  Tapping the cover with her fingertip, she swiped through the book, reading bits and pieces here and there until she was deeply immersed in the story again.

  And then she came to words that made her stop and stare. She read them twice.

  It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.

  The words thrummed in her head, over and over. Tightly and inextricably—that cord, snapped—bleeding inwardly.

  The back of Mel's throat tightened and pulsed, her eyes prickling with tears.

  She fought the pain viciously. "I am not the hide-in-bed-and-eat-breakup-ice-cream kind of girl!" she said aloud. "I'm not!"

  But apparently she was the type to stalk her ex on the internet and watch videos of him on repeat. Her heart felt sore, like an overused muscle, and she couldn't stop the incessant chain of thoughts echoing, always echoing, in the back of her head—the unwanted accompaniment to every other conscious thought.

  I love him. I want him. I love him. I want him.

  -31-

  I'm a Mess

  "What's the matter with you, man?" Diwali waved a hand in front of Kiyo's face.

  Kiyo snapped his head up, startled. "What? Sorry. Distracted."

  "Not just distracted. Sad." Diwali cocked his head. "Family stuff?"

  "No. Girl stuff."

  "You and that Mel chick, huh? Check out ma boi, breakin' the rules, yo!" Diwali did a little dance in his seat. "Good thing they haven't been too strict about enforcing those lil rules, yeah? Me and Jalana get away with plenty." He winked at Jalana, who stood by the breakfast warmers talking to Harley. She winked back at him.