But it was her mess. Her reality. A reality she had sacrificed for, in the place where she first sang on a stage, in front of a live audience.
The Leroux School of the Performing Arts and Voices Rising didn't belong to Archambeau, or to his mystery financier, or to the judges—it belonged to her. And she'd be damned before she'd let them turn Voices Rising into an ego boost for a spoiled pop princess wanna-be.
She would leave first thing tomorrow morning, to fix what those idiots had done with her show.
The eager little flutter in her stomach had everything to do with her love of power and mischief, and nothing to do with Kiyo. Nothing at all.
-33-
Clarity
This was it. Her final performance.
Hysterical laughter bubbled in Harley's throat. "Final performance" in more ways than one, maybe.
"Something funny?" The makeup artist cocked her head, peering at Harley.
"Not funny, no," said Harley. "Very, very sad."
"Um—okay." The woman went back to lining Harley's eyes. "Try to hold still."
The panic pirouetting in Harley's chest made stillness a challenge. She wanted to move, and yet she was afraid to. The dizzy spells were still rare and far between, but their increasing frequency meant that she couldn't trust her body the way she used to. They were signposts, warnings that the long downward slope she'd been traveling for the past several months was about to get very steep and fast.
There was no stopping it now. She'd passed the point of no return months ago. It didn't matter that her mind screamed an incessant terrified "no, no, no, no" every freaking day. Wanting a thing didn't make it happen.
Except for this, Voices Rising. She could make this happen.
She'd always known her voice was good, but to make it all the way, to the top spot in the competition? It was a dream come true. And perfect timing, as well. As if Fate and the Universe were saying, "Sorry we screwed you over. Have a cupcake on your way out."
Cupcakes. After the contest, she would eat a lot of those. The gourmet ones, with the caramel icing and the sea salt on top. Also the ones with fudge icing and strawberries. And carrot-cake ones with cream cheese icing. Hell, she might as well eat whole entire cakes—
"Okay, you're done!" The makeup artist did a final quick fluff across Harley's cheeks with her brush. "Lovely. You'll rule the stage tonight!"
"How long till filming starts?" asked Harley.
"Half an hour, I'd say. And you're in the final spot, as usual, so you've got probably an hour or more to wait. I'll freshen everything right before you go on. Now take a seat in the Green Room, and don't mess up my art!" She waved Harley out of the prep room.
Harley meandered along the hall, savoring the murmur and bustle of the backstage zone before the show. Stage hands darted between doors, lighting techs shouted instructions to each other, the live musicians tuned and strummed, and Catherine whizzed here and there, shrilling orders.
For a bare moment, Harley was invisible. Like a ghost, wandering the halls of the auditorium, wistful and forgotten.
Maybe, when it was all over, she'd come back here and haunt the place.
Maybe she would be too busy enjoying herself in heaven.
Maybe she would disappear. No more Harley in the universe. Nothing left of her but a collection of unluckily mutated organic matter for earth to recycle.
It was the hollow uncertainty, the not knowing, that grated on her nerves.
"Excuse us, Miss Harley." At the strained voice, she turned. Two set guys were hauling a huge piece of equipment toward the stage—she couldn't tell if it was for sound or lighting.
She rolled her eyes and stepped out of their way, into a side corridor stuffed with old stage props and pieces. Her leg raked against something sharp, and she felt a warm trickle of blood down her ankle. She swore, bending to check the scrape. Of course this would happen, right before her last performance, when she wanted to look perfect.
She tensed, preparing to call to the stage hands, the lighting guys, the security guards, anyone who could fetch her a first aid kit and the nurse.
But as she inhaled to shout, a hand snapped over her mouth, sealing off sound. Another arm snaked across her throat, yanking backward, and she had to stumble back, too, or have her breath cut off. Her shins and calves banged into more poky objects along the way, and she cursed over and over in her head. Her perfect legs were going to be riddled with scratches and bruises for the show.
If she made it to the show.
She writhed and bucked, but she was getting light-headed and weak from panic and lack of air. Her legs felt hollow and shaky, and her arms trembled. Farther and farther back the attacker dragged her, to a dark recess of the building, until the busy, lighted hallway was a faraway golden rectangle, visible through a tangle of old beams and debris.
The arm across Harley's throat vanished, only to be replaced by a sharp, cold edge. "Scream, and I slit your throat," growled a voice. Harley couldn't tell if it was male or female. Couldn't tell if it was familiar or not. Could barely think beyond the bite of the metal against her skin.
Not this way. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
Not yet.
The knife stayed in place, but the hand over her mouth moved. Her attacker pressed something into her hands. "Blindfold. Put it on."
Shaking, she obeyed.
"Now," said the voice. "You will walk where I guide you, and stop when I tell you, and make no sound. If you want to live."
Harley almost laughed. It was only her every waking thought. I want to live.
She nodded, and the attacker threw something over her—a coat? A blanket? A—cloak? She couldn't tell. She was hustled along another passage, pushed this way and that, and then shoved through a door into the cold. The courtyard, maybe. Someone might be out there, someone she could beg for help. But the person with her tugged the cloak's hood further over Harley's face and jerked her forward, whispering, "Just because you can't feel the knife doesn't mean I won't use it."
A brief stint in the cold, then another door, and then steps, lots of steps. Harley lost track of how many stories they had climbed.
"In here." The person pushed her through a third door, across a room, and into another space—some sort of enclosure.
Harley's heart still beat erratically, but during the walk she had realized that her attacker was female. The breathing, the size of the hands, the bump of a breast against her arm—clearly it was a woman. It eliminated one set of dangers and raised new ones in Harley's mind.
Her kidnapper yanked Harley's hands behind her and wrapped her wrists, over and over, with broad tape. Harley jerked and lunged once, almost breaking free, but her captor swept her leg from beneath her and she crashed to the floor, landing on her shoulder. She screamed, louder than the pain warranted.
"No one can hear you," said her captor, pushing her over onto her stomach and securing her wrists. "Don't worry, this won't be long. A few hours, and then you can go."
"A few hours?" Harley gasped. "No! I'm supposed to go onstage soon—it's the finale. I can't miss it."
A hand ripped the blindfold from her face. "Relax. Watch some TV. You got a favorite show?"
Harley blinked. She was in some sort of cage, made of thick wooden bars painted black and gray to look like metal. A figure in a black cloak was moving away from her, out of the cage, closing the door and securing it with a padlock. The whole enclosure had a theatrical look about it. Harley kicked one of the bars, but it held. Whoever built it had crafted it well.
Beyond the bars, Harley saw a wooden chair, with an open laptop on its seat. Netflix was open on the screen.
"I'm serious," said her kidnapper, bending over the laptop keyboard. "I'll put on whatever you want. How about 'Charmed?' 'Outlander?' 'The Order?' "
"Go screw yourself," snarled Harley.
The figure turned. Whoever it was wore a plain black mask that covered her entire face, including her cheeks. There was barely enou
gh space for her mouth. Her eyes glittered through the eyeholes.
"I'd be a little more polite to me if I were you." She had dropped the affected growl she'd used when threatening Harley in the corridor. Now her voice was smooth, lilting—almost musical. Harley couldn't place it.
"Look, I'll give you whatever you want." Harley worked herself up onto her knees. "You want money? I have rich relatives. I'll get you the money. Anything you want. But you have to let me go. You have to let me compete—you don't understand, this is my last chance—"
"Compete?" The girl in the mask laughed. "Is that what you call it? Is it still a competition when you're buying and threatening your way through every round?"
Harley gaped. "You're insane."
"I prefer to be called 'creative.' But yes, maybe a little insane. Back to the point—how can you claim to be competing when your precious father or rich uncle or whoever is bankrolling this entire competition and paying for you to win?"
Nausea spiked in Harley's stomach, and her head lightened with sickening suddenness. "That's not true. I got here on my own."
The girl in the mask crouched by the bars, her dark cape pooling around her. "You really believe that, don't you? Tell me then—how did you manage to get through a round when you didn't even sing?"
Harley sucked in a sharp breath. "It was a bonus round. There were problems—everyone struggled that day. They decided to let us all pass, because... because..." And suddenly she knew, with terrible clarity, what had actually happened.
The masked head nodded. "You see. You're understanding it now. And what about last round, the 'Pain' songs? You flubbed your lyrics and tripped onstage, while everyone else performed flawlessly. Yet two performers better than you were eliminated, and you stayed safe."
The delicate, glittering tower of paper dreams Harley had built inside her mind was alight, flames licking at its edges, curling, crumpling, darkening them. Her castle folded slowly, smoke clouding her soul as it collapsed into a pile of gray ash.
Harley's captor cocked her head. "It must be a shock, to realize that you didn't get here on your own—that you weren't good enough, not even for a small state-wide competition like this one. How sad for you."
The mocking tone was too much for Harley to take. "I am good enough. I could have been good enough, with more time."
"So this was about your impatience? You know, people work and wait for years to break into the music world, to get their shot. What makes you different, or special? Why do you deserve to have your way paid for you?"
"I don't," Harley gasped, through sobs. "And this wasn't my idea."
"Then whose was it?"
"Probably my father's." She choked on the word. "Growing up, I didn't know who he was. And he didn't even know I existed. I found him a year ago, but I kept it quiet because my mom hates him. Besides, he's married now, a big name in politics, so having a random love-child would wreck his career."
"Sounds like a real winner," sneered the masked girl. "Kinda like my father."
"He's a good man," Harley insisted. "He would have come out publicly and claimed me, but I told him no. We started hanging out, like every month or so, when he has a little time. I think he feels horrible that I grew up like I did, without him, without everything he could have given me."
"So he tried to make up for it by building you your own success story? By buying you a singing competition? Why didn't he just get you a Tesla and a beach house and be done with it?"
"It's not about the money!" Harley strained at the tape on her wrists. "This is about my dream! I guess he wanted to make it happen for me, before it was too late."
"Too late for what? For you to work hard and get there on your own like everyone else?"
"Too late forever!" Harley screamed. "I have a brain tumor, you bitch!"
The masked figure went rigid, lips parting in shock.
"That's right." Harley smiled balefully through her tears. "The doctors found it several months ago. Inoperable. Terminal. Gotta love those words, right? Yeah, not much time left for me to practice and hone my talent and make it on my own. I'll be dead in six months, or less."
Her captor didn't move, so Harley kept talking, words spilling out uncontrollably. "But even so, I wouldn't have chosen to buy my way through this. I wanted to win it on my own. And now that I know what my father did—" Her voice broke, and she slumped. "I don't even want it anymore."
"I didn't realize." The masked girl's voice was quiet. "I thought you knew about it all along. And I had no idea that—that you were—"
"Dying? You can say it. Death. I look good, right? I'm gorgeous. But it's all a lie. I've been losing my balance, seeing double, having headaches, losing my words—that means it's getting worse. And in a year this face will be a shrunken bit of skin stretched over a skull, in a coffin, in the ground."
"I'm sorry."
"Save your pity."
"No." The masked girl stepped forward. "This isn't pity. This is a big screw-you to life or fate or whatever the hell it is that did us so wrong." She jammed the key into the padlock and cranked it, pulling the door open. "You're going out there, and you're going to win for real. Come on." She dragged Harley off her knees, out of the cage, and faced her, holding her by the shoulders. "Do you believe in magic, Harley?"
Harley opened her mouth to say no—and then she remember the odd, mesmerizing sensation she felt at the party, and the things she glimpsed on the night of the "Duets" filming. "Maybe," she said.
"I'm a hypocrite, okay? I've been helping someone along in the competition, too. And the least I can do is give you the same advantage I gave to him." She stiffened, as if bracing herself. "Now I'm not sure if this will work—you're not really my type. But it's worth a shot. Kiss me, and you can leave."
"Um, no. Weird." Harley shrank back toward the cage, her fingers fumbling over the bars. Maybe there was a loose one she could use as a weapon.
The girl stepped closer, her voice softening. "Believe in magic, Harley, and kiss me."
The girl's presence drew Harley in spite of herself, voicelessly whispering, luring. Enchanting. One kiss, and she could go. Not such a bad deal after all. And this was the twenty-first century. A couple of girls kissing in an attic was nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn't as if she were attracted to her weirdo kidnapper.
Pretend it's Kiyo, she told herself. She pictured him, the dark half-moon eyes and the perfect lips that always seemed to be parted just a bit. And she inched forward.
The cloaked girl leaned toward her, and Harley, cringing a little, touched her lips to the red ones peeking out from under the mask. Immediately the masked girl cupped the back of Harley's head, pressing their lips more tightly together and breathing into Harley's mouth.
The girl in the mask stumbled back the next second, drawing a shuddering breath. "Oh! I think it worked."
"What did you do to me?"
"Magic," said the girl. "Don't ask. And don't tell."
"Okay." Harley shivered. "What do I do now?"
"Get back to the auditorium, go onstage, and sing your heart out."
"But my makeup, and my legs—my hair—"
"You still look hot as hell, girl. Stop obsessing, and run!"
-34-
Long Live
"We're ready for you, Kiyo." The stage manager waved Kiyo out of the Green Room for the last time. "Wait, where's Harley? She should be ready. She's up next."
"I was wondering the same thing. I haven't seen her."
"Oh, crap on a cracker!" The manager gestured to one of the crew. "Go check hair and makeup, and see if she's in there. Hurry!"
At that instant, Harley burst through the doorway at the end of the hall. Her caramel curls were frizzed and disordered, her scanty dress torn, and her makeup smeared across her mouth and eyes. Scratches decorated her shins, and one ankle was stained red with blood.
"Harley!" Kiyo gasped, his gut tightening with dread. "What the hell? Did someone—hurt you?"
"Sort of, but not rea
lly." She leaned over, panting, and he thought that in spite of her tattered appearance, he had never seen her look so real, so alive. "I have to get cleaned up. Break a leg, Kiyo."
"Um, okay, but what—"
"Go!" she snapped.
"Come on!" ordered the stage manager at the same time, and Kiyo obeyed.
He felt less sure of himself today—sweatier, shakier. And his voice was lacking that extra scintillating power he used to feel. He knew why, of course. Mel's magic had worn off, and it was just him now. He missed that sensation of pure, unbridled power and creative force. But even without it, he had kept practicing, kept writing music, as if a piece of her had stayed inside him. Maybe it would always be there.
But he didn't want a remnant. He wanted her. Nothing stopped the endless ache that was the absence of her.
Whatever she was, faerie or muse, angel or devil, she owned him. Could he even do this without her?
"You don't look like a winner," the stage manager hissed at him. "Buck up, boy. Show them those pretty white teeth and those moves like Jagger! I'm rooting for you, so you better work!"
Kiyo smiled in spite of himself. "If you say so." And he walked out on stage to the roars of the crowd.
They loved him. They really did. He could tell that the energy they poured into him was genuine, and it fed him with a different kind of magic. He took a moment to soak it in, his hands raised to them, sweeping his gaze across the ocean of enthusiastic faces. He even walked the rim of the stage and touched the fingers they stretched out to him. Like an actual rock star. Like a hero.
Eddie Carver lifted his hand for silence, but no one listened. The roaring continued, washing over the stage like an incoming tide.
They didn't quiet until Kiyo put his hands together and bowed to them, and gestured, palms downward, begging them to hush.
"Last round, kid," growled Eddie.
Kiyo had never seen anyone who fit the word "haggard" as well as Eddie Carver did. He seemed like a shadow of the man who started the competition, as if something were gnawing away at him from the inside.
"Yes, sir," Kiyo answered. "Last round."
The Monsters of Music Page 22