Darkness Falling

by David Niall Wilson

  Turning, he added, "I wish Melissa was here."

  "I don't like it either," Peyton chimed in, "but I don't think we have a choice. I mean, it seems to have some kind of hold on us. You're playing the damned thing now, while we talk, for Christ's sake."

  Damon dropped the guitar into his lap as if it had grown suddenly hot, or slimy. He stared at his fingers with no sign of recognition in his eyes. "Damn," he said, rising swiftly and reaching for the bottle. "Damn."

  Klaus took that particular moment to make his entrance. Silence filled the room so palpably that it pressed down on them, stopping all movement. Klaus took in the strangeness of expression and strained postures. Then he smiled.

  "Don't suppose one of you'd like to tell me just what the hell the problem is here?"

  "No problem," Peyton muttered. "Just nervous about the show, is all."

  "Right," Klaus smirked, dropping heavily onto a small stack of pillows on the floor. "That's why you all clammed up when I came in and sat there like a bunch of conspirators. I'll save you the trouble; it's the song, isn't it?"

  Peyton turned his eyes to the wall and pretended to examine a small oil painting. Damon's gaze never left his hands. He looked as though he still didn't trust them. Heaving a sigh, Sebastian answered.

  "Yes," Sebastian said, "It's the song. So, what do you think, Klaus?"

  Klaus smiled. Now that he'd drawn his audience, he grew serious, though he lost none of his cool confidence.

  "I think," he said, completely serious for once, "that it is the most intriguing, impossible song I've ever encountered. I think, despite the strangeness of how it all came together, that it is probably the best thing we will ever play. That is a sobering thought, gentlemen. Are we ready to cross the hill? Are we ready to play our consummate performance tonight? Or is there more?"

  The question sobered them. The thought was new, and disturbing, and on the surface seemed very likely to be true. This song was, beyond any stretch of the imagination, the best thing they had ever played. The best they would ever play? That, of course, depended on several things, most of which they seemed to have exactly no control over. It depended on the night's performance repeating the magic of the first rehearsal. It depended on just where the damned song had come from in the first place, and if there were more to follow. And it depended on them all making it through one hell of a weird set of events with their minds intact.

  "It doesn't make any sense," Damon said bitterly. "I mean, we bust our asses for years trying to get the perfect sound. Now along comes this song, from nowhere, or from Sebastian's dreams, who in hell knows? All of a sudden we're perfect. We don't need to rehearse. We don't need to polish the new act. We just pick up our damned instruments and play, and it's perfect."

  "And it felt so good," Peyton threw in, dragging his gaze from free of the wall and the painting he'd been trying to lose himself in with a sudden jerk. "I mean, you'd think if it was too easy, we wouldn't enjoy it, like we'd been ripped off. Not with this song. I loved every damned minute of that sound – lived it. If that's the last music we can play like that – I may not be able to play music again at all."

  "My, my," Klaus said, his cat-got-the-canary grin spreading to cover half of his face. "Aren't we the depressing group? No more music? Never that good again? Man, I'm glad you asked my opinion. With only your own minds to guide you, you'd all be ready to commit suicide over this."

  Sebastian frowned. He'd lost his sense of humor for the subject, and he was fast losing it with Klaus and his superior attitude.

  "Suppose you tell us your opinion, then," he said. "Suppose the great god of rock and roll speaks and enlightens the masses before we commit group hari-kari and make the cover of Rolling Stone for the last time. Suppose you tell us just what the hell you think is going on?"

  Klaus' eyes simmered for a moment. They all watched him and waited to see which way he'd go. Sebastian might have pushed too far, but at the moment it didn't seem to matter. If the music were over, what difference could it make? If not, Klaus would have to answer.

  "Suppose I do," Klaus said finally, all trace of humor gone from his voice. "Suppose I do. Tell me, Sebastian, have you ever reached what they call a plateau in your music? You know what I mean, one of those days when, after years of mucking around, suddenly you can play something you once thought impossible?"

  Sebastian thought about it, and then nodded slowly. Such moments were actually fairly common to the careers of musicians.

  "Well," Klaus went on, warming to his subject and pushing aside his anger at Sebastian's outburst, "that's just what I think may have happened here. A collective plateau. You remembered the solo. I wrote the lyrics. Damon stitched his guitar into the pattern, and Peyton laid the foundation. All the same as any other song we've written – except for when the lyrics changed around among us – but this time it clicked. This time, when I wrote my words, your solo seemed to speak to me. This time when I sang, Damon's guitar focused on my words and blended with them. This time Peyton felt the beat from the heart. This time we did what our own idols have done. We created a great song. That is all we did, though, and it was us who did it – nobody else. Only us."

  The word bullshit sat on Sebastian's tongue, ready to leap, but he bit it back. What was the point? He saw from Damon's expression that he felt the same. Peyton only snorted.

  "You don't believe that," Sebastian said finally, "and neither do we. We all know music. Performance is an art. There are no masters who can just walk on a stage and perform perfectly. We are not perfect. We need practice, work, and time to bring a song from idea to life. This song was alive before we touched it. It scares the hell out of me."

  Klaus stared at Sebastian, his gaze calculating. It was obvious he wanted to call his friend a fool, to override all of their doubts and assert his own version of reality. It must have been equally obvious that he was the only one who believed as he did. He kept his silence.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Peyton went to answer. It was, of course, one of the countless promoters scuttling about like vermin. There was only an hour until show time.

  Sebastian settled back in his chair again and fell silent. Klaus said nothing. Peyton turned back to the painting on the wall, and Damon picked up his guitar and began to strum. His fingers returned to the same, haunting tune, but he didn't seem to notice.

  Chapter Three

  The early afternoon sun glistened brightly off of the polished surface of the dark limousine as it pulled up in front of the Flagon and Barrel like a sleek slice of night. Nobody rushed out to greet it. After a brief hesitation, the driver's side door opened, and a tall, slender man with golden-brown skin climbed out. He closed the door carefully, as though afraid of causing any disturbance to the car or to its passengers. He looked about, assessed his surroundings, and then walked confidently toward the front door of the Inn.

  Nobody inside moved to open the door. When he entered, there was scuttling movement, but no word of greeting was spoken. He looked to the small desk that sat in the corner of the lobby, but no one was there. Whispers of sound reached his ears. He craned his neck slightly, tilted his head to the side like an animal on a scent, but he could make out no words.

  With two quick steps he crossed the room and brought his hand down smartly on the small bell that sat on the desk.

  The shrill ringing echoed interminably, accentuating the emptiness of the room. Finally, with infinite slowness and eyes downcast, an old woman shuffled out from a back room. Her eyes never rose from the floor. Her movements were those of a cowering animal, and she seemed, almost, to be in a trance.

  The dark man watched her advance, and he smiled. His smile was crooked, not quite fulfilling its promise of good humor. The woman moved in utter silence to the desk, drew forth a pen and scribbled frantically in the ledger. The man's smile widened. When she reached out with a set of keys, he took her hand in his own and watched as the revulsion shivered through her. He let his touch linger, just long enough. A soft
whimper escaped her throat, and he released her, taking the keys.

  The woman backed slowly away, sobbing quietly and shivering. Copper watched until she disappeared completely from sight before turning to exit the Inn. It was good to be back after so long. It was good to be remembered.

  The limousine sat as he had left it. He returned to the driver's side, climbed in behind the wheel, and started the engine. They had their own entrance, and he was eager to reach it. Rosa didn't like to be kept waiting and she would blame any delay on Copper. Since Rosa's satisfaction was his life – he could not allow delays.

  The engine purred and the spinning tires sent streams of gravel shooting off behind them as he drove out of the small dirt lot and around the corner of the building. There was an attached shed at the back of the Inn, a garage of sorts. Copper got out, opened the door, and then came back to pull the long black car into its "stall." Only after the door had been sealed behind him, plunging the limo into utter blackness, did he move toward the passenger door. A stray sliver of light might have meant his death.

  Within seconds of the door opening, Rosa stood beside him. She poured from the interior, a darker shadow flowing against the ebony of the void that surrounded him. Her appearance brought a strange vertigo – a sense of detachment. She existed so far beyond any reality he had ever known that he'd never been able to reconcile the two worlds, past and present. When Rosa was near, the world became a dream, or a nightmare.

  Rosa stood nearly six feet in height. Her hair, the color of mellow flames in the dark hours of the night, not quite orange, but not pure red, fell in a brilliant cascade over slender shoulders, reaching to the small of her back. Her eyes, the deepest, sea-green eyes Copper had ever seen, were remarkable to the point of distracting one from the physical perfection of her form. Even a man enamored of the beauty of a woman's legs, or her breasts, would find that what he could never forget about Rosa was her eyes.

  Then there was Alex. Alex did not flow from the interior of the car, he flashed into view like a jet-black star. His movements were not sinuous, or sensuous. They crackled with energy and dark intent. He was neither tall, nor broad, but he exuded strength. His presence was intimidating. He moved like a wild animal.

  His long blond hair whipped about his features in what seemed to be windswept disarray, though Copper knew it to be painstakingly molded to that ideal. His eyes were dark, almost black, and they held no emotion. They were the eyes of a serpent. Alex never smiled.

  Together, Rosa and Alex were like ice and fire. Long ago, when Copper had first met Rosa, he had made the mistake of believing that Alex was the stronger. Logic, and years of hard lessons, had prevailed. Though fire could melt the tips of ice, the ice was old and powerful. It could crush, or freeze. It could end fire so surely that one would have to push the limits of imagination to remember that it ever existed. There was no doubt who was the more powerful of the two, or how much Alex resented it.

  Finally there was Alicia. Alicia was the odd cog. She seemed almost shy, at times. Her eyes were full of emotion and compassion. She had power of her own, Copper knew, but she seldom made this fact known in any tangible way – not like the others. She was black, slightly darker than Copper, but still very light skinned compared to some. Her accent was a mixture of French and the deep south.

  She was exquisite, and she scared Copper to death. For one thing, she was one of them, and he was not. She could take him at any moment she chose. For another, Rosa had picked her. There was no way to know how Rosa would react to his feelings toward one of her own, and yet, there was no way to deny the feelings.

  The limousine door closed behind them with a decisive click. The darkness was different with the three of them loose – charged with purpose. Copper crossed to the far wall, found the latch to the inner door with practiced ease and released the lever. There was no shift in the darkness as the door slid open. Only a small gust of damp air marked the fact that anything had changed.

  Copper stood aside as the others preceded him into the dank interior. He knew that the door led to a long abandoned cellar of the Flagon and Barrel. Rosa had chosen and outfitted the place many years back. It hadn't taken her long to convince the Innkeeper that it should be reserved for her. It had taken no time at all, in fact. The people of this village knew her well. Their fathers and their father's fathers had known her, and her family. There was no fight left in them, only fear.

  His years with Rosa had not left Copper unmarked. He had changed steadily since she stole his heart and spirited him away from his people. His memories of that earlier time had begun to fade. He remembered green jungle and elephants; he remembered a hot sun and cool, humid nights. Mostly, he did not remember at all. It took too much concentration to keep Rosa happy, and to remain alive, and the memories were too vague to be of any use to him.

  Though he wasn't fully changed, he was no longer completely human, either. His eyes had no trouble in adjusting to the utter lack of light. He seldom went out for long periods by day. It was not that he could not, merely that his senses were now keener in darkness. He appeared whenever there were affairs to be looked after. The villagers knew him, and they feared him almost as much as his mistress. He was, after all, chosen.

  Despite the fact that it had been vacant for years, the room looked much the same as it always had. There was a single table, ringed by several plush, leather-upholstered chairs, and a group of nearly a dozen couch-like divans that served as beds, which were scattered about the room. Along the walls lay strange companions, a pair of harps, a lute, two guitars, and three sets of iron manacles fastened to the stone of the walls. Even the shadowy light of the room couldn't hide the darker-stained spots on the floor beneath the restraints. Copper showed no reaction to the ancient stains; he had seen it all before.

  There were four hours left until sunset. There were five hours until the gates of the concert would officially close behind the lucky few who were privileged to attend the night's performance. Rosa, of course, was privileged to whatever she wished. They would be allowed to enter late through a side door by the stage. Copper had seen to it. He couldn't understand his mistress' wish to attend such a performance; her tastes were normally much more refined, but he did as he was directed. She had insisted on attending this spectacle, and he knew better than to question her.

  Alex paced the room like a caged jungle cat. He was eager to be out and about. The concert would be brimming with life. Young men and women would litter the darkened field like cattle. That was about as close to Heaven as Alex would ever get. Copper only hoped nothing would happen to displease Rosa in the aftermath. Alex was not well controlled. He was also, in Copper's own, un-asked opinion, not very bright. Copper was certain the man would be truly dead within a year if he were to be left to his own devices. Rosa seemed to realize this as well. Perhaps that was the only reason he was still around, that, and of course the fact that Alex could coax notes from a flute with more finesse than any man alive, or dead. It was hard to picture, given a glance at his predatory eyes and the madness that spun in them, but it was true, and Rosa admired nothing more than talent.

  "Do you look forward to the show, Copper?" The voice was soft – musical. It was Alicia. She had maneuvered herself quietly around behind him as his thoughts distracted him. Her cool, velvet-soft hand fell on his shoulder as suddenly as if it had materialized there.

  Not allowing his gaze to meet hers, he answered. "I don't know. It's beyond my experience, and I really don't know what we expect to find here."

  "Music, dear Copper," came Rosa's voice from a corner. "We will find the fruit of seeds long sown. This music, this rock music, is not what we are here for. It's a travesty of the moment, a symbol of the times. It holds such potential, such power and energy – all so often wasted on shallow pleasure and swift, fleeting dreams. I have come to answer a love song."

  Copper, though now curious, knew better than to ask questions. His mistress' ways were her own. Alicia held no such fears.

&nb
sp; "A love song? Here? But these young men are not balladeers. They seem ill-equipped to serenade one of your beauty."

  "Not so," Rosa answered. "They are brilliant musicians. Don't let the fancy trappings and glittering image fool you. The one named Sebastian I have met before. He is a composer of solid ability. The one who beats incessantly on those electronic drums has the spirit of a Viking – not that you would remember them – and the guitarist is a virtuoso, though I find him a bit depressing, and intense. They play what their world dictates. It would behoove us, on occasion, to remember that it is the only world available to us, and to adjust to it, if only out of boredom. Were Mozart here, he'd be on that stage.

  "And Klaus – the vocalist – it is he who will sing the love song. He has the voice of an angel, and that is a sound we will all wait long to hear again."

  "But why?" Alex asked. His jealousy was obvious in the grating tone of his voice. He always tried to act haughty and superior when something had him worried. "Why would you prefer their music to our own? They are not like us. Why should they hold such interest for you?"

  "Why, indeed, with one such as yourself around," Rosa answered diplomatically, though there was a hint of mocking laughter in her voice. "Because, Dear Alex, I enjoy my little games. I have been to this mountain many times before, as well you know. You might be interested to know that Klaus, the band's leader, has also lived here. He grew up on the mountain. I knew his father. Because this is his mountain – and my own – I wish to see what has become of him. Call it a whim; it is what I wish. There is so little in this world left to amuse me. I take my enjoyment very seriously."

  Copper sat on one of the plush black-leather chairs he'd brought in years before, and leaned back to listen with interest. He had driven for three days straight with only short stops in Munich and a small village halfway between, and this was the first real mention of why they had come. Alicia stood near him, too near for his own comfort. To his alarm, she stepped behind him and placed her cold, soft hands on his shoulders again.