Ducking out of the strap, Jonah set the Strat in its stand and grabbed up a water bottle. Tilting it, he took a drink, the long column of his throat jumping as he swallowed, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
Wrenching her eyes away from him, Emma focused on the Strat. How long had it been since she’d held a guitar in her hands? A week? It seemed like an eternity. It was all she could do to keep from crossing the room and snatching it up. But she knew how people could be about their guitars. Herself included.
Somehow, she had to get home and get back what was hers.
Jonah was taking his time. It was like he was intentionally stalling. Like he didn’t want to play in front of Emma.
“Hey!” Natalie said. “Let’s get back to it,” she said. “I have to be in clinic at four.”
Jonah lifted the Strat and slid back into it. “Let’s move on to something else. I think we’ve got that one down.”
They played another original, something called “Doomtime,” which was less bluesy and more rock and roll, with a thrumming percussion and in-your-face lyrics. Jonah sang lead, and Severino layered in a harmony. It was the kind of song that made you want to get up and move, with a refrain that stayed in your head. Next was a song called “A Tientas.” Natalie sang lead on that one, with Jonah harmonizing. The lyrics were in Spanish, but it seemed to be a song they both knew well. Next was a bluesy ballad, something called “I’ll Sit In.”
I don’t play no love songs,
I just can’t harmonize.
There’ll be no sweet kisses in the dark, I’ll never look into your eyes.
But if you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.
When it comes to songs of heartbreak, I’ll fit in.
For emotional disaster
You know I am the master.
If you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.
Severino got a phone call, and the band took a break. Emma nodded toward the Strat. “Do you mind if I give that a try?”
Jonah gazed at the guitar for a long moment, a muscle in his jaw working, then shifted his gaze to Emma. His expression was an odd mix of dread and anticipation. “Do you play?” he whispered.
“I play a little.”
“Be my guest,” he said.
She lifted the fine weight of the Stratocaster onto her lap.
“Nineteen-fifties?”
Jonah nodded. “’Fifty-seven, yes.”
“Do you know about vintage guitars?” Natalie asked, toweling off.
“Vintage is where I live.” Emma launched into the open ing riff of “Heart of Stone.” Feeling that rush that always made picking up a guitar worthwhile. Hearing the sweet sound of the Strat beat against the practice room walls. “So sweet,” Emma breathed as the last notes faded. The action was a little high for her taste, but otherwise this guitar made it easy to sound good.
She looked up to find three people staring at her, Natalie grinning as if delighted, Alison looking stunned, Jonah wearing an odd mix of pain and longing and apprehension on his face.
“You’re lucky to have this,” she said, running her fingers over the saddle. “It must’ve been pricey.”
“Gabriel has a large collection of guitars,” Jonah said, his voice hoarse and strange. “He’s a total geek for equipment.” Emma tried to hand the guitar back to Jonah, but Natalie put a hand on her arm and said, “Play something else.”
“No, really, I—”
“Play something else,” Natalie ordered. “Do you sing, too?”
“Natalie,” Jonah said, shaking his head. “I don’t think we—”
“Play something else. And sing,” Natalie said, glaring at Jonah.
It was just way too tempting. Like a street junkie confronted with the offer of a fix, Emma couldn’t say no. For the first time since leaving Memphis, she felt like she was in the right place, wearing the right clothes, jamming with the right people. She flexed her fingers, pitched her voice low like they did down on Beale Street, and said, “This here is a little number by Big Mama Thornton called ‘Ball ’n’ Chain.’” She wrung everything she could out of that Stratocaster, pouring weeks’ worth of rage and pain and grief into voice and fingering. Partway in, Natalie began a soft cadence with brushes and sticks, providing a floor for Emma’s anguished flights of notes.
Emma kept sliding glances at Jonah, assessing his reaction. He looked torn, his hands twitching, mirroring her fingering, his face wistful. Yet his eyes were shadowed, shifting, all greens and cool blues, like the light in a forest when the treetops are moving.
When they’d finished, Natalie slid off her stool and crossed the practice room to where a guitar case leaned against the wall. She undid the catches, lifted out a Parker Dragonfly, and plugged it into the amp. This place is like Christmas for guitars, Emma thought. “Here,” Natalie said, thrusting the guitar at Jonah. “Try this one.”
“Natalie,” Jonah protested, holding the Parker on his lap like it was a child with a full diaper.
“Don’t be a baby,” Natalie said, settling back behind the drums. “You play the Strat all the time.”
“It’s not that,” Jonah said. “I just—”
“Would you rather Emma played the Dragonfly?”
“That’s not fair,” Emma protested weakly, cradling the Strat in her arms, her hair sliding over its shining surface.
“These are Jonah’s guitars.”
“The Dragonfly is only newly his,” Natalie said. “It belonged to our lead guitarist, Mose Butterfield. He died recently, and left the guitar to Jonah.”
“He’s dead?” Emma’s heart stuttered. “You mean the one I saw at Club Catastrophe last month? What—what happened?”
They all looked at one another. Anybody could tell they’d been friends forever. Emma was an outsider for sure.
“Mose had been in ill health for quite a while,” Natalie said finally. “A combination of the effects of the poison and heavy use of street drugs.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Emma said. “Is that why Jonah’s sitting in?”
“We’ve wanted Jonah in the band for a good long time,”
Alison said. “That’s the only good that’s come out of it.”
“So,” Natalie said, as if eager to dispel the gloom. “You’re damn good. I’d like to hear more. You play mostly blues?” Emma nodded. “Mostly. That’s what I grew up on.”
“I’m wondering what songs we know that you might know,” Natalie said, furrowing her brow. “We don’t play a lot of covers, but—”
“Actually . . .” Emma glanced at Jonah, who had apparently resigned himself to jamming with her, because he was correcting the tuning on the Dragonfly. “Actually, I have some ideas about the song you just played. ‘Doomtime,’ wasn’t it?”
Natalie nodded, a wicked smile curving her mouth. “Could you run through it again? Jonah, you just do your thing and I’ll see what I can do.” Having the guitar in her hands had restored her confidence. This is the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
They played through “Doomtime.” Emma wasn’t aggressive . . . she just threaded in and out of Jonah’s chords. Sonny Lee always said it was like putting embroidery on a silk dress or necklaces on a pretty woman.
By now, Severino was back. “Hey!” he said. “You never mentioned you were bringing in a ringer.”
“Let’s try something else,” Natalie said. Emma was finding out that she was as intense about music as she was about healing.
They played through their repertoire. “A Tientas.”
“Logjam Blues.”
“I’ll Sit In.”
“Ask Me No Questions (I’ll Tell You No Lies).”
“Ruined.” And covers of a few rockand-roll standards.
Jonah sang lead on most of the songs, Natalie and Rudy added scraps of vocal harmony. Emma wove through Jonah’s guitar work, each time adding more to the web of melody. He was a natural collaborator, seeming almost to anticipate what she was going to do before she did
it, and turning on a dime to respond to what she did. With each song, they stepped on each other’s toes the first few times, but by the last run-through, it was more of a marriage of equals, each claiming his own space.
Natalie tilted her head, puzzled. “I can’t tell which of you is playing lead, and which rhythm guitar,” she said.
“Exactly,” Emma said. “That’s the whole point. I’ve got six strings on my guitar—or twelve—and I want to use them all.”
“Where’d you learn to play like that?” Natalie asked. “Have you been in a lot of bands?”
“Nothing serious, or for very long,” Emma said. “But I sit in a lot. Or I used to.” She cleared her throat. “When I lived in Memphis. If you’re jamming with players you don’t know, you have to figure out how to meet in the middle real quick.”
“Hmm.” Natalie shot a look at Severino, looking like a cat with a canary or two put away for later. Severino grinned back and gave her a thumbs-up.
“Natalie,” Jonah said, as if he knew exactly where this was going. “Don’t you have to get to the clinic?”
“It’s perfect, Jonah. You said our sound was thin. We need another layer. Not just icing on the cake. Actual cake.”
“You sound like a jilted lover on the rebound, Nat,” Alison said, unplugging the Ibanez and settling it back into its case. “Ready to rush into a new relationship with someone you hardly know.”
“Give her time to settle in before you go recruiting her,” Jonah said, beginning to break down his equipment. “She may find she has better options. Besides, it’s not fair to put Emma at risk so you can play in a better band!” His blue eyes glittered green.
Sonny Lee always said that Emma had an ironwood backbone—hard as iron, resilient as wood. And now it came into play.
“Hey!” she shouted.
They all swung around to look at her.
“Am I invisible or what?” She slid down from her stool, unplugged the Stratocaster, and returned it to its stand. “Emma,” Natalie began. “I don’t think we—” Emma bulldozed right over her. “I’ll be straight with you, because that’s the way I am. I don’t know whether any of this will work out—the school, the band, the town—any of it. But I like what I’ve heard and seen so far, and I’m clean out of options. I’ve had a good time today . . . better than I’ve had in a while. I’ll take a chance on you, if you take a chance on me. No contracts, no obligations. I’ll sit in for a few practices, if you want, or play one gig, then you can decide. Or decide right now, I don’t care. Just don’t argue about it in front of me. That’s rude. I was raised on the streets, and even I know that.”
They all looked at one another. Severino burst out laughing. “I think she fits in real good,” he said.
“Now I’ll get going, so you all can talk amongst yourselves.” Emma paused. “If you decide you want me to sit in, though, there’s one condition.”
“What’s that?” Natalie asked, shooting a smug look at Jonah.
“I need to go back home and get my guitars.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Home of the Blues
“Please stay in the van,” Jonah said, for probably the thousandth time. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll go get it.”
Emma shook her head. “I won’t know what I want until I take a look around. And you don’t know where things are.”
It was just after midnight. They were sitting in the driveway of Tyler’s house, in a van that Fault Tolerant used to haul equipment. Continuing an argument that had begun across town.
“They’re probably watching the house,” Jonah said. “They’ll be expecting you to come back here.”
“They think I drowned, remember?”
“Maybe. But they’ll know differently if you get up onstage. Which is why you shouldn’t do it.”
“Which is why it’s best we do this now, before we play a public gig.”
Ever since the practice session, Jonah had missed no opportunity to tell Emma why joining the band was a bad idea. It was beginning to get on her nerves, because she wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do either, but she really wanted to be in the band, and she didn’t need anybody trying to talk her out of it.
“You can’t bring everything,” Jonah said, staring straight ahead, through the windshield of the van. He gripped the steering wheel with his gloved hands as if it might try to get away.
“I don’t want to bring everything,” Emma said. “But you can’t expect me to leave my entire life behind . . . again.”
“I just . . . don’t you think it will be hard, to go back in there?” Jonah said. “I just don’t want you to be hurt more than you have been already.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” she said, her insides one great hollow of loss.
“I’ll go in first, then,” Jonah said, turning his impossibly blue eyes toward Emma. His voice thrummed through her like sweet rum, heating her insides and clouding her head. “You wait here while I make sure it’s not—”
“No!” she shouted, far too loudly for the inside of a van.
He flinched back, startled, raising both hands in defense.
“No,” she said, more quietly. “I need to sort out who’s telling the truth and who isn’t. I want to see where my father died, and I don’t want you to clean up first. I might notice something that other people wouldn’t. If DeVries’s sister died alongside Tyler, then maybe he and I are allies.”
“So you’re saying I should have left you hanging off a cliff ?” Jonah said, his body rigid, his face a mask of disbelief. “I should have left you to be tortured and—”
“No,” Emma said, sliding open the van door and jumping down to the driveway. “I said allies. I didn’t say I wanted to be anybody’s prisoner.” Somehow, Jonah was out of the van and standing between her and the house. “You’re not like other girls,” he said. He looked down at her, the night breeze stirring his hair.
“You’re not the first one that’s noticed,” Emma said, rolling her eyes. When he tilted his head, brow furrowed in confusion, she added, “Come on, Kinlock, you’re going to have to do better than that. Admit it, that’s a pretty lame line.”
He stared at her for another long moment, then snorted, his lips twitching into a smile. “It is lame, I admit it, but I got nothing else. I haven’t had much practice at flirting.”
“Is that what that was?”
And then they were both laughing helplessly, a muffled, smothery kind of laughing.
You don’t need to flirt, Emma thought. You just need to be.
When they regained control, Jonah said, “Can I at least walk in ahead of you and take the bullet for you, if need be?” His tone was light, but his body was taut as a leopard’s.
She was about to follow him up the steps to the porch, when he blocked her path, holding her back with one hand.
“Do you have a silent alarm?” he asked.
“Tyler had a security system,” Emma said, pointing at the metal sign in the yard.
“I know. But there’s also a motion detector here on the porch.” He stood, frowning, hands in his back pockets, his gaze flicking over the front of the house. Finally, he nodded and pointed into the maple tree overhanging the porch. “There’s the camera. It’s set up to film whoever comes in or out. It may be attached to a silent alarm, too. And, given that there are wizards involved, there may be magical traps as well. Those may or may not work on us, depending on what kind of magic they’ve used.”
A cold finger brushed Emma’s spine. This isn’t play pretend. You’ve got to remember that.
“Do you mind if I try and find another way in?” Jonah said.
“Be my guest,” Emma said, thinking, Easier said than done.
And, somehow—somehow—he swung up into the maple tree and onto the porch roof. She heard his light footsteps overhead, a window sliding up.
Moments later, he opened the door from the inside. “I disabled the alarm system,” he said. “But I broke the window latch. Sorr
y.”
“How did you do that?” she demanded.
“I forced it.”
“No! I mean, how did you get up there? And how do you know about alarms?”
“It’s not so different from climbing up a cliff.” When she kept on staring, he added, “We have a diverse curriculum at the Anchorage.”
They offer a burglary track? Emma thought, following him into the house.
Emma stepped inside, onto the old landing with the cracked linoleum that Tyler had been meaning to replace. On a hook inside the door hung the battered leather jacket he’d bought at a thrift store. Lined with fleece, it was the closest thing he had to a winter coat.
Impulsively, Emma lifted the jacket down. It was heavy aviator leather . . . so old it didn’t even smell like leather anymore. Instead, she caught a faint whiff of tobacco and that hair oil he used. The scent of late nights and good times.
The enormity of loss hit her, like a punch to the gut. She wrapped her arms around her middle, folding a little.
“Emma?” Jonah had turned back toward her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, sliding into Tyler’s jacket as if she were armoring up for the battle to come. It fit big on her slim frame, and the sleeves were a little too long, but she could live with that.
They walked through the kitchen, past the bulletin board. The calendar pinned to it was still showing September, the gigs written in on the weekends. The message light on the answering machine was blinking. Emma hit the playback button.
Here was Tyler’s familiar voice. “Leave me a message, and I just might call you back.” Followed by a throaty laugh. Goose bumps prickled Emma’s arms.
There were a series of hang-ups and several increasingly angry messages from club owners and band mates, asking after Tyler. The last one was bitter and brief, from a woman. “Least you could do is call me, Tyler. I mean, come on!”
Leaving the kitchen, Emma walked toward the front of the house. She might not be able to remember what happened the night of the murder, but she had a clear memory of how the house had looked before then. What was different?
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