Yet, somehow, he always kept that little bit of distance between them . . . tantalizingly close, but never actually making contact. As if he were conscious every single moment of where his body was positioned in space.
It was Emma who kept losing her footing. She was falling for Jonah Kinlock, falling hard, even though he’d made it clear that the two of them were going nowhere.
When the song ended, applause erupted all around them. Emma looked up to find that they were the center of a small circle of dancers who had stopped to watch them.
She faced off with Jonah, hands on hips, breathless, sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades. “Liar,” she said. “You said you couldn’t dance.”
“I never said I couldn’t,” Jonah said. “I said I didn’t know how. But I study martial arts. And fencing. I guess some of the skills are transferable.”
Emma thought of the locked gym at the fitness center. Once again, doubt wriggled to the surface. Jonah had so many secrets. But just because he had secrets . . . it didn’t mean he was evil. . . . Did it?
Next came a slow dance. Amazingly, Emma talked Jonah into staying for it. He didn’t seem to be suffering through it, though. He pulled her in close, tucking her head under his chin, one hand planted on the back of her neck. Her breasts pressed against his chest, the T-shirt a flimsy barrier between them. When she pressed her cheek against his shoulder, she could hear his heart thudding in her ear.
Once, she tried to turn her face up to his, but he tightened his hold and murmured, “No. Please, Emma. Just like this, all right?”
It was all right. She rested her hand on the small of his back, her fingers just touching the waistband of his jeans. Dancing with Jonah Kinlock was like having sex with one of those gods in mythology. At the end of it you couldn’t recall exactly what happened. All you knew was that you had a damn good time.
“What are you thinking about?” Jonah said, his breath stirring her hair.
Emma’s face burned. “There is no way I’m telling you, Kinlock, so don’t ask again.”
As they turned, Emma was glad to see Leesha Middleton dancing with a tall, angular, red-haired boy in a velvet cape. It seemed she was flexible when it came to dance partners. When the dance was over, Natalie was waiting for them, grinning. She put her hand on Jonah’s arm and leaned in toward him, speaking in a low voice. “What did I tell you? You two practically burned this place down. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Nothing bad happened, did it?”
“It was just a dance, Nat,” Jonah said, loud enough for Emma to hear. Maybe intentionally so. “Don’t make more of it than it really was. Now we’d better go get organized. It’s almost showtime.”
Chapter Forty-five
Showtime
It was just a dance. Don’t make more of it than it really was. The words echoed in Jonah’s head, each time cutting like a blade into flesh. Double-edged. Wounding the swordsman, too.
What was that seventies song . . . “Cruel to Be Kind”? They were in the small parlor they band was using for a green room, just off the conservatory. Rudy, Alison, and Natalie had already gone out front. Emma was still fussing with the tuning on the Studio G, her movements quick and angry, muttering under her breath. When she forced the tuning peg, the string snapped.
Jonah rested his hand on the fingerboard. “It’s fine,” he said. “Really, it is. You’ll see.”
“Of course it’s fine.” Emma sucked her finger where the string had cut it. “Who said it wasn’t?” She looked up, met his eyes, and quickly looked away. “Stay the hell out of my head!”
“I wish I could,” he said softly.
“I’m the one that needs to be able to get in your head, so I’d have a fighting chance.”
“No!” he said, drawing back. “Trust me. You don’t want to go there.”
“Probably not,” Emma said, threading the new string through the machine head.
“It’s not you, it’s—”
“If you tell me, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ I’m going to punch you, so don’t,” Emma warned.
“I just don’t want to hurt you more than I already have,”
Jonah said. “This—this happens . . . every time I—”
“Don’t make more of it than it really was,” Emma growled, turning his own weapon against him. “And don’t say you just want to be friends, because friends don’t tie friends into knots.” Jonah was all out of ideas. Everything he tried to say just made things worse.
After an awkward silence, Emma said, “Why don’t you go on out? I’ll be there in a minute.”
Jonah stood. “Just—just try and focus on the music,” he said. “That’s what I do. And we know that works . . . right?”
He picked up the Stratocaster, fastened the strap to the end pin, and walked through the door.
Natalie woke up the house with a rattle, bang, and crash. “I’m Natalie Diaz,” she said. “We are so glad to be here tonight. We’re Fault Tolerant, all the way from Cleveland, Ohio, and we call this one ‘A Tientas.’”
Jonah laid down the first few chords, and then Natalie came back in on drums, a pulse-pounding cadence that stirred the blood. These were Natalie’s lyrics, an in-your-face kind of love song. Natalie sang lead, while Jonah harmonized. Emma hung back a bit at first, her face a mask of concentration, till she found her footing. Gradually, she layered notes under and over Jonah’s guitar line, insinuated herself into the spaces Jonah left open for her. Sometimes he was lead dog, sometimes she was. Their guitar work laced together flawlessly. Well, pretty much.
It was straight-up rhythm and blues: two guitars, drums, a bass line, keyboards. No artificial ingredients, as Nat liked to say. Jonah’s Stratocaster came alive, delivering in a way it never had before. And the Studio G? That guitar was absolute magic in Emma’s hands.
Maybe that’s what your gift is, Emma. Building guitars that cast spells. Spellcasters.
When the set first began, Jonah kept his eyes cast downward, avoiding looking at the audience. During the guitar transitions, he stepped away from the mike and prowled around, unable to stay in one place. Energy seemed to bubble up inside him until he released it through his voice. Sweat dripped off his chin, plastered his hair to his forehead, ran down between his shoulder blades.
Finally, he dared look out, beyond the lights. He could see a mass of moving bodies, a collage of exotic colors. People dancing, people clapping or just swaying to the music.
Guitar transition. Jonah swung away from the voice mike, facing Emma. They were both in open G, the tuning allowing them to speak their minds through their instruments. She chewed on her lower lip, keeping her eyes on her fingers, a tiny frown between her brows.
Jonah lost his place, faltered, then had to scramble to get back in line. He could feel Natalie’s glare, like a red-hot poker between his shoulder blades.
More vocals coming. Jonah swiveled and walked back upstage to the microphone, turned, and faced the audience. Natalie’s voice curled around Jonah’s, sliding over and under, deep-throated and breathy, a rogue current in Jonah’s trickle of sound. Alison’s bass provided the heartbeat, spinning a web of connection between the band and the audience. Drawing them in.
When the song was over, the thousand invisible threads connecting the band members to one another, and to the audience, snapped. Jonah swayed, nearly fell. Sound backwashed over them, a mingling of applause, cheering, foot stomping.
Jonah was sweating, his clothing soaked through, droplets spotting the stone floor. He blotted his face with his sleeve, grabbed a bottle of water, and drained it.
“Thank you,” Natalie was saying to the audience. “Thank you so very much.”
Jonah looked back at Emma. “Emma,” he said, “sorry I stepped on you in that last—”
“Haven’t you heard? There’s no sorry in rock and roll,” Emma said, leaning down to adjust the balance on her amp.
“This next piece is called ‘Logjam Blues,’” Natalie announced.
This time J
onah sang lead. As promised.
They were a little rougher on “Logjam,” less practiced. Jonah totally blew one of the new transitions, but the audience didn’t seem to notice as Rudy’s moody keyboards took over.
As the song unraveled to a rather shaky end, Natalie said, “There’s lots more rock coming, but right now I’d like to take it down a notch. We call this one ‘I’ll Sit In,’ featuring Mr. Jonah Kinlock on lead vocals.”
This was Jonah’s signature piece—a Kinlock & Kinlock composition. Blues with a bit of country thrown in. Jonah set his guitar in its stand, lifted the stand mike out of its cradle, and walked to the front of the makeshift stage. Natalie began a soft cadence with brushes and Emma and Alison chimed in on guitar.
This time, Jonah sang directly to the audience.
If your lover ever leaves you,
And you’re lost in bleak despair,
When your hopes and dreams are shattered,
Call me, I’ll be there.
Rudy and Natalie piled in, harmonizing on the refrain.
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.
And Jonah was on his own again.
When you’re lost and out of options,
When you’ve made that big mistake,
When your friends forget your number
And your heart’s about to break.
He haunted the edge of the stage, stalking back and forth, casting his net of sound out into the audience. To his surprise, the energy ran both ways—from the audience as well as to it. They fed him, and he fed them.
If you need commiseration, call on me,
Any time of day or night, I’m free,
When your soul begins to bleed, I’ll be just what you need,
If you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.
He turned, faced Emma, and sang directly to her.
Don’t look to me for love songs.
I just can’t harmonize.
There’ll be no sweet kisses in the dark,
I hope you realize.
He paused for three heartbeats, gazing at Emma.
But if you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.
When it comes to songs of heartbreak, I’ll fit in.
A sad ending to your story? That’s when I’m in my glory.
If you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.
The end of the song was greeted with applause and rather damp cheering. Emma blew her nose and carefully wiped mascara from under her eyes.
They worked their way through the rest of their set list. With ten minutes to go, Natalie said, “Before we wrap things up, I’d like to introduce the band.” She interjected a drum roll. “To my left, on keyboards and vocals, Mr. Rudy Severino!”
Rudy grinned and waved.
“On bass guitar, Ms. Alison Shaw!”
Alison executed a brief bass guitar riff, then bowed, doff ing her trademark bowler. “On guitar, all the way from Memphis, Lady Day, Miss Emma Lee!”
Emma curtsied awkwardly, looking eager to get offstage. “And, finally, Jonah Kinlock, on lead vocals and guitar.”
Natalie punctuated each of the introductions with a drum roll. “And I’m Natalie Diaz, on percussion. And now . . . in honor of our late lead guitarist, the immortal Mose Butterfield, a medley of his favorite guitar solos!”
Jonah kicked it off with Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower,” then Emma on Clapton’s “Crossroads,” Alison following with Jimmy Page’s “Stairway to Heaven,” Emma with B.B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone.” Finally, everybody joined in on Stevie Ray Vaughn’s “Pride and Joy,” with Rudy absolutely spectacular on keyboards.
They finished up with “Doomtime,” a cheery anthem about the end of days that had been a standard with the band for several years.
“That’s it for this set,” Natalie said. “We’ll be back again in an hour.”
People crowded in from all sides, asking questions, snapping photos, trying to get some face time with the band members.
“Too bad we don’t have that EP already,” Rudy muttered, with a pointed look at Jonah. “Or T-shirts.”
By the time Jonah unleashed his Strat and looked for Emma, she’d disappeared.
Chapter Forty-six
Death Came Knocking
It was good that Emma had Tyler’s old jacket, because it was a clear night and the temperature was dropping. Even if it looked kind of silly with her torch-singer dress. Turning up her collar, she followed the walkway down to the screened gazebo by the lake. She’d had enough of mingling . . . now she just wanted this endless night to be over.
Sonny Lee always said, “If you’re worried over something you can’t do nothing about, shake it off.”
What about grief, Emma thought. Does it work for that, too?
This was not the kind of scrape she’d normally get into . . . falling for an unattainable man. Was it because of Jonah’s gift? Or because she was trying to somehow replace the men in her life that she’d lost? She’d never subscribed to the notion that the wrong man was better than no man at all.
If Jonah was hiding something, she wondered, could it be something good instead of something bad?
Leaves had found their way in to the gazebo and had collected in the corners and against the door. Emma scuffled through them and sat down on a bench, her back to the lake, the wrought iron cold under her. She could probably just hang out here until it was time for the second set. Or forever.
The interior of the gazebo was fairly large, its furniture huddling like ghosts under canvas wraps. Spiderwebs rippled like petticoats in the wind from the lake.
When she heard the crunch of gravel on the path, she thought, Stay away, Jonah. Or Natalie. Or Alison. Whoever you are . . . just leave me be.
But her bad luck ran true. The hinges squeaked as the screen door opened and closed. A tall figure stood silhouetted in the light from outside.
“So. Lady Day. It seems you were only half drowned.” Emma’s heart somersaulted into her throat. It was Rowan DeVries.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
“I was invited, like everyone else.” Rowan moved forward a step. There was only one door, and the wizard was standing right in front of it. Light collected on the tips of his fingers, and he extended his hand to illuminate the corner where Emma sat. “The Interguild Council wants to keep us as close as possible while they cut our throats.” He eased closer. “I caught part of your set. I must say, you’re an amazing guitarist. It seems you have all kinds of secret talents.”
“It’s no secret,” Emma said. The windows were a possibility, but he’d probably get to her before she boosted herself up and over, even if she could smash through the screen. “If you’re thinking of screaming, it’s unlikely anyone will hear you,” Rowan said. “They have a great sound system, and the volume’s cranked up all the way.”
“Why would I be screaming?” Emma said. “Unless you’re about to do something creepy.” Why did you have to bring that up? Well, it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t think of it on his own.
“I can’t believe that I fell for that amnesia story of yours. I was still grieving over Rachel . . . that’s the only explanation. I actually believed that you really didn’t remember anything, and the notion of Burroughs torturing you turned my stomach. I hoped that if I spared your life, I might one day find out what happened to Rachel. That’s why I allowed you to escape. It was a moment of weakness on my part, but it won’t happen again. Unfortunately, you still managed to fall to your death . . . or so I thought.”
“Am I supposed to say I’m sorry?”
“This alliance you’ve formed with the labrats intrigues me,” Rowan said. “Is this some kind of community-service project? Frankly, I think you can do better.”
“Frankly, I t
hink it’s none of your business,” Emma said. Kicking off her useless shoes, she stood. “I’m going back up to the house.” She tried to slide around him, but he shifted so that he was still blocking her path.
“I have another theory . . . want to hear it?”
“No,” Emma said. “Get out of my way.”
But, of course, he told her anyway. “Here’s what I think . . . that the conspiracy didn’t end with Thorn Hill at all. That the survivors who possessed the knowledge we were looking for were right under our noses, still conspiring against us. That my sister walked into a trap and you were in on it. Things went wrong, somehow, and your father was killed and you were injured. Then we came along and assumed that you were the victim.” Emma eased back one step, then another. “Here’s what I think . . . you should stay away from those wizard drugs.” She turned, planted her hands on the window frame, and boosted herself into the opening, but Rowan wrapped his arms around her waist and dragged her back. Slamming her up against the wall, he gripped her wrists with his hot hands and pinned them above her head.
He leaned in close to Emma and said, in a low, fierce voice, “Don’t you think I deserve to know who murdered my sister? I swear, I have nothing against you. All I want is information.”
And the thing was, Emma did think he deserved to know. “Now,” he said, “we’re going to go where nobody will ever find us, and this time I’m not going to take no for an answer.” He spoke a charm and Emma felt the sizzle and burn of power pouring into her.
Emma took a step toward Rowan and slammed her elbow up, freeing her wrist with a practiced twist. She smashed her skull into his nose, with a satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone. Rowan howled in pain, pressing both hands against his nose as the blood poured down.
Emma took two steps back, her head swimming with a sense of déjà vu. Why was this feeling so familiar?
“What . . . the . . . hell?” Rowan said, practically gargling blood. “But—but you’re immobilized,” he said. “Or you should be.”
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