by Sienna Skyy
Shannon whooped and bounced.
The guitarist nodded with a smirk. He grabbed the mic. “I think this little pissant wants to get slapped.”
Forte wrinkled his brow. He’d been messed with before, but this guy had some serious attitude. So much for southern hospitality. But then again, the way Mr. Mouth talked, he didn’t sound much like a southerner.
Mouth handed Forte a Stratocaster, and Forte slipped the strap over his back like it was a Superman cape. Mouthy self-righteous guitar players or not, it felt good to be back onstage.
Mouth dipped his wild curls in rhythmic nods to the drummer and the drummer caught it and hooked the rest of the band with a healthy twelve-bar blues progression. It wasn’t Forte’s usual rock and it might have intimidated some, but the twelve-bar and Forte were old friends in a “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” kind of pattern. He’d had lots of practice with those kinds of jams special just for Shannie’s mom. This was just a blues spin, that’s all.
But the other player threw down like he thought he’d just pulled out the light saber of blues playing, and tickled the strings with the same smirk he’d used to introduce Forte. Prick.
He finished and gave a nod to Forte. Forte nodded back and took it on down. No big frickin’ deal.
Back to you, curlylocks.
The guy didn’t blink, but did another one, this time down-in-thegutter and a little self-indulgent for Forte’s taste. But fine. Forte let him wallow around in it, then did a little wallowing of his own and threw in a new riff for good measure.
A curl formed at the other guy’s lip. The poor bastard was taking this way too serious. But the weird part was Forte could tell he hadn’t even really let loose yet. Why was he getting all pissy if he wasn’t even shooting off his best ammo?
The two volleyed back and forth, adding a new sting or a righteous blaze each time. Forte ignored the cranked-out vibe coming from the other guy, and just enjoyed. He felt like he’d gone days without water and finally hopped in a lake. Bruce’s quest seemed the right thing to do, but a guy’s got to get his fix every now and then.
There went the chin. The other guy got that look of concentration with the dimpled chin up into the lips, and Forte knew he was about to launch it. Fine. Forte wanted him to know he’d be ready.
His turn came around again and he had to cavort a little. He let his fingers do the talking.
Backa-bow zippy-wow-wow inchanaga muthahfuckah!!!
The crowd really dug that one, and curly-top really hated it. His mouth cinched up so that his lips completely disappeared. He placed his fingers high on the neck and cranked out some serious vibes. Face-off or not, Forte was impressed. The tone was so intense that it came across to Forte almost like an electric charge. He was still dazzled when his turn came again.
He played the riff back and felt like he did it some justice, but he didn’t add anything else.
And when curly took his turn again, that weird electric charge once more seized Forte at the fingertips, this time much more intense. He suddenly had trouble moving his hands properly. His fingers could move up and down the frets, but that weird charge paralyzed his hand so he couldn’t let go of the neck. He was able to return the riff, but it felt like doing so caused the blood to dry up in his veins.
He looked at Shannon.
She was clapping, rocking out. She had no idea.
Forte took a hard look at his opponent. Slowly, sickeningly, he realized what was happening. This guy wasn’t just a straight guitar player.
He was on the quest attack.
It was Forte’s turn again. He played through it as best he could, and though he executed okay, he contributed nothing interesting. He was afraid to. Still, even playing it safe, he once again felt his blood turn to sludge.
Suddenly Forte felt incredibly stupid. He’d made sure they broke away from the others, and now here he was, pinned onstage, freakishly magnetized to a guitar, with his life or soul or something getting sucked out of him by this musical vampire.
And where does this go? Was he going to die right there onstage if he kept it up? And what would happen to his soul if he went down at the hands of the Pravus? Something bad, really bad was about to happen, and the only woman he’d ever loved was standing a few feet away, watching.
The curly-haired demon scorched through the next riff, spidering chords in a way that Forte had never even attempted before.
Back to Forte, and he barely kept up. Hands still spelled by the guitar. But somehow, though the style was new to him, he managed.
The band had long since quit backing them up and were just sitting there watching like alley cats at a cockfight, tails twitching.
Back to the other. Forte stole a look at Shannon, and he could see that she knew something was up. Her face looked worried. When he met her eyes, she raised her hand and beckoned him. Let’s get out of here.
He blinked at her, helpless, feet unable to leave the stage and hands still pronged to the instrument.
The killing sound of that guitar was tearing it up, throwing down some wild progressions Forte could barely follow, let alone play back. The guy flicked his eyes at Forte for just a moment, then all concentration went back to the guitar. But in that momentary look, though the chin was still up, he imparted a sneer that said the challenge was over. Forte was as good as gone. Now he was just playing it out.
Forte felt a sudden sense of outrage. No way was he going to roll over and let this guy sap him. He had no idea what kind of musical ability he was up against, though considering his opponent was the Pravus homeboy of some thousand-year-old Macul, he was probably in trouble. Any more tricks and Forte would fall hopelessly behind.
Screw that.
He reached down deep and tapped into the early days, when he gleaned every shred of energy from his heroes. Hendrix, Satriani, Van Halen, Gibbons. Even Ottmar Liebert and Steve Morse. And while we’re at it, what the hell—freakin’ Glen Campbell! He conjured all their energy and then amped it with his own.
Forte took his part again before the other one even finished. Chomped that vainglorious little lick in one big hefty bite. The searing electricity rippled through his wrists and up his arms, and he ignored it. The crowd went insane. He jammed down, and the sweat was flying from him in that spotlight like sparks from an exploding transformer.
Back to you, pal!
Forte wasn’t about to let some mouthy, curly-haired, big-nosed Pravus suck out his life and soul. Damned if he’d go down like this.
Well, maybe not damned. Better not think in terms of damned.
Ain’t no way he was going down like this, that’s all.
His opponent curled his rubber-band body around his guitar and worked back a mirror of what Forte had just done. Forte smiled. Now this cat had to keep up with him, not the other way around. Even better yet, Forte noticed a strange muscle popping in the guy’s forearms. It looked like he was getting back some of that sucking electrical charge, only Forte-style.
He wrapped it up and once again Forte skewered the final riff before he’d even finished, screaming in with a single Howitzer note. That crazy energy lassoed around him and wanted to choke him down, but Forte fought it, brought it home, and used it to whip back at the other player. He charged it all in, breathing flames through his guitar and injecting his signature arpeggios into machine-gun fire.
He got so lost in his own atomic meltdown, he was only barely aware of the writhing, twitching jerks wracking his opponent’s body. He kept firing away, unshackling himself from twelve-bar blues and totally shattering the architecture altogether, taking on shit he’d only dreamed about, and yet absolutely, blazingly nailing it.
His mind raced with the dim awareness that he should really, really remember what he was doing so he could write it all down later.
The Pravus roared. Forte looked up but kept it coming. He saw the other guy’s eyes roll back in his head, his body spasming.
And then he collapsed. Forte’s arms suddenly whipped back that fiendis
h electrical charge and seemed to pulse it into the other guy.
Forte felt exhilarated, terrified, triumphant. That dude was gone, but he kept it flying at him anyway, afraid to stop. But it was over; the whole mad, horrible, impromptu gig was wrapped. Time to bounce.
Forte tore off the Stratocaster and leaped offstage while the crowd frenzied in appreciation, having no idea what had actually just happened.
He grabbed Shannon and ran.
NEW YORK
Enervata knew Gloria wondered at not being recognized on the street. By the furtive look she gave to a passerby, he presumed she saw someone she knew—someone that did not look her way. They had even passed several policemen on their stroll.
He had wrapped her in a mask of anonymity so that no one would recognize her. But her face showed that she believed her precious Bruce had omitted filing a report with the local authorities. Enervata could see her hope rotting.
The city receded into a rummy, windblown mist. The dampness caused Gloria’s hair to bend into acanthus curls about her face, and she brought her wrap over her shoulders with a shiver. He offered her his arm.
“Thank you, Aaron.”
Her fingers curled around his bicep, and they felt as cool and light as champagne. The first willing physical contact. Enervata smiled inwardly; the rest was only a matter of time.
Something in her manner had shifted. She seemed to have come to a decision—a favorable one, by the way she responded to him. He wondered what exactly had prodded her his way. Perhaps she had taken Sileny into her confidence again and Sileny had persuaded her to relent.
He was so close. He would have her, taste her, smell her. And when he did, the entire world would be in his grasp. Perhaps he would even lie with her tonight.
He looked at her as she strolled with him through the park, her eyes heavy with introspection. No. She was nearly there, but it was still too soon.
“You started to say something about change theory and King Lear,” he said, nudging her from her heavy thoughts.
Gloria blinked back to the present and her eyes lightened. “Yes, I just meant it as an example. You’d been telling me a while back about that King Lear production in Moscow.” She breathed in, casting her eyes toward the trees. “How they use that special indigenous music? It just got me thinking. On the one hand, you have a traditional style of singing practiced for centuries. And on the other you have a centuries-old tale, Shakespeare’s story of King Lear.”
She turned her head toward the misted streets of the brownstone neighborhoods. “But they’re brought together in a nontraditional way. It’s a change. And by stepping out of the local environment—presenting the play in Moscow and making it available to the international audience—that’s an even bigger change.”
Enervata nodded. “True. If one should leap from the initiation to the end point, the change is too sudden and involves too much risk.”
“Right,” Gloria said. “And if that kind of unorthodox folk music were brought out solely on its own, it would likely not catch on in the outer world and would probably eventually be forgotten in the local one. Maybe even die out altogether. But by making incremental steps toward change—combining it with the familiar tale of King Lear and bringing it to a wider, but still local stage—the change occurs. The music goes from local to available to the world. And in that change, the music survives.”
He nodded and they walked on a bit in silence.
“When you think of it,” he said, “the same could apply to the tale of King Lear itself.”
Gloria frowned in thought, and he could see that she was now free from whatever introspective considerations had been absorbing her earlier. Now her mind seemed completely released to the discussion. She was stunning this way.
“Do you mean in the way that the heirs fought over the kingdom?” she said.
He nodded. “Partly. But also in the destruction of the dynasties. If Lear’s enemies had attacked, his army would have resisted. In fact, they likely would have banded together to resist outside siege. The same is true for Gloucester. And yet the families were still destroyed. Not from enemy assault, but from their own deconstruction. Their internal, incremental change. Unknown, unseen enemies triumph without ever having had to lift a finger.”
Her face clouded. “You’re right. I never thought of how the reverse can be true, too. I always think of change theory in terms of social improvement.”
He averted his gaze. “Of course the families needed only make different kinds of changes internally. Had they instead laid down their avarice, set aside those things they loved, they would have removed themselves from the annihilation.”
“Set aside the things they loved?”
“Yes. Don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps I—I suppose.”
They entered the lobby where the soft, warm hues of Rosso Ramello marble belied the true nature of the stone: hard and cold. It formed a wrapper of alternating Rosso and Bianco tiles across the floor, the Rosso continuing partway up the wall in wainscot panels to where molded posts marked each corner.
They strode to the gilded elevator that, as always, stood open and waiting for them. Gloria’s hand still rested at his elbow. The doors closed around them, locking them inside the chamber, and the digital display changed with each floor they passed as they rose to the top.
Enervata examined Gloria’s face, and couldn’t tell where her train of thought had gone. He decided to probe a bit.
“But enough of change theory and all that. Did you enjoy your dinner tonight?”
She smiled softly. “It was wonderful. These past few nights, eating at restaurants I’d only ever imagined. It’s been quite an experience.”
She turned, cheeks burning, as if she’d just revealed something that brought her a measure of shame.
The doors parted to reveal the penthouse foyer and they passed through.
Gloria walked toward her room and stopped. “Do you think it really would have mattered to King Lear’s heirs? If they had set aside their desires, those things they loved, as you say? Do you think it truly would have prevented their destruction?”
Enervata regarded her. He saw the indecision in her eyes and saw that she found indecision to be a foreign state. He stepped toward her. “I think it might have made all the difference in the world.”
She nodded, lashes low.
“Good night, my dear.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek.
She did not turn from him, but accepted the kiss with the slightest upward angle to her face.
“Good night, Aaron.”
He stood, watching after her as she retired to her room and closed the door. He remained watching for several seconds after she was gone. He saw to it that her door locked securely, then turned, opening his privacy to the Pravus.
Presently, both Hedon and Isolde appeared in the doorway and Sileny emerged from the far hall. For a fleeting moment, he forgot himself and wondered where Rafe and Glueg were, then dashed their memories. His council seemed so thin now.
He breathed in and exhaled slowly. “What of New Orleans?”
Isolde stepped forward. “The musicians travailed, but theirs prevailed while ours did fail.”
Enervata’s brows drew downward. “How is that possible? After we’ve been coddling and preening our musician for this moment.”
Hedon waddled to the sofa, pint jar of honey wine in hand, and sat. “Took the liberty of tying ’im down in the Hall of Amusements, master. But I couldn’t say the lad didn’t throw in his best. Their force is a formidable one.”
Enervata stared toward the far corridor, where the door to the Hall of Amusements now stood ajar. “You deal with him as you see fit, Hedon. Isolde, at least you managed to veer them off course brilliantly. New Orleans is a good distance out of the way.”
She all but shrugged. And was that a smirk?
He inclined his head, tunneling his eyes into hers. Something was off here. He couldn’t define it and that meant he didn’t like it
.
“One dangles a butterfly in their path and they go skipping after, into morass.”
He nodded, though not fully convinced by her airy manner. But it mattered not. Mere days from success, he would keep Isolde in his service and then strike her down.
He turned his back to both of them. “Then let us continue in this vein. See to it that they are diverted even further. Dangle your butterflies, Isolde, and may they be at the farthest end of the country when Gloria takes my hand.”
Hedon smacked his lips and piped in. “We’ll have them practically to Mexico, master.”
Enervata breathed in and released slowly. “So be it. Now leave me.”
He turned and glowered at them. Isolde was already striding toward the archway, her scarred back to him and her hips swaying with a seductive carelessness. Hedon snorted through his notched nose as he heaved left and right to work his body from the sofa. Sileny bent her head and scurried for the corridor.
“Not you, Sileny. Bring me a sherry.”
Isolde left, and Hedon disappeared to the Hall of Amusements.
Sileny returned with a silver tray and crystal, and poured from a bottle of Oloroso.
“Sileny, have you spoken to her recently?”
Sileny lifted a brow, shaking her head.
“She has changed somehow. As if she has taken someone into her confidence and has made a decision. She seems resolved.”
Sileny fashioned her hands to express that, as requested, she had refrained from communication with Gloria for the past few days.
He nodded and waved her off.
Gloria excited him in a surprising way. To think, two conquests at once. Perhaps this was the secret; to allow himself a trifling bewitchment from a woman. Perhaps in his past efforts at breaking the bonds-recherchés, if he had allowed the seduction to flow in both directions, he might have met success earlier.
No matter. He had made this discovery now. And he would savor it.