Mythbound Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  Steve sighed, losing patience, on the edge of his seat, blah blah blah, spit it out already.

  “I did it for love.”

  A windswept silence filled the space between Steve Remington and Shannon Barton. They stared at each other with equally confused looks on their faces.

  “What do you mean?” Steve asked at last.

  Shannon shrugged. “I’m not sure. But that’s the phrase that keeps popping back into my head; I did it for love.”

  UNDERSTANDABLY, STEVE was more confused when he left Shannon Barton’s house than when he’d arrived. It was now nearly 4:00 p.m. and as he drove down Pearl Street he stared off at the sun, which was beginning to wane toward the horizon. It would still be another hour or two before sunset.

  He decided he needed some air—some space from all this madness. Some space to think.

  He drove west down Pearl Street, down the hill, and when it would have turned south to go back toward Pacific Beach, or north toward the freeway, he just kept heading west.

  He took a few side streets and came to Marine Street, drove all the way to the cul-de-sac at the bottom of the hill that separated the street from the beach. You could drive your car all the way to the railing at the bottom of the cul-de-sac, just feet from the beach, so that’s what Steve did.

  Then he sat in his car and stared out at the beach, at the lifeguard tower near the rocky backend of the sand, the relaxed people sunbathing, and the mellow surfers gliding across the small waves, the sun’s white reflection off those waves.

  ‘I did it for love,’ Steve thought, lowering his window and lighting a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair and puffed, wondering what that phrase could have meant. She seemed as confused about it as I was.

  Whatever the case, if it was an excuse or justification for what happened, it made one thing clear: the crash was not an accident. It was premeditated . . .

  Just maybe not by her.

  A shiver ran up Steve’s spine.

  What if my fears are true? What if Shannon Barton actually was trying to kill me? She didn’t look like the bloodthirsty type . . . but looks can be deceiving.

  DUN. DUN. DUN—

  “Smoke on the Water” was playing.

  Steve snapped out of his reverie and reached into his pocket, grabbing his phone. He groaned as he read the Caller ID:

  JESUS JOHN

  It was the name he’d made for John Levi, because “Jesus, John, can’t you be a little more interesting?” He realized someone had made a nickname for John after all.

  “Yellow,” Steve said into the phone as he blew out smoke.

  “Steven, it is John Levi.”

  Steve rolled his eyes at the way John introduced himself—it was the little things that pushed Steve’s buttons. “I know, John. My phone does this funny thing where it tells me who’s on the other end if I have their number saved.”

  “Do you have a moment?”

  “Yes, John.”

  “Excellent. I have some good news.”

  Steve’s heart jumped in his ribcage. A sudden surge of endorphins swam through his body. He sat up a little straighter in his seat. “What’s up, man?”

  “My colleagues and I would like to hear more of your client’s work. Can you send us a full EP? We all like what we heard.”

  Steve’s eyes shot open wide. “Does that mean . . .”

  “Yes, we are thinking of representing her.”

  Steve tried to compose himself and sound important. “Well . . . I’m her manager, John. I represent her.”

  “Of course, Steven. Regardless, we would like to meet her. When you are finished with those other tracks, how about you bring them in and bring her with you?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Great. I will see you at 10:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning, then.”

  Steve clenched his jaw. It was Sunday. That’s in two days! he thought, but he also couldn’t contain his excitement.

  “Of course, John. Tuesday it is. I’ll introduce you to Annabel. I think you’ll like her even more when you meet her in person.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yeah. She’s out of this world, man.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Back at the studio, Steve came in excitedly, bursting with energy. His relaxing time was long past gone. He tore into the recording room where Dale and Annabel were sitting, as usual, and said, “We’ve got a meeting with John Levi on Tuesday! He wants to meet Annabel!”

  Dale swiveled in the commander’s chair. His face was a mixture of elation and apprehension, one eye larger than the other. “Didn’t you just see him? What does he want to meet Annabel for?”

  “I think he wants to sign her, man. To Imminent Records.”

  Dale nodded sagely, as if the good news were to be expected. “Can we trust him?”

  Steve scratched his head, perplexed. “Of course we can, Fats. I’ve known John for a long time. This is the real deal. Why, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be stoked about this!”

  “I am,” Dale said, then turned to Annabel, “but I just want to make sure we’re doing what’s right for Bel.”

  Steve faced Annabel. “Isn’t this what you wanted, Bel?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Yes! This is excellent!” Then she jumped up from her stool and lunged at Steve, wrapping her thin arms around him and squeezing tightly. “Thank you, Mister Steve!”

  Steve blushed, not knowing what to do, and returned the hug. Then he pushed Annabel gently to arm’s-length and a serious look took over his face. “There’s just one caveat . . .”

  “Here we go . . .” Dale muttered.

  “Don’t be such a downer, Fats. We just have to finish the other three songs by Tuesday. He wants us to bring in an EP.”

  “Tuesday?!” Dale cried out. “That’s . . . that’s the day after tomorrow!”

  “Yeah,” Steve said, “we’d better get a move on it.”

  The trio dove into their work, dedicating the rest of the night to finishing the remaining three songs. They at least had to get through half of it by tonight, so they could finish the remaining half tomorrow, on Monday.

  At one point, Steve escaped to retrieve some sandwiches from Buddy’s for them all, but besides that they stuck to a strict regimen. It wasn’t just the recording that needed to be finished—Dale was a perfectionist, and so was Steve, to some extent. They wanted the four songs to sound as good as possible, so that meant mixing and mastering and all the other technical aspects that went with creating a song.

  The working title of the EP was “Nevermore,” continuing their play on words surrounding Edgar Allan Poe’s piece, The Raven.

  At one point, late in the night, Steve went out to smoke. He sat on the street curb in front of the studio. Annabel joined him. The four songs had their instrumentation done—all that was left was for Annabel to sing on them.

  And that’s where the problem lay. Everyone was nervous about what would happen.

  If what Annabel said was true, and something bad happened whenever she sang, how could that lead to a sustainable business model? Steve wondered this to himself, then he brought it up to Annabel.

  “Is this dangerous, what we’re doing, Bel?” Steve asked. “Are we in over our heads?”

  Annabel sighed. She didn’t smoke, but she stared up at the night sky, which was a brilliant purple, cloudless, and filled with firefly stars. She shrugged but didn’t answer. She ran a hand through her jet-black hair. She seemed unconcerned. Perhaps too unconcerned. “Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves? We haven’t even met your friend yet.”

  “I’m just trying to plan this thing . . . everything’s happening so fast,” Steve said, ashing his cigarette. Just yesterday, someone had tried to kill him. Originally, he’d thought it was Shannon Barton, but now he wasn’t so sure. He asked Annabel, “Are any of you mythical people capable of mind control, Bel?” It seemed like a ridiculous question, but these were ridiculous times, and the more entrenched he became in Annabel’s world, the more
he started to go along with it. If he woke up from this bad dream, then he could forget it all. But until that time . . . he had to roll with the punches and accept whatever craziness was going on.

  A momentary pause, then, “I’m sure. There are Mythics with powers you or I couldn’t even comprehend.”

  Steve nodded and groaned. He was afraid of that answer.

  Annabel noticed Steve’s frightened pause. She said, “But they’d have to be part of Terrus—your world—in order for them to affect you.”

  There was another long pause as Steve finished his cigarette. Then he asked in a low voice, “Are you happy to be in my world?”

  Annabel looked at Steve’s expectant face, her eyes glittering in the moonlight. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused. A moment later she started again. “Ever since I saw Ludwig van Beethoven in my world, performing with other Mythics, I’ve been obsessed with music. As the years wore on, I realized no one in my world could ever interact with the people in yours. It made me very sad, to know I would never have a human audience. And when we lost Beethoven to Terrus, I feared we’d lost art on Mythicus.”

  Annabel’s eyes were misty. Steve’s eyes were bulging, but Annabel hadn’t noticed. She continued, “Now that I’ve been thrust into your plane of existence . . . yes, I am happy. It’s a breath of fresh air—new life. Maybe now I can pursue my dream.”

  She stopped speaking and folded her hands in front of her. She looked mildly ashamed, for some reason, but Steve had just one question:

  “You saw Beethoven? Like, in real life?”

  Annabel nodded.

  Steve chuckled. Of course she had. It was just another improbable impossibility he’d have to take at face value. “When were you . . . born? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I’m not sure exactly. During the latter half of the eighteenth century, I believe. I never knew my parents, and the ones I have now found me in Romania and took me with them across the seas to the newly formed United States of America, once they’d won their independence.”

  “So, you’re”—Steve looked down and counted on his fingers—“Almost three hundred years old?”

  “Something like that.”

  Steve scratched the stubble on his face. He smiled at her and said, “Well, you look pretty good for your age.”

  Annabel’s eyes twinkled even more as the grin on her face grew. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mister Steve.”

  Steve realized they’d scooted closer to each other on the curb. Their legs were almost touching, though no heat was coming from Annabel’s body.

  “In my last dream, your parents demanded I seek the Druid. Do you know anything about that? Or where we can find her?”

  Annabel shook her head.

  Steve said, “I’m sure your parents will visit me again soon and be . . . most displeased.”

  Annabel put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “We’ve been busy with the music, following our dreams and such. How about when we’re done with this, then we can go looking for this Druid—together?”

  Steve said, “I’d like that.”

  After a moment of silence, a few cars sailing down the boulevard, Steve peeked at Annabel’s long hair, which hid her face from him. He had the sudden urge to run his hand through it. He also had the urge to kiss her—though he felt slightly ashamed. Though she looked young, she was not . . . by any means. Would it be so wrong? How would she react? Would her lips be warm—or icy, like he expected? She sat there like she expected him to do something . . .

  So he leaned closer to her . . .

  “Hey!”

  Steve and Annabel both jumped, startled. They turned their heads.

  Dale’s round face was sticking out of the door. “Are we gonna finish these songs, or what? We can’t have a finished song without singing, you know!”

  Steve cleared his throat as he stood from the curb. He helped Annabel up, who refused to look at him, apparently embarrassed. Flustered, she apologized to Dale and marched back into the studio.

  Steve stood outside a moment longer, staring up at the sky and wondering if there were more people out there, like Annabel, somewhere in that vast ocean of stars.

  TUESDAY MORNING. STEVE, Dale, and Annabel were beat, tired, but hopeful. After finishing the vocals for the last track the night before, a fire engine had come screaming down Garnet Avenue with its red lights flashing and siren blaring. They’d looked at each other, hoping Annabel wasn’t the cause of whatever emergency the fire truck was heading toward.

  Now they took Steve’s Lexus to Imminent Records in Point Loma—about a ten minute drive on the I-5 South. At first, Dale had not wanted to attend the meeting. But Steve and Annabel had convinced him:

  “You helped put these songs together!” Annabel had said.

  “She’s right, Fats. Your stamp is all over these tunes. Hell, you played most of the instruments, too,” Steve had added.

  And so, begrudgingly, Dale had acquiesced and now sat in the backseat, taking up more room than any one body should legally be allowed to in an automobile. It felt like the car was dragging.

  When they parked in front of Imminent Records, they shared a look and a deep breath with one another, then took off toward the door. John Levi was waiting for them in the lobby, with another cookie-cutter executive by his side.

  John shook Steve’s hand and said, “Steven, this is Bill Sizemore. He has been the one considering the options regarding your client. And this . . .” he trailed off, staring past Steve, at Annabel, who seemed a bit shy and frightened. “This must be her.”

  John scooted past Steve like he didn’t exist and extended his hand to Annabel. “Hello, Miss Lee, I am John Levi. I have heard so much about you.” He gave his best sickly smile.

  Annabel nodded, neither smiling nor frowning, and said, “I’ve heard a lot about you, too. A pleasure,” and shook his hand.

  Bill was a serious-looking, big man, who wore a suit and tie combo that matched John’s attire. They looked perfect for each other. The look on Bill’s face was hard to place, but he seemed calculating, no-frills. Steve thought he looked like the kind of person who would get very annoyed if you sneezed more than one time in a row.

  “Shall we?” Bill asked, gesturing the group to a small conference room. They all obliged the big man—Dale was busy stacking himself up to Bill, seeing who was bigger—and escaped into the room.

  Once they’d sat at the table, John put his hands in a steeple in front of him—every bit the consummate businessman. “Did you bring the other three tracks I requested?”

  Steve pulled the burned CD out of his jacket pocket. He handed it to John and said, “I think you’ll be pleased with what you hear.”

  “I am sure,” John said. Though there was a CD player and a turntable in the room, he didn’t bother loading the disc up. Instead, he put the CD next to him, re-steepled his hands, and turned to Annabel.

  “How old are you, Miss Lee?” he asked.

  Annabel stuttered, then glanced at Steve. He took that as his cue and said, “She’s nineteen. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “No, no, that is perfect,” John said. “As long as she is not a minor. That brings other technical legalities into this whole thing—I am sure you understand.”

  Steve glanced at Dale, who sat leaning back in his chair, full dude vibe, not paying much attention to what was going on around him. He seemed happy to be hidden from scrutiny, that no one had tried talking to him yet.

  “So, Miss Lee—”

  “Please, call me Annabel.”

  “Of course. So, Annabel, we have a few ideas in the works for your song. We would like to sign you to Imminent Records, but the question is how . . .” John trailed off ominously and poked his fingers together like an evil scientist.

  “Are you thinking of proposing a Single Deal?” Steve asked. “Because I think that would be a mistake. The other three songs are good, too. Maybe even better than that first one.”

  A Single Deal was quickl
y becoming the most popular record deal that labels offered artists. Ever since iTunes, singles had become the main revenue stream for songwriters, as opposed to full albums, and publishers, since the publisher could cherry-pick the songs without putting up the capital for a whole album. Plus, it was easier to push a single than it was to promote a whole album, especially for an unknown like Annabel.

  John shook his head at Steve. “We considered that but decided against it.”

  Clearing his throat, Bill took over. He leaned forward in his seat and said, “We’d like to offer a combination Profit Split and Artist’s Deal. We don’t usually do this, but we both think we have something special here, and that it could work.”

  Steve narrowed one of his eyes at Bill. He knew what a Profit Split was, and what an Artist’s Deal was, but not together. “How exactly would that . . . work?”

  A Profit Split Deal was where an unsigned artist requested a record label for marketing and promotion, but not production—recording, mixing, etc. Labels loved this because it cut down costs. In fact, the only real investment for the label would go toward marketing. If the release worked out, everyone shared the profits. If it didn’t, the label didn’t mind because they had little money at risk.

  An Artist Deal was where one big artist signed a smaller, lesser-known act. These were popular in today’s landscape: One Direction signing 5 Seconds of Summer, Drake co-signing The Weeknd, etc. The theory was that one popular artist with the Midas Touch would give the smaller artist a big boost right out the gate.

  “Well,” Bill said, “Imminent Records will market Annabel’s single, or EP, and in return we would put Annabel under the tutelage of one of our bigger acts. This way Annabel could have a fighting chance at making it.”

  Steve stroked his chin. His eyes shot over to Annabel, who was sitting beside him. He hadn’t expected things to get so technical and serious so quickly. But he should have expected it, going into a meeting with John Levi, the perennial business associate.

  While Steve stayed quiet, Annabel spoke up. “Who is the artist you would like to sign me alongside?”