by Chloe Adler
I moisten my lips and nod. “Okay yes, thank you, thank you so much.”
Benedict rises and walks over to large industrial-looking black metal filing cabinet built into the far wall and opens one of its many drawers. After a moment he extracts a piece of paper and returns with it. He grabs a clipboard and pen from the table between us, clips the paper onto it and hands both to me.
“I’ll need you to sign this agreement first.”
“What is it?” I take it from his outstretched hand.
“It relinquishes the club of all personal liability, both me personally and my LLC. Your signature is your agreement that you won’t sue for damages over this particular incident, ever.”
Well, well, a businessman first and a decent human being—correction, vampire—second. That I can wrap my head around. “Of course.”
He waits while I read the contract, sign it and hand it back to him. Then he moves next to me on the couch again.
“And of course, it goes without saying that you should take care of yourself in the interim. For example, it would be a bad idea to take your splint and cast off until you’re completely healed. At home.”
Message received—don’t dance out of his office miraculously healed just for whomever is listening and watching the club to see it.
“Also, my compensation package comes with the expectation of confidentiality. Wouldn’t want just everyone to know I’m a soft touch. So do not talk about any of this to anyone.” The businessman façade vanishes for a moment, leaving the steely-eyed gaze of a predator.
My eyes bulge. “You’re doing me a huge favor, I won’t say a word.” I don’t add that I won’t have to; after I’m miraculously healed those closest to me will know why.
He nods, my affable boss once again, but my heart keeps thumping so loud in my chest I’m sure he can hear it. He brings his finger up to his own mouth and bites it. Holding his other thumb over the cut, he offers it to me. I take his fingers into my mouth and suck out the thick liquid.
Chapter Thirty-Four
When I open my eyes, Arch is lifting me off the couch.
“What are you doing here?”
“Benedict called us.”
I try and focus on his face but it swims in my vision. Then there are two of him but the other Arch looks a lot like Bodhi. Someone kisses my cheek and I snuggle into Arch’s shoulder.
“Be careful with her,” says the person who looks and sounds like Bodhi.
“Of course I’m being careful with her,” says Arch.
“No fighting, guys, she needs quiet right now,” says Forrest. He’s here too?
“And how do you think that’s going to happen when we bring her out through the club?” asks Cedar.
Crap, the club. I must have fallen asleep on Benedict’s couch after he healed me. Is that normal?
“Use the back door,” I mumble. I don’t want to chance that agent seeing me even though I’m still wearing the cast and splint, as ordered.
“Whatever you want.”
I lean forward and hit his solid chest, which feels so damn good.
When I next open my eyes, I’m snuggled in my warm bed in the mansion. I sit up, feeling stronger than I ever have before. I open and close my sprained wrist. There’s absolutely no pain. I move my hand in the cast but it’s on too tight. I turn to the windows. Moonlight pours through, highlighting the white and gray vintage furniture and dancing across my bed. Is it the same night? Doesn’t matter. My phone pings on my bedside table and I snatch at it to read a text from Siobhain.
I sneak out of my room, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I open the drawers looking for a knife. The lights come on and I shriek. Candy stands in the doorway, rubbing her eyes.
“What are you doing?” she yawns.
“Trying to get this off. It’s healed.”
She doesn’t ask how or why, just goes over to another drawer, opens it and pulls out kitchen shears. “Put your hand down here.” She points to the counter. I do and she proceeds to cut the cast off, using brute strength I didn’t know the girl possessed.
“Thank you,” I say as she deposits it in the trash. I move my fingers and turn my wrist. Everything is healed.
She points to a stool at the center island. I sit down. “Did anyone tell you? They’ve found Betty.”
“Betty?” The hairs on the back of my neck bristle.
“Another synergist. They agreed to let her take them to Tara to get Vasily.”
I narrow my eyes. No, the men most definitely did not tell me about Betty. “Sounds like I’d better hurry then.”
Candy nods. “I don’t like her. There’s something . . . off.”
“Have you mentioned that to any of the men?”
Her silvery tresses fly as she shakes her head. “I haven’t been around humans enough to properly judge. It may be simply because she’s not you.”
“I appreciate your loyalty.” We both worked hard and earned that from one another, and not without sacrifices.
“The men don’t want you to go to Tara alone but you won’t be alone because Vasily is already there.”
I could get behind that line of thinking. “So how do I convince them to let me go instead of Betty?”
“You don’t. You don’t need them to get back there. You don’t need anyone.”
She makes it sound so simple. I flex my newly restored right hand. Maybe it is that simple. “I’ll go, but there’s one thing I need to do first.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The next afternoon I slide open the fancy barn doors to the new Distant Edge Opera House. I run my hands down the front of my mother’s dress and swallow back the bile rising in my throat. Built from the ground up in the shape of a multistory barn, it has the disparate feeling of modern meets cowboy. The outside is corrugated metal framing tall rectangular windows. The lobby is large and open with slate carpeting, a concession stand, which is currently closed, and elegant metal staircases lining both sides. No one is milling about and the auditorium doors are closed. I open one as quietly as possible, light flooding into the semi-dark interior.
“Amaya?” Siobhain’s voice carries and I step inside, letting my eyes adjust.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She walks up the long aisle toward me, extending her hand. “I’m glad you decided to give this a shot.”
I offer my hand and she clasps it, leading me back down the aisle, toward the stage. “You look well after your fall. Are you?”
I cringe, forgetting she saw my least graceful moment. “Yes, I’m better, thank you.” Best not to mention the details. “Just nervous about this.” I wave my hand around the auditorium.
“I know you mentioned you’ve never auditioned before but,” she leans in to whisper, “there’s no way around it.”
My hand instantly heats in hers, rendering both of ours clammy. I try to pull mine back but she holds firmly, even giving it a little extra squeeze.
I blink, finally able to take in the auditorium. Even in the low lights, it’s opulent. Instead of red velvet chairs, they’re all black. It’s not enormous, only two thousand seats, since the Edge isn’t a major city. Our population is only ten thousand, but growing. And we’re close enough to San Diego to pull in a healthy crowd.
One set of boxed seats climbs partway up the walls, decorated in abstract black and silver metalwork resembling plants, like prairie grass or sage brush. I look up, expecting an art deco style like my parents’ favorite opera house in Chicago. But surprisingly, there’s a modern, extravagant arrangement of large, round silver discs all set at different heights. Like stylized clouds, I suppose, hanging over the desert that would surround the Edge, were it not all developed into cities.
The closer we get to the stage the more nervous I become, shaking a little with each step. I stop dead when I spot the two front rows filled with people. Siobhain tries to urge me forward but my feet are planted and I won’t budge. “Who are all these people?” I whisper.
Siobhain
stops walking. “The board of directors and the cast. It’s important that everyone hears you. They consider themselves a family. It’ll be fine, no one is judging you.”
I dig in my heels, take a deep breath and let it go slowly. I can do this. For my parents. I need to prove myself to them. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
“Where am I supposed to sing?”
“On stage.”
My knees knock together as I make my way forward again. But instead of looking at them, I let go of Siobhain’s hand, turn and walk up the stairs at the side of the stage. I glance over my shoulder, offering a wan smile, focusing my eyes at the back of the auditorium, which is blissfully empty. Wiping my drenched palms on my dress, I push away thoughts of bombing. Instead, I make myself use the calming techniques that Bodhi taught me.
A woman waits for me on the stage. “What would you like to sing? I can play accompaniment.”
My mouth is suddenly so dry it rivals the great deserts of Egypt and how I wish I were there now, hiding miles deep under a pyramid. Anywhere but here.
“Can you do ‘Lamento d’Arianna’?”
The woman does a double take. “Of course. How many bars would you like as a lead-in?”
“Two is fine. I’ll nod when I’m ready.”
Inclining her head, she walks to the piano stage left, adjusts her skirt and sits down.
I close my eyes and gasp, sucking in the deepest breath I can to fill my panicked lungs, and remember why I picked this aria. Not just because it can be sung a cappella, but also because in English the name is, “Let Me Die.” And is that really asking too much right now?
A man from the front row stands up. “Amaya, I’m Frank, the artistic director here at Opera on the Edge. Please, proceed when you’re ready.”
No microphone? Well, I don’t suppose a real opera singer would need one, would they? I squint, barely able to see the audience from here, but I can almost hear their judgment. It’s all in your mind, Amaya.
Closing my eyes, I pretend I’m alone. I imagine myself back in my bedroom at home, before all of this. Before I nearly died in Tara, before I met my men, before the threat of eviction, even before my parents left for Taiwan. When life was simpler. And just like that I’m there, in my mind, and I’m safe. Away from anyone’s ears or eyes or opinions. I turn my face toward the corner of the stage where the pianist sits and I nod, still keeping my eyes clenched shut. She begins to play and after the second bar, I sing. Without thought, without trepidation, without logic or reason, I sing. All I have right now is the song, and my emotions. And when I’m singing, they soar.
When I finish, there’s complete silence. Dear God, please tell me I haven’t dropped into Tara again . . . But when I open my eyes, I haven’t gone anywhere, and there isn’t silence after all, because every single person is on their feet, and they’re all clapping. For me.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Siobhain drives me home. I don’t want to go back to the Ridge, so I have her take me to my parents’ house in Bar None, but as soon as she pulls up I fear I’ve made a huge mistake. If she dropped me at the mansion, she wouldn’t look at me the way she’s looking at me now.
“Thank you. I’ll wait to hear back from you.” I leap out of the car and run up the few steps to my house.
“Amaya, wait.”
I don’t turn around, intent on hiding my humiliation. Her hand touches my shoulder and I can’t help pivoting around. Her eyes are focused on me, not on the eviction notice, though it’s obvious she’s seen it. I flush hot with shame while fiddling with the key in my hand.
“I don’t want to pressure you. If this position doesn’t feel right, I’ll find you something else. If you’ll let me represent you, that is. Officially. But I think you should know that you killed it in there. I’ve seen other people audition for the understudy roles and yours is the only one that received a standing ovation.”
“Really?” And just like that, my lungs find air again.
“You need a lot of work to get comfortable onstage, I won’t lie, but if you’re willing to commit to it, there’s no reason you can’t have a long and successful career as an opera singer.”
Wow, what an opportunity. But could I do it with my stage fright? With an entire auditorium full of people?
“I’ll let you know what the board and cast say but I’m pretty sure you’ll be accepted. Do you have any questions?”
I have a million questions, but they’re not ones she can answer. They’re questions only I can answer. My head is foggy and I’m confused. Tired. I need some time to digest this. Except, I suppose there is one answer she can give me. “If I’m accepted, the season doesn’t start for another three months, right?”
She nods. “That’s right. Full-cast rehearsals won’t start until next month.”
I’m breathing a sigh of relief—a month should be time to rescue Vasily, no problem—but she doesn’t stop there.
“That’ll give us just enough time to do some intensive voice and active coaching. We’ll need to start right away, as soon as the director gets back to us. We want to make sure you start off your first season on the right foot!” She grins, all excitement and energy.
The smile on my face, in contrast, is a bruised, strained thing.
“But we can go over all of that later. For now, relax and enjoy a job well done.”
It’s all I can do not to sob. I need this woman to leave. Now. “Thank you for driving me home. I look forward to hearing from you.”
“Good night.” She holds out her hand and I shake it, then watch her walk back to her car, get in and drive off with a little wave. I turn and go into my house, closing the door behind me, imagining the eviction notice flashing like a police siren behind my back. Taunting me. Shaming me.
Once upstairs, I lie down on my bed fully clothed and close my eyes. I’m tired, so tired. My head is spinning. I have two immediate choices: Follow this new opportunity, an amazing dream come true. Or try and save Vasily. I already know which one I’ll choose. And I already know I can’t have both.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I drag myself out of bed after a few minutes to change into sweats and a tee, then lie back down again. But I’m wired-tired. I need to get back to Tara for Vasily, especially before my chance at a new career passes me by—and before a new synergist takes my place.
I conjure up the meadow, the forest and all the fairies, but—
Nothing happens.
I close my eyes and pull in the sweet and tart smells of the flowers and foliage. I use my imagination to draw Astra, Japheth and the dryads on the insides of my lids. I conjure the sensation of the forest of Calixto’s heady breeze across my skin. I try for a long time, but when I open my eyes, I’m still at home in my bed. My emotions over the men simmer and stir. Why would they go behind my back to find a new synergist? Sure, my arms were useless, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t get them and myself back to Tara. And now they’re courting this new female for my job? The only thing I have that I can give back to them? Hot waves of anger boil my blood. I get up and pace my room, too distraught to sleep.
A loud banging on the front door startles me and I fly downstairs. I fling the door open.
“Jules, what’s wr—”
But it’s not Jules. Bob stands on the porch, his hands buried in his pockets and a sheepish look on his face. A blue dot bounces on his shoulder and then fans out behind him, lighting his crown like a halo. It’s the same thing I witnessed the last time I saw him, isn’t it? I’d forgotten. No matter, the bulb in the street lamps must be new.
I glower at him, setting my jaw and crossing my arms.
“Amaya, I’m so glad you’re home. I’m here to,” he looks behind him, down the street, but it’s empty, “apologize.”
“What?” What the fuck?
“There’s nothing I can do about the eviction now, though I really did try. But there are lawyers and a reverse mortgage . . . it’s complicated. But the reason I’m here so l
ate is that I just got a call from a friend who has the perfect place for you and your parents. But it won’t last. We need to go see it now.”
This crazyhead is high if he thinks I’m going anywhere with him, especially at eleven o’clock at night, even for the promise of a perfect place. “No thanks, Bob.”
The blue light pulses softly behind him and the tone of his voice changes to syrupy sweet. “You will come with me now.”
Of course I will. “Why didn’t you say so?” I walk outside and close the door behind me, following Bob into his waiting car.
Bob drives in silence while I look out the window. Apartment blocks and tiny prefab houses with barely a walkway in between give way to modest Craftsman-style bungalows, then larger, more palatial plots as we escape the squalor of Bar None. The rambling stucco houses with soaring arches and ornate courtyards have immaculate landscaping—without grass, natch, due to the perpetual Southern Californian drought. Even without grass though, they’re better than the gravel postage stamp out in front of my parents’ house.
As we pass my favorite midcentury modern, I blink rapidly, trying to remember why I’m in a car with Bob. Where are we going? I dismiss the thought immediately. No matter. Calm wraps around me like a well-worn blanket. It’s a nice feeling. He pulls up in front of a gorgeous two-story Victorian and gets out of the car, motioning for me to follow him.
The painted lady is empty. Once inside, a knot forms in my stomach. “Why are we here?”
“We’re here to show you the house, remember?”
I shake my head. No, I don’t remember.
“Why don’t we go upstairs?”
I don’t want to go upstairs and I shake my head again.
“We’re going upstairs,” Bob says in that syrupy voice.
“Of course we are.” I follow him up, catching movement out of the corner of my eye, and then it’s gone.