Titan Song

by Leonard Petracci

  But she had other ideas.

  Three photographers bombarded us as we parked, walking alongside us and peppering us with questions as Francesca pulled my arm over her shoulders. The words came rapidly and in Italian, and as the flashes went off, Francesca nudged me, tapping my forearm until I resumed the pose. She kissed me on the cheek for one, lifting one ankle off the ground and closing her eyes as the photographers covered every angle, pinning me down between their lenses before her chauffeur shooed them away.

  “You are already the talk of the party.” Francesca laughed. “They are calling you the boy from the ashes after yesterday. I think it fits, with your current clothes!”

  “What do you mean, talk of the party?” I asked, thinking back to how Roland had reacted to Lucio’s video evidence of our last adventure. Would word of this travel internationally?

  “Oh, just the tabloids! You’ll be all over them! I wouldn’t listen to them too much, though. They’re all speculation. Don’t give them anything to work on. The mystery alone will drive them crazy. Let them come up with their own story.”

  “You aren’t concerned with what they’re going to say?” I asked, thinking about how much time she spent posing for their pictures.

  “Not at all! It’s not what they’re saying; it’s how much!” We started to climb the stairs to the venue, and Francesca smiled. “Besides, there’s nothing that they talk more about than what they know least about.”

  Two men ushered us inside, swinging open what looked more like works of art than functional doors, wood carved in the design of crawling grapevines accented by silver leaves and brass flowers. A high vaulted ceiling rose around us as we entered, with towering windows that gave the impression of an old church, combined with crystal chandeliers that sparkled shards of light upon the polished rose stone floor. White-clothed tables gathered near the far end, beyond a row of paintings that were up for auction, and already several suited people were waiting at the center ones, laughing over glasses of champagne. Francesca hooked her arm in mine as we walked closer and smiled as she waved, then set down her purse at a table at the far right side, indicating for me to sit.

  “Enjoy the show. These are the very best singers that Italy has to offer. Tickets to a private showing like this would cost several hundred. And aren’t you lucky that I’m leading it?” she whispered, squeezing my hand, then walked towards a small stage. Choir stands were erected in a semicircular arc, and already fifty uniformed performers waited, shifting in their robes. Francesca smiled, speaking in a few of their ears, laughing as she mixed among them, then departed for a moment to change into her own uniform.

  Behind me, I heard the clearing of a throat, and I turned to see a waiter with graying hair staring down at me, a white cloth draped across his forearm. Past him, there were the disapproving stares of several of the other guests, and my cheeks flushed as he started to speak.

  “Typically, we would cast your kind out, but seeing as you are a foreigner, you likely know no better,” he said, his accent French, and I wondered if the party had brought their own waitstaff. “But you are the guest of Francesca, so I will deign to serve you. May I offer you some sparkling water to drink?”

  “Normal-colored is fine, nothing special,” I answered, and he hid a small smirk.

  “Ah, nothing special indeed. I presume that for your main course, you would enjoy the chicken fingers as well?”

  “Know what?” I said, then jerked my thumb at the man at the forefront table, who I assumed to be the CEO that Francesca had mentioned. “I’ll take whatever she’s having.”

  “As you wish,” said the waiter, backing away. “Though I mourn for such a meal to be squandered on an unrefined palate. Please, chew before you scarf it down.”

  I scowled, a look that would have made Francesca proud, and looked back out across the gathered group. Whatever they thought of me, I was doing more good than any of them with their precious party. But in the back of my head, I made a note that in the future, we’d need a set of nicer clothes. This was the second time our plans had nearly been foiled by appearances, and as I looked around the venue, I doubted that Lucio or Ennia would be able to make their way inside without a commotion. My suspicions were confirmed as I saw their faces momentarily through one of the long windows, disappearing before they could be noticed.

  Then Francesca took the center of the stage, and she smiled as the crowd before her hushed.

  “Thank you, thank you for coming to see the Voices of Rome Choir today. It is our honor and joy to bring you the magic of our music. Mr. Renalt, your sponsorship means more than you know.”

  “And I have heard of the famed Voices from across all of Europe,” CEO Renalt responded, raising his champagne glass in a toast. “It is we who is honored to be in your presence.”

  Francesca bowed, flashing a smile. “You flatter me! But before we begin—my father will be in attendance, and he is one of the only ways I can overcome stage fright. Would you mind, Sir Renalt, if he were to take up the seat next to you? I only want to give you the best.”

  “But of course, whatever it takes for your comfort. He is the senator, after all—I’d be pleased by his presence.”

  A few more minutes passed uncomfortably as Francesca waited, the smile strained on her face, until Dacil barged in the door, his wood-heeled shoes clicking against stone as he rushed forwards, Francesca turning red as she directed him to his seat. Then, as one, the choir bowed, and Francesca took up a raised position in the very back center. They seemed to be a mix of voices—all perhaps younger than twenty, but male and female, some ready to produce extremely deep voices while others would care for the higher ones.

  Then with some unknown cue, the front row released a single note, and they began to sing.

  Chapter 35

  The song came in waves, the first row starting in an arc, the second activating on the third note, then the third on the fifth. With each iteration, the voices gained volume and depth, the layers building upon each other, forming a unified wall that seemed to replace the air itself. It was as if they were building a platform, a stage of music, the lowest frequencies constructing the base, the mid-range the paneling, and the highest the guide rails. And upon that platform, Francesca’s voice joined in, held aloft by all those that came before it.

  Her melody seemed to dance among the notes, elevating them, filling them where they would otherwise been hollow. There was weight behind her words, her Silver Tongue power flowing into them, bringing me back to memories of Siri. Though nowhere near as strong, it still held the same qualities, the same beauty as a shadow of something far stronger. But still more than enough to draw my entire attention as the Italian words ebbed and flowed over the audience, building then crashing down in waves.

  At the center table, the CEO and Francesca's father were held rapt, and outwards from them so too was the rest of the party. Even the waitstaff paused, and I saw one of the chefs step out from behind a swinging door, raising a hand to brush away a tear from her eye. Then Francesca’s voice leapt forwards, and the others followed, a herd stampeding down upon those watching. The one changed, the words morphing from Italian to French as the CEO’s eyes widened as he placed a hand over his own heart.

  Then, as quickly as the performance had begun, it finished, our ears ringing from the absence of song. The performers bowed, beaming from the applause that washed over them, then rushed down from the stands to take their positions at the empty tables. Francesca stayed for a solo bow, the applause doubling, then blew three kisses out into the crowd—one to Dacil, one to the CEO, and the last to me. Then she was back at our table, a score of eyes following her confident walk, beaming as two others from the choir joined us.

  “Absolutely astounding, madame,” said the waiter upon his return, placing a glass of water before me and a fizzy one in front of Francesca. “You made our chef cry, a feat all the onions in the storerooms could not accomplish. She sends you her regards and her finest meal to come—she’s spending
as much time on yours as the rest of the group combined.”

  “That’s too generous,” Francesca answered, placing a hand on his forearm and batting her lashes. “Let her know my next song will be for her.”

  “We held together well, didn’t we this time?” asked the choirboy across from Francesca, tugging at his collar with one hand. “How did you think we did?”

  “With perfect harmony, and certainly better than the last,” Francesca replied, smiling at him so intently, he blushed. Next to him, a girl nodded in agreement.

  “We’re lucky no one got hurt in the theater,” she said. “That could have gone much worse. We did need more practice, though. Maybe that will buy us some time! We were off a bit then. I think we’re better now!”

  “You were in the theater?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t see you on stage.”

  “Oh, we were with the orchestra!” she responded. “Down below in the pit, they added us in for some a cappella sections for a more natural effect! So far, fantastic reviews, which is reassuring.”

  At that moment, the waiter returned, plates stacked up his arms that he placed in front of us with a practiced hand. Steaks nearly as thick as they were wide raised from the center, drizzled with a balsamic glaze on a base of potatoes carved like rosebuds. Sautéed mushrooms stacked atop the steaks in a pyramid, and asparagus heads peeked out from beneath the mash.

  “Medium rare, medium rare, rare,” he said as the others received their steaks. “And well done for you, I assumed,” he said to me. “I took the liberty of having it precut for you, in case you needed help.”

  “Appreciate it,” I answered, his brow wrinkling in response as I looked down as the cube-cut meat, the sides practically burned. Strange way to prepare a meal, but I did order the same as the CEO, and if that was how he liked his food, then I should have clarified. Behind me, the waiter huffed, and Francesca gave him a disapproving glance. He retreated as Francesca put her arm around my waist, then reached over and ripped the holes in my jeans a little deeper.

  “SC, my apologies, but I’ve forgotten my introductions to our strongest singers,” said Francesca, gesturing to those sitting with us. “Our group is incredibly talented—the best in Europe, though I’d venture to say the world! Marshall here has been singing professionally since he was four years old, already with a full scholarship to college. And Ann, she’s been on Broadway! As a lead. They’re my captains, Ann takes the left, and Marshall takes the right. Between us, we bind the choir together.”

  “Francesca gives us too much credit,” said Ann, dimples showing on her cheeks as she smiled, complementing her red hair and freckles. “All of our members are exceptional. We’ve been singing together for years, I’d say we always strive for higher, but I wouldn’t want to offend our bass members.” She nudged Marshall, who gave a too polite and forced laugh.

  “Too much, Ann, too much,” he said. “But she’s right, we are too fortunate. And how about you, SC, what do you do?”

  “Me?” I asked. “Oh, I’m just studying here as an exchange student!”

  “Right, but besides school,” he pressed. “Sports? Theater? Perhaps a flair for entrepreneurship?”

  “Well, Francesca and I write songs!” I said, searching the memories Lucio had left. “The lyrics, they just come right to me. It’s like I just have a connection with words.”

  “Ah, perhaps you would write something for the choir!” Marshall said, and I waved my hand.

  “Oh, you’re too talented for me!” I said, biting the inside of my cheek as I rushed to displace the notion. “But besides, my true passion is painting! Unfortunately, I couldn’t bring any of them with me—airport regulations. All my paints were confiscated.”

  “You paint?” Francesca asked. “You never told me this! We’ll have to get you some replacements so you can show me!”

  “If you can, I’d be more than happy to! But it’s all about the medium, and I make my own—all natural, you see, and I just don’t know enough about the wildlife here to access the proper pigmentations.”

  “My uncle owns a greenhouse with all sorts of species. You’ll have to come!” said Ann, and I swallowed my potatoes with a gulp. “You’re so lucky to be dating an artist, Francesca, it’s so exotic.”

  “Of course, about the greenhouse, we’ll see how the inspiration hits me,” I said, praying she would forget, just as Francesca leaned across the table, lowering her voice and arching an eyebrow.

  “Speaking of exotic dates, Ann, I think I see just the one for you! Cutie three tables over, in the burgundy vest. I think I can score you an introduction!” She practically sang the last word as she raised her eyebrows.

  I turned, looking over to where she tilted her head, then realized that the CEO was sitting in the way of my line of sight. I scooted my chair in just a tad, enough to see around him, and nearly choked on my cube of steak.

  There, staring directly back at me as he chewed, was another boy around my age. One with a scar and divot on his hand, preventing him from holding the knife properly. So instead, he extended a finger, the edge sparkling as it turned to diamond, effortlessly slicing through the meat as his jaw muscles worked.

  Chapter 36

  “He looks like a pretentious jerk,” I declared, whipping back around as I felt Blake’s eyes boring a hole in the back of my head, listening for his footsteps as Francesca slapped me on the arm. Somehow, I’d missed him in the crowd that surrounded the CEO, any of whom could be his allies. Were they planning on attacking now and stealing away Francesca? I tensed, taking a quick look at the two who had joined us at the table, wondering their motives. Marshall and Ann looked innocent, relaxed in their chairs, even oblivious to the situation—but could they be faking it?

  “Please,” Francesca said. “Don’t be jealous, SC—he’s obviously for Ann, not me!”

  “I do think he’s cute,” Ann said, stirring her mashed potatoes as Marshall shifted in his seat next to her. “And what’s that power? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Mysterious is what it is,” answered Francesca with a wink. “Come on! He’s probably only in town for a few more days. Nothing like a quick fling to liven things up!”

  “Probably doesn’t even speak English,” I said, and Francesca laughed.

  “Oh, SC, we only speak English because you are here. Most of us know French as well. We’re going to have to work on your culture. And look, Ann,” she said, rapping the table vigorously with her ringed knuckle so fast it sounded like a woodpecker. “He’s spotted us. He’s coming over!”

  I turned, just in time to see Blake push his chair in and start sauntering over to our table. Unlike me, his clothes fit perfectly, his pants freshly ironed, shirt crisp, and shoes polished. The effect was the same as the first day of the academy, making his figure striking, as if just by walking, he carried a matter of importance. Underneath the table, I prepared a dark orb from the pocket above my wrist as he approached, while my other hand was ready to cast a force point that would bring the plates and steak knives on the table flying in his direction.

  But unless provoked, taking either of these actions would reveal me—likely, I would be removed from the event, leaving Blake alone with Francesca. Unless he made the first move, unless he attacked, fighting was not an option. Since he too had a cover, I suspected the same for him.

  “A stunning performance,” Blake said, flashing a smile, his eyes crystallizing over to reveal rainbow depths for an instant. His voice bore a French accent, a heavy but fake one, and he bent over to kiss Francesca’s hand as she blushed. “We are so, how do you say, lucky to have attended. Such beautiful voices for such beautiful people.”

  “You flatter us,” said Francesca, and I put a protective hand on her arm, my orb ready to launch at Blake the second he moved too fast. “And what brings you here? Surely you did not travel all this way for us!”

  “But I did!” he said, and rested a friendly hand on my shoulder as he walked to her other side, his fingers in
ches away from my neck. His palm turned hard, pressing with a sharpness through the fabric, pinching the nerve while maintaining a casual appearance. In retaliation, I generated a forcepoint behind him, keeping it small for now but putting just enough energy into it to give him the sensation of being pulled backwards. Not strong enough for anyone at the table to notice, but enough that his shirt stretched slightly tighter over him, and the hair on his head slowly shifted out of a neat part. “And I insist that you allow me to pay back this debt. My uncle is hosting a party tomorrow evening—could I be so bold as to ask you to attend?”

  “We would be delighted,” Francesca said before I could react. Blake’s eyes narrowed for an instant, darting towards me as he spoke. “We? It’s a formal event, and attire—”

  “Yes, we!” declared Francesca, cutting him off. “This is so very exciting. SC is to be my plus one, and you have to meet my good friend Ann right there. She would absolutely love to go. Perhaps you could take her? I’d hate to leave you as the odd one out, and we would make a stunning double date!”

  Ann beamed from across the table, and Blake’s jaw worked as he looked from Francesca, to Ann, then back to me. I raised an eyebrow, giving him a quick tug with the forcepoint behind him.

  “How about it?” I said, putting my elbow on the table, letting the sarcasm drip through my voice. Of course Blake wanted Francesca alone—it would make it incredibly easy for him to steal her away. The last thing he would want would be me to be there, keeping an eye on the situation. And Ann would only provide more distraction, further complicating a kidnapping.

  “Of course,” he said, forcing a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “We would be more than happy to accommodate you all. Every one of you.”

  He squeezed my shoulder, and I felt his needle sharp fingertips dig into my shoulder blade. I jerked him backwards with the forcepoint, just enough to make him stumble slightly, and spoke to his back as he departed.