Finally, the mirrors of his glasses swiveled to face the Shifter girl, who was still staring at me intently. “We shall try to avoid growling in this room. It is to be a place of culture. Taste. And preferably, tone,” he said with a blasé flip of elegant fingers. His words had that smooth inflection so particular to European speakers. “Miss Plant, is it? Please plant yourself on the bleacher.”
Her gaze swung between me and Sunglasses, face a study in embarrassment edged in rage. Her fingers flexed. I could almost hear her teeth gritting.
Damn it, she was never going to forget this—especially since Sunglasses had just rubbed it in.
He was definitely out to get me.
I leaned back, wishing the shadows would swallow me up.
“Today we are going through the course outline,” he said, casually carrying on as if he hadn’t just cemented a lifelong rivalry. “You will need to be well prepared to learn in the coming weeks. We will mix cultural study with music and language. It will hone you. Teach you. But for now, you are going to teach me.”
Pausing, he once again scanned the room.
Finely etched, aquiline features relaxed into a welcoming configuration that appeared to work on the other students in the room. I inwardly shook my head at them. Maybe I couldn’t see the creepy red energy flowing off him right now—but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
I narrowed my eyes as his shades skimmed over me, their polished surface giving no hint as to the workings behind.
Crossing my arms, I slouched father back against the stacked, three-tiered bleacher seats that formed a horseshoe around one end of the room and neatly framed a short, small stage. Black drapes blended into the dark walls and heavy drapes covering the windows, giving the room a cave-like sensation.
Of course, Sunglasses would teach in an evil bat-cave.
“I’m passing around copies of the Cultural Arts outline for the remaining portion of Semester one. Take one and pass it along. We’ll review this course and then discuss what additional items you wish to see incorporated into the program,” Sunglasses informed us. I took a copy without paying any real attention. He could only suck me in if I let him. If I was foolish enough to listen to him and believe his lies.
Better to focus on writing song lyrics in my head.
Digging my fingernails into my palms, I forced myself to think of other things, to mentally create a set list for Oya’s Blade to practice on.
It was hard work.
Every once and a while, my attention was unwillingly drawn into the discussion. It pained me to notice how Sunglasses didn’t discriminate amongst the student groups as much as the others. So far, he was the fairest teacher I’d encountered at St. Damon’s. He even let a Feeder finish a question before allowing a Shifter to join in the discussion. He talked about world culture, about how it helps define our experiences. About art and music and the contemporary culture that both created and was born from it.
Literally, everything I wanted to study and learn.
If he wasn’t an evil, stalking bastard, he’d meet every cool requirement I’d ever had for a music teacher.
He had to be messing with me.
He thought he could come to this shit-show academy and charm me with some exciting books and musical ensembles? Wrong. I wasn’t having any of it. Why they even taught it to us, I couldn’t understand. It’s not like we were going to be free to seek jobs as long as we were in their control.
“Now, it is time we will talk about the object I’m currently standing on,” Sunglasses’ voice rose for a brief moment and my gaze snapped to his face, then down to his feet. He was standing on the stage. “Personally, I believe music is the spice of life. So we will discuss how to use this stage.”
Using the stage? He was actually going to let us perform?
I refocused on the stage, studying it with the critical eye of a performer.
Sure, the room it sat within was dark and creepy. But if I ignored the trappings, the stage’s bones were surprisingly strong. The room’s gently curved walls and hanging curtains meant the sound control would be outstanding.
That wooden stage on the stone floor...
Oh yeah, I could rock that.
I could rock the hell out of that stage. I had so many ideas for song sets and reimagining of classics with a contemporary rock twist. I could put together that new song bouncing in my head, the one just waiting for me to have the time and patience to give it life. Joy was flowing up from my belly at the thought. Spreading to my fingers and toes with an inner tingling light.
Nothing could be hopeless when I could have music.
Maybe he had some mixing equipment. I could get Nabila and Oscar to join the class. Hopefully, some of my other classmates could play instruments. I could write something amazing. Inspire everyone trapped in this dreadful school, to help the downtrodden rise up and overthrow…
Hold on.
Was there any chance that the man who’d stalked me at Union Station and chased me down alleys and streets in the pouring rain could be here, could be offering exactly what I’d want by coincidence?
Not a chance.
But how could he possibly know—
Shit! My hand flexed, nearly smacking my head before I caught the motion. Sunglasses knew my dreams because I’d told him. I’d told him the truth to escape his clutches at the station. It had never occurred to me that he’d find me in Vegas, that he could have got to me here.
“Ms. Alcantara?” The soft voice cut through my thoughts with the resonance of a low, thrumming bass cord. I felt it drive a tremor into my fingers. It was the first time he’d directed a comment to me. I didn’t care for it.
Forcing myself, I tilted my head up until I faced Sunglasses. “Yeah?”
“Do you have anything to add to our discussion? I was under the impression those registered in this stream had some prior interest?
My fingers tightened.
He knew perfectly well that I had more than some interest. It was my life. It was so grossly unfair I could have stormed across the room, torn the glasses from his face and hurled them into the wall. The only thing staying my hand was my very real fear of what lay behind them.
“Not really,” I lied, figuring he’d sense it and hoping it would frustrate him. “My schedule was just given to me on Monday.”
“Oh?” Sculpted eyebrows formed flawless arches above his shades. “Very well, Ms. Plant, you wanted to play something for the class today?”
“Of course.” A tittering laugh ruffled my hair moments before the jealous Shifter stood, sent me an imperious look, and flounced to the stage.
I rolled my eyes and slouched back against the bleacher once more.
She picked up the guitar with the dubious skill of a wrestling champion trying to discover the fine art of needlepoint. I pursed my lips, too much of an artist to boo out loud. Not to mention someone who enjoyed her face being firmly attached to the rest of her.
I wasn’t stupid enough to ruffle Plant’s feathers twice in a row—no matter how tempting.
At the first strum of off-key notes, I almost forgot my resolution to behave.
Then she started to sing.
Her voice reminded me of coyotes serenading a passing fire engine from behind a bar, somehow drunk from whiskey-soaked remains of burgers and fries.
The Shifters in the room began howling along.
The Feeders looked like they were making tremendous effort to be suitably appreciative so no one had anything to blame them for later. And I decided death by fire was far too gentle an end for Sunglasses. How dare he turn up here? Wasn’t my life here bad enough?
Couldn’t he simply be creepy and obnoxious and follow me around without torturing my dearest dreams?
Music is my life, I’d said to Nash.
Had I said it to Sunglasses as well?
Probably. Ugh. Demons. They knew just where to dig their claws into your skin. I guess it made sense. Torture was supposed to be their specialty—wasn’t it
?
Plant hit a particularly vicious note and I flinched.
Snickers started to fill the air as the Shifters gave up on howling along and descended into mockery. My lips quirked upwards, but I stopped myself before I inadvertently joined in.
The studio was a place of learning, not a place of mockery.
Despite being a shitty, jealous Feral, it wasn’t her fault. Plant had clearly never been trained.
Her performance ended and she stood awkwardly upon the stage. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her, but the snickering persisted and I could see a dull flush of red creeping up her neck.
My palms itched with the need to clap, to honor her attempt.
Artist-Ash needed to clap.
Pissed-Off-Ash wanted to throw a tomato.
I sat there, frozen. At war with myself.
Plant’s lips pulled back into a snarl that she fixed onto the nearest Feeder, a slender girl with pale, wispy hair. The girl ducked her head and shrunk back, but didn’t give the desired reaction of clapping.
Yikes. In Feeder-world, that was probably a sick burn.
Plant’s snarl grew more pronounced. Her teeth glimmered, flaunting canines of long and pointed proportions and she took a menacing step towards where the other girl cowered.
Enough dicking around. I raised my hands, ready to do the right thing matter how much it grated.
Methodical clapping cut through the din.
“Thank you, Ms. Plant,” Sunglasses said. “I’m grateful you took the stage. Very well done.”
I sat on my hands. I hated bullies.
And I really hated that Sunglasses had just been a better person than me. Artistic sensibilities were going to have to take a back seat, I decided, squashing the discomfort that flared at the thought.
Plant reclaimed her seat with obviously feigned swagger. Intentionally knocking books and papers to the floor as she passed other students. But I could practically hear her teeth grinding.
All of us could feel her rage. Even some of the other Shifters eased back in their seats to avoid contact.
Despite my better intentions, I shrunk away, wishing the shadows would get with the program and swallow me whole already. Music class without participation was untenable. Yet I couldn’t perform without somehow bowing to Sunglasses wishes—right? If he wanted me to play, I had to deny him…even though it felt like I’d be torturing myself more than anyone else.
And how was I going to convince Sunglasses into giving Oya’s Blade a place to practice without surrendering whatever it was he wanted from me?
Chapter Eighteen
“So, how was the amazing music class?”
I slanted a look at Nash as I plunked myself into the red plastic chair beside him in the cafeteria.
What had I been thinking when I agreed to a late afternoon snack and study session?
Oh, wait. I hadn’t been thinking.
I’d been caught up in his hotness and busy falling over myself.
Dark hair partly covered his eyes and his mouth had an ironic twist to it that did ridiculous things to my insides. Trying to avoid making a total ass out of myself, I focused on ordering some food. A few minutes later, today’s offering of macaroni surprise leered at me from my tray.
So far, the cafeteria had been surprisingly tasty, but I figured it was a demon-move to suddenly switch things up.
Still, I’d barely managed to eat anything at actual lunch.
“Do I want to know what the surprise is?” I didn’t want to bore Nash with music talk or try to explain that the instructor was stalking me—that was a recipe for sounding like a total freak.
And, well, I might want Nash to like me. Maybe. Just a little.
He shrugged. “Probably not.”
I prodded a sauce-covered noodle with my fork. “Did it used to have a name?”
“You’re not one of those vegetarian types, are you?” Nash sounded scandalized by the thought. He curled his lip at me, then shoved a towering forkful of today’s surprise into his mouth.
“No,” I said, deciding not to mention I’d spent a couple years trying before giving up. Mom had needed the protein in her diet. I stabbed a stack of noodles and glanced to my right, finding Nash watching me with a gleam in his eyes.
“Dare you,” he said.
I shoved the noodles in. Chewed. Swallowed.
Not bad. The cream sauce tasted a bit dry, like it had a close encounter with cheese masquerading as sawdust. But it definitely hadn’t had a name other than ‘Old Fir Cheddar.’ Or maybe cheddar dust… I eyed the rest of the noodles before muscling through the rest. It was edible, I was hungry and Jim’s job didn’t pay that much money—he couldn’t afford special lunches for me.
Besides, backing out now would just mark me as more of an outsider.
Nash nudged me. “What did you think about that new teacher, Bournival?”
I took my time swallowing, not sure what I could tell Nash—or what I wanted to tell him. He was older and interesting and obviously knew his way around this crazy place. If I’d been asked to pick a team, he’d be my number one choice. Maybe he would believe me. He’d been born here, had a way better idea how far demons would go to get what they wanted. I could tell him just a bit and see how it went—
“The new teacher is a dream,” a new voice announced.
I glanced up to find the infamous Ms. Plant sitting across from me at the table. She flashed me a smile that was more teeth than grin.
I waggled my fingers at her and decided it was time for another bite of noodles.
Her brows lowered. Plant shifted her gaze to Nash, blinking her lashes. “Claude Bournival understands true talent. I was the only one brave enough to perform on the first class.”
“Huh.” Nash shot a glance at me. “I thought music was your life, Ash.”
I grunted, grateful for my mouthful of noodles.
“Some people are just scared,” Plant said with a superior toss of her hair. “Can’t imagine why all those Feeders took the class, though I guess those of us who are true performers need the audience.”
“Some people perform when they’re good and ready,” I snapped without thinking. The last thing I needed was to rile up Plant—again.
Damn it, I needed to shut up and eat my horrible noodles.
“Oh?” She tossed her hair and gave me a superior look. “You think you can do better?”
“I know I can do better.” It was official: I was an idiot with an apparent desire for pain and abuse.
“Fine. Prove it, Feeder.”
“Watch your mouth, Plant,” Nash growled. “Ash is no Feeder.”
My heart gave a funny wiggle in my chest. I didn’t have anything against Feeders, but I sure could get used to Nash defending me.
“You think so? Don’t see her doing anything yet, or did she miss my challenge?”
“I didn’t miss a thing, Plant.” I rapidly took stock of my surroundings. The cafeteria bustled around me, full of footsteps, afternoon conversation and the remains of today’s fare. No one seemed to care what I did, and none of the creepy teachers were anywhere to be seen—including Sunglasses—and most of the students seemed more interested in leaving for Friday night parties.
I picked up my plastic cup and chugged the remaining water.
Looking up, I found six pairs of eyes glinting intently at me. I’d officially attracted the attention of every Shifter around us, who all joined the table, sitting in an intent row around me and staring like a pack of wolves.
I squashed the flare of panic in my belly and ordered my voice to remain steady. “Okay, well, I don’t have a guitar, so this will have to do,” I told them, flipping the cup. “Saw this in a movie once—looked cool, so I figured it out.”
“That’s a cup,” Plant said.
“No. Really? Here I thought it was a drum.” I started to tap a simple beat against the plastic cup and the table below. Flipping the cup between my hands, I scraped the edge along the table surface to create a var
iety of beats.
I didn’t try to be loud, because I’d never overwhelm the background noise surrounding me. Nor did I want to. I didn’t want to reach the edges of the room, just the edges of the table. Focusing on the cup, I slipped into the slow, heart-breaking rhythm I’d practiced at Mom’s bedside every night for a week.
It made her smile, she’d said. The song wasn’t sad, it was simply misunderstood.
My eyes closed.
And the people around me disappeared.
I sang the first words softly, knowing the song would grow and needing to let it. In this moment, it was the only thing that mattered. Words about finding strength in dark places telling me what I needed to hear.
I used my heels to add layers of sound, clipping and scuffing them beneath my seat.
I held the final note as long as I could. While it lingered in the air, I could almost feel Mom’s hand in mine, how frail and thin it had been at the end, yet still somehow strong and sure.
I missed her so much, like I’d left half of my heart in that hospital.
My voice caught. I fought to keep my face steady as I finished the final verse. I shouldn’t have picked this song.
Opening my eyes, I found the table staring at me.
The table—no, make that the entire cafeteria—was way too quiet.
A quick glance confirmed that, yup, most of the cafeteria was silently watching me with rapt attention. My stomach dropped into my boots. I hadn’t meant for everyone to notice.
Taking a deep breath, I looked Plant square in the eye. “Amazing what a cup can do, huh?”
Her eyes narrowed into angry slits and I swore there was a faint, glowing red edge around them. “Just you wait, freak. There won’t be any displays after the Principal arrives. Better watch out.”
Principal? More Shifter nonsense.
Don’t take the bait.
I knew I shouldn’t open my mouth, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Seriously?” The words bubbled up inside of me, like they had a life of their own. “First of all,” I said, pointing the cup at her, “you’re the one who dared me to do better. I did. So now I’m a freak? No, bitch. That’s what you are, right? A bitch in heat who can’t get a big dog to fuck her. Just take that weak shit somewhere else.”
Rock and Ruin Page 15
