by Kat Turner
“Neither do I,” Brian said in his posh, buttercream voice.
Puh-lease. Everyone knew what happened on tour. And in her car. Ugh.
“Sure you don’t.” Though she laid the sarcasm on thick, Helen kept her tone teasing.
“Come round later and learn what I’m all about.”
“In case we miss each other, will you sign my shirt now?” Because come on, Brian no doubt met zillions of women on the road. He’d forget her the second a more willing lady offered him no-strings release.
Brian clucked his tongue. “I need to work for your trust, eh?”
Fair statement, B-man.
He pulled the cloth of her shirt taut with one hand and signed a patch of fabric near her shoulder with the other. Brian pulled away, leaving a pleasant recollection of his touch.
“Can I get a selfie?” Helen asked.
Brian threw his arm around Helen and urged her to his body, smooth leather stroking her bare forearm. Helen surrendered her phone, and Brian held his free hand high and snapped a few pictures.
With a crooked smile, Brian broke the hold. “See you later, Helen Schrader.”
“After a while, crocodile. And you got lucky that my name rhymes with the first part of the saying.” She missed him already. Double-damn this guy.
He handed her the phone. “Hope to see you later this evening.”
Returning cell to purse, she forced herself not to giggle or grin like an idiot. What a player. Best to forget him. She didn’t pine over men or even date anymore. Narcissists and others of the asshole persuasion flocked to Helen. They smelled her damage and manipulated her accordingly. No worries, though. Single life suited her. More to the point, she had to circle back to her goal of breaking the good news to Lisa and convincing her to accept the more outlandish aspects of it.
“I’ll try,” Helen said.
“Brilliant. Do that.” He took off, moving in a proud, long-legged stride, and ducked around the front of a bus.
A series of sharp pains needled a spot beneath Helen’s shoulder, discomfort akin to when she got a tattoo on her foot. The sensation radiated to her clavicle in a succession of pricks.
Helen pulled her shirt forward and looked down at the affected area. Brian’s signature, rendered in tidy cursive, bled through the cloth and on to her skin. But the ink wasn’t black. It was as red as the blood from a cut.
Before her stunned eyes, his autograph faded to pale pink, then vanished.
“Sacrificium.” Following the familiar murmur, a cramp clenched her lower belly. She doubled over and gripped her midsection. Spasms gave way to peculiar energy, swirling like a whirlpool in her abdomen. The puff of vapor she’d seen after leaving Nerissa’s reemerged in her mind’s eye.
Several rhythmic surges rushed from Helen’s toes to her scalp. An arch of smoke shot out in front of her face and twisted serpentine curves in the air. It tore a line between the two buses, retracing Brian’s steps.
Pieces drifted together. Hands trembling, she got out her phone and checked the selfie. Her insides shriveled and froze. A tentacle the color and consistency of fog crawled out of her navel area and into the pocket where Brian placed the crystal. Like the autograph, the foggy curl faded away.
Shit. Fuck. A grim darkness swirled to the surface, an epiphany of sorts. She’d messed up the intention. It needed to be mental, not verbal, and given to the crystal as an order. The day’s intensity must’ve caused details to slip her mind.
How would she figure out what was happening and how to stop it? No clue. But she always kept a few life hacks and some moxie stashed up her sleeve.
She clawed in her bag, excavated the second clear crystal, and stared at the twinkling rock until a kaleidoscope of multicolored glimmers filled her headspace. Hi, crystal, this is Helen. I’m your new witch, nice to meet you. Please keep Brian safe and protected from any bad vibes and fog tentacle demons. Be a beacon of positivity. Cancel out bad mojo with good. Thank you.
Step two: connect with Brian after the show, get the possessed crystal away from him, and give him the new talisman. Next, she’d have to figure out how to exorcize the curse.
Nobody saved her, but she could save someone who needed help. Somehow. Jesus Christ, she’d made a big mistake by failing to set the first intention. A deadly mistake?
Your fault, devil child. Helen’s birth mother screeched in her head, the same old hysterical, unstable banshee. She managed to silence the tirade. Her father’s suicide had not been her little six-year-old self’s fault. She could fix this. Brian must not suffer because of her. She was no devil. She was a good person. For real.
A text blooped on Helen’s phone.
Lisa: Hey. I’m at the animal barns. Petting a goat, LOL.
Her friend’s cute message was an obvious olive branch, so she’d better act positive.
H: Yay! Be right there.
L: Looking forward to the good news. Sorry I was a bitch earlier.
Was the news still good? Complicated at best, because by bungling a supernatural directive, she’d put an innocent person in danger and unleashed a demon.
Shaking her head, Helen walked in the direction of the livestock. How would she reverse the damage caused by her reckless actions?
Three
Brian pulled the strap of his Stratocaster, sliding his lucky guitar to rest against his back.
Grumbling, he shoved a hand in the pocket of his trousers and felt around for the hundredth time. The smooth plastic of his guitar pick grazed his skin, but no stone. He checked his other three pockets, fingers brushing the muscles of his thighs and backside through cloth. No holes through which the charm could have slipped.
Where had Helen’s crystal gone? He hadn’t taken his pants down or off since meeting her, not even unzipping them to take a slash. How on earth could it have disappeared?
Shifting on his feet at the side of the stage, he retraced his steps. The crew hustled about, tuning guitars and tweaking knobs on towering stacks of amplifiers as they completed last-minute prep. The wardrobe woman passed, wheels of her cart squeaking.
Among an assortment of clothing hung the leather jacket he’d changed in favor of his performance uniform, a white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone.
A gust of hope lifted his spirit, and he followed the cart.
“Excuse me, love, I need to have a gander at that jacket,” Brian said.
He jogged over and rifled through the pockets, coming up empty handed with a sigh. What in bloody hell? How had he managed to lose the good luck token given to him by the first woman in ages with whom he’d cared to spend time? Brian never lost or misplaced things, let alone important keepsakes. Stellar organization preserved his sanity, especially on tour.
Stupid, stupid. Must’ve been fatigue setting in as the tour reached its final leg, leaving him knackered and prone to making mistakes.
“What are you missing, Brian?” The blond designer looked on with concern while he cursed his uncharacteristic bout of absent-mindedness.
“A crystal. Clear. About the size of a quarter. I swore I had it in my pocket.” He dove in his jeans again, scooped out the guitar pick, and strummed a few tense chords.
“Huh.” She wrinkled her forehead.
“Huh what? Have you seen it?”
“I ran into Joe earlier, and he was acting odd. He was staring at an object in his hand. I thought it was a piece of glass, but I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to talk to him any more than I had to. He’s a sketchy guy, man. Gives the whole crew the creeps.”
The wardrobe lady spoke the truth about Fyre’s new manager. Brian would tolerate the unpleasant fellow long enough to use Joe’s supposed high-powered connections to secure a position in the executive ranks of the music industry. Joe was ace at hustling big shots, and following the humiliating rejection of his proposal earlier in the year, Brian learned the hard way that he needed to pay his dues with the label by keeping their favorite minion, Joe Clyde, employed. But why would Jo
e have swiped the crystal?
“Find him and tell him I need to speak to him straight away. Please.”
“You got it, boss.” She pushed her rack past a cluster of speakers and behind a lighting grid.
The crew made final adjustments and dashed offstage.
Brian moved stage left, toward the wings, and drew in a centering breath. Barbecue and cut grass smells mingled with electronic smoke, familiar state fair scents returning him to the present moment. The show had to go on.
He walked a few feet to the edge of the curtain, giving himself a view of the crowd.
Despite an unfortunate smattering of empty seats, thousands of people packed the stadium, an army of tan and brown ants spread across the standing rows and curving upward into seats. Golden sunset spilled over bodies, bringing the sheer number of people into relief. They still came out in droves to pour their energy and love into his band, and for that Brian swelled with gratitude. He was a blessed, fortunate man.
His left hand throbbed, fingers stiffening. Sliding the guitar pick between his teeth, he rubbed a persistent ache with his other hand. Despite the many joys road life still afforded—visiting cities, soaking up the excitement of devoted fans, reconnecting with old friends and making new ones—he had to keep in focus his goal of dialing back on touring.
His daughter, Tilly, needed her father present if she was to veer away from her party lifestyle and have any shot at finishing high school and getting into university. He owed her the guidance of a devoted parent. She deserved at least one.
Wincing against pain as he flexed and released his fingers, Brian shored up his determination. His body needed a break. Transferring into the business side of the music industry would stabilize him in Los Angeles and provide physical rest while keeping him close to the rock and roll he lived and breathed. If he had to deal with Joe to achieve his goal, so be it.
A solid smack thumped his shoulder. “You all right, mate?” Jonnie, Fyre’s rhythm guitarist, spoke in a measured tone. He turned a dial on his low-slung Fender. The instrument’s spiky angles and electric blue hue enhanced its owner’s edgy, leather-pants-and-dark-features appeal.
Brian turned to face his closest band brother, catching concern in the man’s keen brown eyes. He forced the corners of his mouth to turn upward into a practiced smile. Even his inner circle wouldn’t catch the inauthenticity. Not fair to drag Jonnie into his mess. Brian solved his own problems.
“Yeah. Things are a bit cocked up with Joe at the moment. It’ll pass.”
Jonnie drew his pierced eyebrows together into a frown, silver hoops glinting in the waning daylight. “Heard the latest kooky rumor about our lovely new manager?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Brian’s stomach flipped. He rolled up his sleeves, adding the finishing touch to his casual-stylish uniform. News of this Bronze Phase hobnobbing party and the bizarre invitation the manager handed him earlier was all of the Joe-related strangeness he could handle for a day.
Speaking of Joe, the zeal and professionalism he’d shown in the early stages of their partnership had been in decline for a while now, with the ugliness he’d unleashed around Helen marking a new low.
He needed the manager on his team and couldn’t afford to poison their allegiance, however. Joe wrangled many clients and no doubt had problems of his own. Maybe the man was having a bad month, and his life outside of managing Fyre wasn’t Brian’s business.
“No, and I have no desire to hear whatever rubbish you’re on about.”
“I’m not sure you need his help as much as he lets you believe. Really, it’s the other way around. He needs you.” Jonnie’s sharp stare suited the man’s preference for brutal honesty. Brian loved that about his bandmate. No lies, no false flattery, no ego strokes.
“Well, I need the right industry connections for the label to take me seriously as a candidate for an executive position. Joe has those. Not like I can launch a solo project and chase my musical dreams.” Frustration lanced through him as he allowed himself a moment to mourn his lost inspiration.
“Yes, you can. You’ll get your mojo back, mate. I’d love to write with you sometime. Maybe a collaborative effort would rouse the muse from hibernation.”
“I don’t think I’m a songwriter anymore. And that’s how it is. It’s fine.” He swallowed a lump of pain.
Years of blocked creativity had driven him to the brink of madness, but what to do about it? The words wouldn’t flow from pen to page no matter how he tried to loosen the logjam in his mind and heart. The few times he’d looked into hiring songwriters, the prospect of outsourcing what was once his greatest source of fulfilment made him feel like a failure and a fraud.
Across the floor, a crew lad held up five fingers, giving the countdown cue. When the last digit fell, Brian and Jonnie strode to their spots in the middle of the stage. Matching their rock star struts, Thom walked on from the opposite flank, bass guitar slung low. Jonas peacocked at his side, twirling drumsticks between his fingers while dreadlocks the color of octopus ink swished from side to side.
A breeze caressed Brian’s bare arms, the first flirtation of a fall evening making goosebumps bloom. Three fireflies blinked, a triangle of ethereal green winks enriching middle America twilight. On heady summer nights outdoors, he remembered how much he loved performing live. Despite the loss of his lucky charm, he flowed into the zone.
From the sea of fans, chatter increased in pitch and volume, climbing until it reached a singular, roaring scream. Feet stomped. Men hoisted women on their shoulders. A group raised a banner.
His heart thumped. Becoming a funnel, Brian took in the fans’ energy until their love filled his chest. Electricity shot from Brian’s center to his extremities as the crowd poured forth their adulation.
Angst drained away as external validation filled him. Worship from admirers would soon leak out of the holes in his soul, but for now it would do. And he’d enjoy this time to the fullest.
He leaned deep into his microphone stand. “Good evening, Minneapolis.”
His voice echoed in godlike reverberations that buoyed him with temporary pride. For the next couple of hours, he would play God.
The sight of a certain someone in the third row made his heart skip. Amidst the legion, Helen drew his stare. She hadn’t hidden her face behind a cell phone, one of maybe five people in the front rows unobscured by a rectangular object and the ice-white flashes from its cyborg eye. An intriguing glimpse into her personality, how she’d chosen to appreciate the show unmediated.
What a face she had, inquisitive eyes the color of a fine bourbon and smooth skin undamaged by tanning. Her thick, tousled hair and sexy body also pleased his gaze, but qualities more profound than her physical features compelled him.
Qualities more profound, even, than her intelligence and affinity for the exact sort of repartee and banter that kept his mind limber inspired his interest in her. Her personality traits, though, were a definite bonus. Fun, witty people fired him up and made him laugh.
Her assessment of “A Thousand Suns” laid him flat, but he’d managed not to lose his cool and blather this to her like some infatuated fool.
Decades ago, Brian wrote that song in a scrappy wooded area on the outskirts of London, imagining the handful of acres as a secret forest inhabited by elves and magic. He’d stolen every spare moment he could to indulge his sweet escape, descriptions from his favorite boyhood fantasy novels spinning circles in his mind as he daydreamed about composing the next “Stairway to Heaven.”
The polished, final version of his imaginative experiment became the Fyre mega-hit “Deep Dark Woods,” but its messy prototype, “A Thousand Suns,” would live forever as Brian’s creative baby.
In other words, Helen had nailed it. Somehow, the woman saw to his depths. She got him, even if she didn’t fully know or understand the extent.
Though Brian didn’t believe in such sappy bollocks as love at first sight, he couldn’t deny the significance of the force meetin
g her had shaken loose. From the moment Helen stepped up to him, she treated him like the person he wanted to be. Authentic. Creative. Thoughtful. Playful.
She reminded him of the man who got lost in the shuffle of touring and recording and staying alive in the cutthroat entertainment industry. The man who lived in full color instead of existing in a dull gray of drudgery. Brian waved at Helen, and she waved back, wearing a demure ghost of a smile.
As he faced this enchanting stranger who sauntered off some Midwestern fairground, the first layer of his outer shell cracked.
Thom tapped his microphone. An electronic squeal punctured hushed, heavy air. A peal of nervous laughter ripped through the crowd, slicing tension.
Pulled from his inspirational reverie, Brian laughed back, hearty and not awkward. Time to play some fuckin’ music.
The noise of fans died down into hushed expectation.
The perfect song for Helen arose from his depths. When they’d stood at kissing distance, he’d noticed shards of emerald in her light brown irises. Four in each, symmetrical, like the leaves of a four-leaf clover. In the crimson remnants of sunlight, the golden streaks in her hair sparkled like gemstones. She herself had blessed him. He didn’t even need her crystal gift.
He moaned the opening note of an old favorite, playing the accompanying chords.
Jonnie and Thom caught on and supplied the layering riffs. A wave of uproar rushed from the back of the crowd to the front, blasting Brian with unparalleled energetic impact.
Brian grinned at the masses. His mind dissolved as he lost himself in a tune he’d always loved. One he’d long dreamed of singing to a woman. He broke into song, delivering a full-throated, whole-hearted cover of “Crimson and Clover,” which he sang directly to Helen.
Women swooned. More people cheered. “Fyre, Fyre, Fyre.”
Brian increased the volume of his vocals, grooves in his callused fingers locking in with thick brass guitar strings as he struck chords. Though that chant normally gave him the willies, classic cry-wolf situation, today he cherished the devotion behind it. As his hands moved over the fretboard, a change in his thought pattern pleased him. Perhaps the crevices in his skin didn’t symbolize unshakable ruts in his life after all.