Hidden Magic

by Amy Patrick

  “Well, we could skip out early and go back to my place or something. I’m not in a real big hurry to see Mr. Snake or whoever.”

  I hesitated. “Maybe. We have to at least stay for cake and the Happy Birthday song.”

  “Oh, totally. No problem.”

  I had a problem. In my effort to save myself from parental grief, I’d inadvertently led this girl on. I’d thought she felt the same as I did about our extremely brief relationship—that it was strictly about fun, no emotions involved—that’s why she’d been the one I called. Apparently there was more interest on her part than I’d counted on.

  I heard the back door open and let in a cacophony of sound—chattering eight year olds and running wet feet slapping the tile floor. Apparently the party was moving indoors. I met Mom in the hallway. “What’s going on?”

  “Ian’s going to play us his latest piece,” she answered before being swept along in the tidal wave of diminutive bodies scurrying toward the great room.

  That was where the baby grand lived—the piano Dad treasured like a third child and had used to teach his two actual children how to play. Of course, being a child prodigy, the second one had needed far less instruction than the first.

  Kayla and I followed the group along the hallway toward the large room. She stopped in her tracks, her jaw dropping as she stared at the wall.

  “Oh my God. Are these what I think they are?”

  My bottom lip pulled up to disappear behind the top one. I released a long here-we-go-again breath. “Yeah. They’re Grammy awards.”

  The shiny gold phonograph trophies lined the corridor on glass shelves, each with its own tiny spotlight. A trip to my parents’ house was sort of like visiting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, West Coast location.

  “Wow. How many are there?”

  A new voice entered the conversation. “Twenty-three. I’m nominated again this year. If I win, it’ll make it an even two dozen.”

  Kayla turned, showing a whole new interest in my father. “That is amazing. Do I know your songs?”

  “Well I don’t know,” he said with a wink. “Do you listen to the radio?”

  She giggled, and he began listing the hit songs he’d written over the years. I left them to it and wandered into the living room where Ian had already slid onto the piano bench and lifted the keyboard cover.

  At the urging of their parents and nannies, children took seats on the floor, sitting cross-legged in pairs or clumps, boys on one side of the room, girls on the other, naturally. I wondered if this was the first time his classmates had heard him play or if they’d had previous exposure to the brilliance that was my little brother. As he began to play, I got my answer.

  Jaws dropped around the room. The parents seemed more impressed than the children, which made sense. They had more context, more experience, more ability to understand the significance of his talent. At age eight-and-one-day, my brother had more natural ability in his pinky finger than I had in my whole body—or would ever have. As much as I loved music, as much as I’d practiced over the years, as much as I’d hoped, wished, and prayed when I was young, I had not inherited my father’s musical glamour. Ian had.

  My eyes drifted in a search of Dad and found him standing at the back of the room beside Kayla, watching Ian play. Pride radiated from him like a golden aura. It lit his face, making him look more youthful, energetic, and alive than I’d seen him in years.

  I turned away as a spiky weight settled on my chest and pushed through the surface, puncturing my lungs. If he'd ever looked at me like that—just once—my eternal life could have been cut short at any point, and I would have still felt complete.

  As it was, I felt… less than that. I knew he loved me. No question. He’d always been kind, caring, protective. And I had idolized him in the way most young boys look up to their fathers. I’d wanted, more than anything, to be just like him. I’d sat and listened to him play the piano, guitar, whatever instrument he’d picked up, for hours, went into the studio to hear him record, gone to concerts where I’d nearly combusted with pride as crowds cheered him.

  And I’d worked feverishly to emulate him. I’d played my own miniature instruments until my fingers ached and even bled at times. I’d trained myself with every available resource in the art of songwriting and performance. And yet…

  None of it mattered.

  I’d read music critics’ glowing assessments of my abilities over the past couple of years since I’d been with The Hidden, and I’d heard my music teachers’ praise. I knew there were millions of fans who appreciated what I’d created—some even called my songs life-changing. Hell, The Hidden was nominated for four Grammys this year. But compared to my father—compared to Ian—I was nothing.

  Watching Ian’s grubby fingers fly over the keys like an osprey gliding over the surface of a glassy pond, it was as if there was a direct plumbing line between my heart and my eyes. It squeezed, my eyes watered. I was proud of him. And I was pretty freaking jealous, too. Not in the way where you want to take away something someone else has, but in the way where you wish you could have a duplicate of what they’ve got. No, not even a duplicate—a fraction.

  As he finished his song, Ian looked up, and his bright blue eyes met mine. His expression was expectant, his lips pursed in an almost-smile, his blond brows raised nearly to his hairline.

  I lifted my hands in front of me and clapped, loudly and deliberately, and gave him a genuine smile. His face burst into sunshine at my approval. Only then did he break eye contact and look around the room. Other claps joined mine, and then the house filled with applause and exclamations of wonder and delight. When it all finally died down, Mom’s voice came from the back hallway.

  “Now it’s time for another song.”

  She entered the room pushing a cart that held an enormous birthday cake, topped by eight lit candles. It was decorated to look like it had been made of a million Lego bricks and drew “oohs” and “ahs" from the kids in attendance. My mother sang the opening words of the birthday song. I joined in loudly, replacing the name Ian with “squirt” when the appropriate moment came. My brother, who’d left the piano and run toward the confectionary masterpiece as soon as he’d seen it, sucked in a noisy breath and blew out all the candles at the song’s closing note.

  The next twenty minutes were a feeding frenzy, after which Mom threw a panicked glance around her beautiful living room.

  “All right—let’s have all sticky sweet children out of the house and into the swimming pool!”

  They stampeded toward the back door. Chuckling, I fell into step behind the crowd. When we got outside, Kayla, apparently recovered from her Grammy-induced daze, pulled up beside me and leaned in, speaking in a low voice.

  “Um… your mom said the snake guy is on his way, so could we uh…”

  “Sure. We can go. Let me just say good-bye to my family.”

  Ian was already in the pool. Squatting at the edge of the deep end, I told him I had to go and wished him a happy birthday one more time.

  “You’re leaving? You’re going to miss the snakes.”

  “I know. It’s a bummer. But, you know…” Girls, I said to him in a grumpy mental tone I knew would elicit a smile.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you soon. Thanks for my present again.”

  “You’re welcome, buddy. I’ll take you surfing next week. Hey, do you know where Dad went?”

  “I think he went back into the kitchen for some more drinks.”

  “Okay. I’ll go help him before we leave. Enjoy your party, squirt.”

  I turned to Kayla. “Be right back. Wait here.”

  Stepping back into the house, I found Dad pulling drinks out of the refrigerator and stacking them on the counter.

  “Hey. We’re getting ready to take off.”

  He pulled his head from the refrigerator and straightened. “So soon? I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk.”

  I stiffened. “If it’s about Kayla, Mom’s already—”
>
  “No—it’s not about the girl. I already know you’re not interested in her. It’s about your future.”

  “My future?”

  “Yes, you know my manager had a stroke recently. His wife has let me know he’s in no shape to return to work—he probably never will. I don’t have time to handle both the creative and business sides of my career. And I thought…”

  His words drifted off, leaving me to fill in the blanks.

  “You thought what?” And then it hit me. My fingers gripped the edge of the counter so hard they turned white. “You want me to manage your career?”

  “You’re old enough now. There’s no one I trust more than you, and you’re fully capable—”

  “Capable?” I snapped. “Capable—of managing? You?” I had to stop and take a calming breath before continuing. “I appreciate the confidence, but what about my career? What about my music? You know I can’t manage you and still write for the band, perform, and do my movie composition work.”

  He stared at me steadily. “I know. There isn’t enough time for everything. I thought maybe you'd like to start doing something that you’re…” Again he stopped without finishing his sentence.

  “What? Say it. Go ahead and say it. Something I’m actually good at?”

  “No. Something more… in line with your natural inclinations.”

  My inclination at the moment was to punch my father in the jaw. Of course I wouldn’t. I’d never struck him in my life, and I had too much respect for him to start now. Besides, he was seventy-two years older than me, which meant he could flatten my ass if he wanted to. Unlike humans, Elves gained strength with age.

  Instead of yelling in response, I lowered my voice to a calm, quiet recitation of facts. “I’m doing really well with my music. We have four Grammy nominations, you know. And there’s a good chance the movie score I did last year will be seriously considered for Oscar nomination.”

  “But it is not your glamour gift, son.”

  “No—believe me I know. You never let me forget it. I’m not like you, I’m not like Ian. But I do have talent. I work my ass off. And a lot of people like my music.”

  He held up his hands between us in a placating gesture. “That is not what I mean, son. Calm down. I only think of you when I say this—of your happiness. I want you to have the kind of fulfillment I have in my job—and in your personal life.”

  “I am fulfilled.”

  “Then why do you obsess over these awards—Grammys, Oscars?”

  “Says the man with a hallway lined in golden statues.”

  “That’s not why I do it. Those things come on their own. They are side effects of me doing what I was born to do. The music is part of me—I can’t not do it.”

  “You don’t have the market cornered on musical passion, you know. I love it, too.”

  “And the girls?”

  “What about them?” I growled, though I already knew what he was getting at. I hadn’t loved any of them. Not even close.

  “Each time I see you or talk to you, you’re with a different one. And none of them has any potential to be your—”

  “Look—not everyone is like you and Mom. Not everyone finds that legendary love. Not everyone is even capable of loving like that.”

  I certainly wasn’t. With all the girls I’d dated, if it hadn’t happened by now, it wasn’t happening. The only way I’d hear a symphony with a girl was if I took her to see the Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl.

  “I don’t even want it,” I told him. “I have good friends, I have fun with the girls I see, and I’m in love with my music. That’s all I need.”

  Taking in his unhappy expression and his loaded silence, I let out a sigh. “I’ll… see you guys soon. I’ve got to get Kayla out of here before the snakes show up and I end up carrying her out.”

  Father nodded, his eyes sad and weary-looking. He’d never understand. He couldn’t. He had it all.

  My phone rang, and I pulled it from my pocket, checking the screen. Nox. I chuffed a laugh. Another guy who had it all. I’d have to call him back once I was alone. I swiped the screen to send the call to voicemail and told my father good-bye. Finding Mom, I gave her a hug and a quick cheek kiss along with a promise to visit soon on a less crazy day. Then I headed for the back deck to collect Kayla.

  I was eager to get rid of her and get back to my condo and my keyboard and lose myself in the creative process. No matter what my father said, I was going to prove myself musically. If it took winning more Grammys and Oscars than any songwriter in history, that’s what I’d do. And that meant no fooling around tonight. Hopefully Kayla wouldn’t pout about being dropped off early at her own place.

  “I really like your family,” she said as we left the party together, walking toward the front of the house. “You’re so cute with your little brother. I can tell you’re going to be a great dad someday.”

  My eyes crept to the side to meet her dreamy look. Ugh. Here we go again. It was starting to seem inevitable. I was careful to go out with only girls who said they had no interest in a serious relationship. But somehow after a few dates, they all changed their minds and started talking about the future. That was usually my cue to move on, to find someone new who would hopefully be happy with just hooking up and having a good time.

  “Um, yeah maybe,” I mumbled. “I don't know. That’s way, way, way off in the future—if it ever happens.”

  Kayla’s expression clouded. She nodded and quickened her pace on the driveway, heading for the front gate. As she walked slightly ahead of me, I checked out her long, tanned legs along with the rest of her shapely build. She was without question, hot. I might not be capable of epic love, but I was a normal, healthy, eighteen-year-old male. I did feel other things. More and more often lately.

  Maybe I should just go ahead and do it—pick one of them and get it over with.

  Kayla was beautiful. She was nice and seemed to like my family. Maybe that was as good as it was ever going to get. What was the point of going through the same ridiculous motions over and over again when the result was always going to be the same?

  I lengthened my stride and caught up to her, filled with a new determination. I was going to do it. It it. Tonight. I was going to invite her to come home with me, not stop myself this time at the very moment I least wanted to stop, and just be done with the whole dating and searching and waiting thing.

  My mom would be sad when she found out I’d bonded with someone I didn't love, but she couldn’t understand any more than my father could. While I thought it was awesome they’d experienced love at first sight leading to eternal happiness, not all of us were so lucky. I laughed at the irony of my own thought—considering my glamour, no one would call me unlucky. No one but me.

  But I was about to get lucky—finally. At least in one sense of the word.

  We reached the estate’s iron gate, and I hit a button on the control box to open it. The residential street outside was quiet and traffic-less.

  “Did you call us a cab already?” Kayla asked, turning to me with a quizzical look.

  “No, but don’t worry about it. One will come along.”

  “What?” She cocked her head, and her eyebrows pulled together like she suspected I was unbalanced.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I reached out and took one of her hands, pulling her toward me. “Listen, I was thinking—”

  The beep of my phone’s text tone interrupted. I ignored it. “I was thinking you could—”

  “Maybe you should get that,” Kayla said as the tone sounded again, then again. “It’s probably the cab driver. I bet he’s lost. This neighborhood is a maze, and you can’t see any of the houses with all these privacy walls.”

  “It’s not…” I let out an irritated sigh and then a resigned one. How could I explain to her I hadn’t called a cab, but that one would be coming along any minute anyway? I couldn’t.

  Pulling out my phone, I checked the screen. Weird. Nox had not only left a phone messag
e, but now he was texting.

  Nox: Not sure where you are but I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.

  Nox: Give me a call.

  Nox: Actually swing by my place if you can. There’s been a development with M and the AC. I’ve got a favor to ask you.

  My heart pinged around inside my chest as I tapped out a quick response. On my way. Then I looked up at Kayla’s expectant blue eyes.

  “Is he close?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” I nodded, and a yellow cab rolled into view, starting to pass the drive. I hurried to the curb and flagged him down.

  The driver rolled down the passenger window. “Somebody need a ride?”

  “Yes, the lady does. Take her wherever she’d like to go.” I handed the guy four twenties and told him to keep the change then opened the back door for Kayla.

  She didn’t immediately climb inside. “Wait—you’re not coming with me?”

  I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Change of plans. That text was about work. I’ll… call another ride for myself.”

  She nodded and slid into the back seat, wearing a look of displeasure and disappointment. “Take care. I’ll see you soon,” I said, closing the door and watching the cab pull away then disappear around a curve.

  It wasn't true. I wouldn’t see her soon. And I probably wouldn’t be taking my brother surfing next week, either. I might not see any of them again for a while. Because there was only one favor I could think of that Nox would want regarding Macy and the Ancient Court. And he’d only ask me to do it if he was truly desperate.

  3

  Macy

  Getting off the air-conditioned bus and stepping onto the streets of New Orleans was like walking straight from the refrigerator into an oven set on broil. I’d never been so hot in all my life, and that was saying something because central Missouri summers weren’t exactly cool. Sweat was pooling under my backpack and literally rolling down my legs by the time I’d made it the nine blocks to Jackson Square.

  The sights and sounds there helped me forget the heat somewhat. Jazz music drifted on the hot breeze. Musicians stood at each corner of the park square, playing their instruments and nodding their thanks whenever a passerby dropped coins or bills into a tip can or open instrument case. Sidewalk artists busily sketched and painted and chatted up the customers who’d agreed to stop and pose for an impromptu portrait.