by Tanya Holmes
Speaking of spiteful fuckers, last week, my Asylum debriefing crew gave me a rundown on the newly renovated castle and grounds. The property boasted a movie theater, an Olympic-sized pool, two gyms, four libraries—FOUR! LIBRARIES!—and…wait for it:
Two recording studios.
During the manor house renovation, all the instruments and recording equipment in the larger, more modern studio were sold off, but they left the stuff in the smaller studio, located in a guesthouse. You could tell Skye built it before he knew what he was doing. The live room had an exterior window that wasn’t soundproofed. Not only that, most of the equipment was old and dated. But that was fine, because it had just what I needed: the basics, which included an acoustic guitar, a portable multitrack recorder-sound mixer, speakers, and a mike.
And that’s where I headed after I left Denieve. To the cobweb infested, old studio so I could record something special, something I hoped would have meaning.
Lucky for me they hadn’t shut the electricity off. The studio was in pretty good shape too considering how long it had been deserted. Between the soundproofing—which trapped the warmth—and the heating vents going full blast, the room felt like an oven. But I didn’t mind since the rain had left me cold and soaked to the bone.
After a quick Internet search for song lyrics—photographic memories do have their perks—and fifteen minutes on YouTube, the stage was set. I could pick up just about anything by ear, and this song was pretty basic. At most, it would take me an hour of practice time, then another to lay down the tracks. So I kicked my shoes off, tugged my T-shirt over my head, and got busy.
Prince Charming needed a shoe. Lois Lane couldn’t see Superman until Clark ditched his glasses. The princess didn’t know the frog on her pillow was really a prince. The “ugly duckling” was a damn swan! And Eric hadn’t a clue who Ariel was until she sang. The girl spent half the movie sitting right in front of him before he finally recognized her.
I’m not into fairy tales, but the similarities between Ariel’s predicament and mine were uncanny. Reason enough to take a page out of her book. Over the last four centuries, I’d been a writer, a poet, a teacher, an architect, a gigolo, a lawyer, a freedom fighter, a musician, a painter, a spy, an assassin, and a doctor. But today? I was just a man in love, a man determined to pour his heart into a song.
It took twenty minutes to hook up the speakers, recorder, and the mike. Two more to position my phone camera at the right angle. And after an hour of laying down four tracks—strings, piano, drums, and bass—I went back into the control booth and flipped the light off so the camera wouldn’t catch any glare from the glass.
Before the Join, Denieve asked me to give her a sign. Well, if this didn’t do it, I wasn’t sure what would. I decided to make Caryn’s faux video a reality. If Denieve saw me singing and playing, a feat impossible before now, maybe then she’d stop grieving. Maybe then she’d believe in us, that we weren’t dead, that we were alive and well, and maybe by believing in us, she’d finally be able to see me.
* * *
OUTSIDE STEMBRIDGE MANOR HOUSE
CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND
Denieve
Hagatha
Jenny
____________________________
Angela had taken the car this morning to work. Teleportation wasn’t an option either since I couldn’t pinpoint Ian’s exact location. So I had to hoof it. Once again, I’d rely on my child’s amazing inner radar. Yes, he would guide me just as before. Luckily I could sense Ian was within walking distance.
I was drenched by the time I made it around the north side of the castle. I ended up on a stone-covered path flanked by a wall of thick evergreens. Just beyond them, a handful of cottages separated by a man-made lake dotted the craggy landscape.
Once I reached the bottom of the hill, my radar kicked into overdrive.
I knew exactly where to go.
Encased in stone, the Tudor-style cottage had a jutting chimney and a gray slate roof. Thick tangles of ivy vines ran the length of the front. I teleported inside to find a huge living room filled with antique furniture. White sheets covered all but one piece—a secretary’s desk. A long hallway fed into a pink, 1950s-style kitchen. To my left, pale light streamed from an open door that led to another level. The basement, I presumed.
With trepidation, I took the stairs. At the bottom, I found a brick wall with two metal doors. I went for the one on the right and a sense of déjà vu struck me the minute I entered. It was a recording studio—the booth side, the place where the engineers worked their magic. Why did it feel like I’d been here before?
Then I saw him behind the glass and I knew. This was the same studio I’d seen in Caryn’s vision. The exact same one! Right down to the parquet floor and paneled walls.
In an instant, a conversation from months ago flashed in my mind. It was the one I had with Caryn after I’d watched her “fake” video.
“Who was he speaking to?” I’d asked her.
‘Someone from his past.’
“Obviously. What was her name?”
‘Helena or Jenny or something,’ she’d said. ‘I can’t remember.’
Another lie! Smiling so hard my face hurt, I braced my trembling heart as the mind-blowing realization washed over me. This was the second vision she said she couldn’t have pulled off while she was living. She’d given me a glimpse of the future. My future. No wonder I’d felt such a connection with my doppelganger because he was singing to me! I was the woman from his past, the mysterious “Helena or Jenny.”
Pulse racing, I inched closer to the window in awe. There he was in the flesh with the tat—Xavier’s tat. Ian McBride, my doppelganger, the literal man of my dreams, looking just as he had in Caryn’s vision: ten years younger, shoeless, shirtless, and wearing faded jeans. He sat on a stool tuning a guitar. He’d tied back his hair, which now reached well past his shoulders. I could see him clear as day, but he couldn’t see me. The live room was lit up like a Christmas tree, but it was pitch black in the control booth.
Everything about this was so surreal I actually had to pinch myself. I was living a fantasy I thought would never come true, a fantasy unfolding right before my eyes. What do you do when you walk into a dream? Well, you do what I did. You take it in with wonder and appreciation. You thank God, the universe, Caryn, and anyone even remotely responsible for such a wonderful blessing.
But the blessing was silent.
The sound was off.
Not knowing my way around a recording studio, I frantically searched the control board for a switch, something to turn the volume up. A flashing red button caught my attention. I said a prayer and pressed it, and once the color shifted to green, the most beautiful sound filled the darkness.
CHAPTER 34
GUEST COTTAGE
STEMBRIDGE MANOR HOUSE
CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND
(BRAEDEN-XAVIER)
IAN
____________________________
Feedback squealed from the speaker as I made some last minute mixer adjustments, then set my earphones aside. The blend of strings, piano, bass, and drums was incredible. Even before I laid the tracks down, I’d heard the new arrangement in my head so it didn’t take long. I knew exactly how I wanted it. My dry run had gone without a hitch. It was like I’d been doing this for years.
Positioning the mike stand in front of me, I got comfortable on the stool, curling my bare toes around the top spoke while I anchored my other foot on the floor. I pulled the strap over my shoulder and positioned the guitar at my sweet spot—right against my left ribs.
The song wasn’t just any song. It was Denieve’s favorite. Hard to believe how perfect Paul Williams’ lyrics were. Sure, I could’ve written something myself, but why reinvent the wheel when the perfect words were right here? They said everything I needed to and then some. I did slap my own spin on it though, adding drums and a sexy Spanish riff to give it more texture.
With the lights beating down, I leaned into
the mike, looked into the camera, and put my best smolder on. “‘That’s Enough For Me,’ take one,” I said, but the damn chair squeaked before I could pluck a note.
Perfect.
The song was supposed to be serious and romantic. She’d probably be laughing her ass off at this. I flashed a smile and winked at the camera. “I meant to do that.”
Now I was distracted. Shit. It was a miracle my smile held when I glanced down at the tiny throw rug beneath the stool. Paisley. God, how I hated paisley. The pattern reminded me of Denieve’s suitcases. The ones I first saw in the back of her car the day she tried to leave me.
I shut my eyes to refocus. Once my fingers took over, the camera, the stupid rug, and the squeaky stool faded from my mind. I fell into the music, letting my voice and fingers tell a story as I infused my heart into every word and note.
It didn’t matter whether I was the hero she was looking for today. I’d take anything she’d give me. If I could make her grin or be her lighthouse in a storm, it would be enough to sustain me. I loved this woman more than anything, so if I had to, I’d wait forever.
* * *
GUEST COTTAGE
STEMBRIDGE MANOR HOUSE
CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND
Denieve
Hagatha
Jenny
____________________________
I watched for several moments as Ian’s hands—Braeden’s hands—flew over the guitar strings with expert precision, but when he opened his mouth to sing, I took a stumbling step back. It was Xavier. It. was. Xavier. No. It was both of them! Miracle of miracles, Braeden and Xavier were playing and singing together, something that had been impossible before.
This was the ultimate sign. Proof positive my men were living as a true One. They were Ian Callum McBride, the man who’d captured my heart months ago through the words of a song. And now that he was here, sitting on the other side of the glass, pouring his heart out to me, I could hardly breathe.
“There was a time when he lit up a room just by entering it. He was easygoing, charming, artistic, and very expressive.”
Oh, yes, he was. Angela had described him to a T.
I moved closer and pressed my palms against the glass to listen to the words spilling from his soul. That’s when I noticed the change in his irises. It was so slight, so subtle I almost missed it. One minute they’d flash to Braeden’s sapphire, the next, they’d darken to Xavier’s stone gray, then they’d mesh back together to Ian’s steel blue. Given the grainy look of Caryn’s black-and-white video-vision, it would have been impossible to pick up on a computer monitor. This could only be seen in living color.
Hot tears rolled down my face. This wasn’t a power struggle. It was a light show of harmony and bliss. Just another sign that Braeden and Xavier were Ian, my beautiful, wonderful doppelganger!
The words he’d written in today’s note said it all.
I’ve bloomed.
* * *
GUEST COTTAGE
STEMBRIDGE MANOR HOUSE
CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND
(BRAEDEN-XAVIER)
IAN
____________________________
Plucking the last chord, I closed my eyes and imagined the guitar strings were Denieve’s skin, that I was making love to her with every stroke. I rested my fingers atop the still vibrating strings, holding and loving her the only way I knew how. Gently and reverently.
Everything inside me ached when I opened my eyes and stared into the camera, wishing, hoping, and praying that this song, this huge chunk of my heart would somehow reach her, touch her, make her believe.
“Do you see me now?” I smiled to hide my desperation. Please see us in me, my soul cried, because we’re still here and we… “I love you—”
The studio door banged open and there she stood, the love of my life, the woman of my dreams.
My Denieve.
* * *
GUEST COTTAGE
STEMBRIDGE MANOR HOUSE
CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND
Denieve
Hagatha
Jenny
____________________________
Ian looked startled. “Oh, no. You ruined your surprise.” He pulled the guitar strap over his head and stood. “What are you doing up? I thought you were asleep?”
His brows drew together once he got a look at me. I didn’t need a mirror to know what he saw. Rain-soaked and teary-eyed, I was a mess, but I didn’t care.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. Everything’s beautiful.”
Ian set the guitar aside. “Then why are you crying?”
Because I failed to recognize you. Because you are Braeden and Xavier. And most of all, because I love you! The words crowded my brain, clamoring to get out, but my tongue was a leaden weight in my mouth.
He motioned to himself. “Is it this? They made me peel back a decade and grow my hair out. I can switch back once we leave here.” He hitched a shoulder. “Anything’s better than the old man, right?”
Ten years. That made him six years younger than me now. “No, you’re perfect,” I assured him, wiping my teary eyes. “My picture-perfect doppelganger.”
“What?”
I took a step closer, trembling, knees shaking. “I’ve missed you.”
His brows shot up. “You did?”
“More than ever,” I said. “I’ve been sleeping with a photo of Braeden and Xavier for months—because it’s all I had of you.”
A breath shuddered out of him. “Say that again.”
“It’s all I had of you. They haven’t shipped Angela’s—”
“Of me,” Ian whispered as his shoulders fell. “You wanted pictures of me?”
“Yes! Angela’s are still ‘en route.’”
Ian flopped back down on the stool as if winded. “I came to your room this morning while you were sleeping. I saw you clutching that thing, and I thought…”
“What?”
“That you were still holding on to—”
“No.” I shook my head. “I was holding on to you. It’s all I’ve been doing this whole time.” I swallowed, took a breath. “Ian…I need to tell you something. Caryn may have made mistakes, but she wasn’t lying. She did leave purgatory to save us.”
“And you know this how?”
“She visited me this morning. In a dream.” I gestured at the studio. “Everything you just did in here, your beautiful song—this was the video she showed me months ago. Only it wasn’t a video. It was a prophetic vision of the future. Our future. You’re my doppelganger. You always have been.”
He was speechless. “Wait. The doppelganger you mentioned at the bunker?”
“Yes. The very same, and you’re him.” Moving closer, I said, “I saw you as you are now. Ten years younger, shirtless, and shoeless, singing to a woman you loved, a woman you desperately wanted to see you for who you were.” I set the mike stand aside and stood in front of him. “When I first saw you in that vision, I was so touched because it felt like…just for a moment, that you were singing to me. I didn’t tell you this at the bunker or at your house. I didn’t want you to know how much that video meant to me. How much my doppelganger meant to me.”
Relief and amazement softened his face. For a long while, he sat in silence, his chest rising and falling. “You said ‘my’ house.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Yes, Ian. Yours.”
A hard sigh left him. “Mine.”
It was true. I had no problem placing him at the bunker or at Braeden’s house. Because they were his. Ian McBride was Xavier and Braeden. And now, thanks to an impossible miracle, I had the best of both of them in one beautiful man.
He licked his lips. “It must’ve really hurt when I told you we never played together.”
“Honestly? I was devastated.” I studied his face, his brilliant gunmetal-blue eyes—how they shimmered with wonder and life. “When I thought the video was a lie, I tried to get over you, but it was never r
eally gone. The pain. It was like somebody I loved forever had died. That’s how deeply I’d connected with you.” I sniffed. “But you’re not dead.” Tears spilled down my cheeks again. “And I see you now, Ian. In fact, you’re all I see.”
A relieved sigh blew out of him. “Well…it’s about fucking time.”
I caressed his cheek and smiled, then slowly got down on one knee.
He blinked in surprise. “What are doing, D?”
“What I should have done when we were alone in that isolation chamber.” I gathered my courage and looked up at him, my heart pounding. “You may have fallen in love with me twice, but I’ve got you beat. I fell in love with you three times. And all three were equally magical. So. Ian Callum McBride, will you marry me? That is, if you don’t mind being with an older woman.”
He sat rooted in place for several maddening moments, his face giving nothing away. Finally, he crossed his arms. “I’m curious. Was something wrong with my proposals?”
“What?”
He cocked his head. “Did you forget? I asked you to marry me twice.”
I frowned and taxed my brain for…Then I remembered.
“Yes,” he said. “Twice. And you agreed both times.”
I slowly got to my feet. “The first time doesn’t count. I was delirious. And the second… Well, that was a less than enthusiastic agreement to marry me. It wasn’t really a proposal.”
“By whose definition?”
“Anyone who knows what a real proposal is.”
He shook his head. “So I’m assuming your definition of a ‘real proposal’ is universal?”
