by Kim Fielding
Once, when he was sixteen and a storm was on the way, he’d grabbed his guitar and driven his crappy old car out past the edge of town. Standing on a small bluff, he sang to the tempest until the rain and hail pelted him into submission. His mother yelled when he got home—“What on earth were you thinking? You could’ve been hit by lightning!”—and his father took the car keys for a month, but it had been worth it.
Another time he’d—
A ripple of unease ran through the tram, interrupting his reverie. He realized they’d stopped, but nobody was getting on or off. A gruff voice rang out at the far end of the car. Jaxon couldn’t see what the fuss was, but Fedir was taller. Fedir hissed in English, “Go!”
Reid reacted while Jaxon was still trying to figure out what to do. Reid grabbed Jaxon’s arm with one hand and pushed his way through the crowd with the other, dragging Jaxon with him. Nobody tried to stop them, and in fact a fuss at the other end of the car suggested that someone had impeded the shouter’s progress. Reid and Jaxon hopped off the tram, Reid grunting on impact. They took off running, but after only a half block, Reid wheezed, “Can’t keep up. Don’t wait. Go!”
Somebody chased closely with pounding boots and barked orders. Jaxon gave Reid one last, desperate look and took off at top speed.
Other than music, running had always been the one thing Jaxon excelled at, and now he raced faster than ever before. He left his heart behind with Reid, who was slower under the best circumstances and still recovering from his injuries. Jaxon headed toward the bright lights that sprinkled the hill, hoping he’d reach the main square on the way.
Less than two blocks later, something whizzed past him, causing a small explosion in the plaster of a nearby wall. The sound took a moment to reach him, and only then did he realize someone was shooting at him. He swore, veered closer to the protection of the buildings, and ran faster than he would have thought possible.
More gunfire echoed behind him, followed by shouts and screams of pain. God, was that Reid? Jaxon couldn’t tell through the rasp of his own breathing. He turned a sharp corner and for a split second considered going back to help. But what could he do? He was unarmed and completely unskilled in fighting, and he was no match for soldiers with guns. The best thing he could do was reach the main square and fulfill the mission. Anything else meant Reid was sacrificing himself for nothing.
Faster, dammit. Faster!
He left the noise of the fight behind.
Jaxon reached the old part of the city, where the streets were especially dark and narrow and alleys branched off at odd angles. This neighborhood was a rabbit warren. And Jaxon had to be faster than the foxes.
He zigged and zagged as much as possible while keeping a more or less direct route to the square. In the distance, sirens screeched with the piercing high-low keen he’d heard only in Europe. He didn’t care. If he got to the square, he’d wail right back at them. He’d sing them all down with the truth.
Somewhere along the way, he lost his scarf and threw aside the hat. The chill wasn’t bothering him now; he was sweating like at the end of a long, fast set. Barely slowing, he skimmed out of the jacket too. And he flew.
He became aware of a noise ahead of him—the unmistakable quiet rumble of a waiting crowd. Between his heated skin and straining lungs, he felt as if he were on fire. But he reached inside and found a final reserve of energy. He ran without feeling the pavement beneath his feet.
As he turned a corner, the street widened. Dozens of people standing shoulder to shoulder blocked his way, and he bounced ineffectually against the human barrier. He fell to his knees, then to all fours. He didn’t even possess enough breath to cry.
People surrounded him. He couldn’t make out their faces, couldn’t understand any of their words. Then hands were lifting him to his feet, gentle but firm, and he caught two familiar words. “Jaxon Powers!” Repeated first by two or three people, then a dozen, then a hundred. Chanting in unison like a mantra or a prayer. Two men held Jaxon’s arms to steady him, but it was the chanting that restored his energy and spurred him to walk. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses, and walking to the beat of his own name, Jaxon headed into the square.
Chapter Sixteen
THE public space was more oblong than square, with an imposing stone building looming at one end. Jaxon suspected the building had originally been a church, but Talmirov disapproved of religion, so nowadays it housed dusty relics from Vasnytsia’s past. Jaxon and Reid had toured it with Halyna, Jaxon more impressed by the architecture than the contents. But of course he wasn’t going museum-hopping tonight. In front of the building was a stairway almost the width of the square itself, topped by a broad landing that made a natural stage.
Jaxon ascended the stairs under his own damn steam.
As he struggled to regain his breath, he looked around. The setup was primitive—a couple of big, battered speakers plugged into heavy-duty extension cords, a mic on a stand, a pair of spotlights, and a single acoustic guitar that looked brand-new. He’d had more sophisticated venues in junior high, but this would do.
The square was packed, and additional people stood at open windows and on balconies in the buildings around the square. A few even waved to him from rooftops. He waved back, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
Several streets converged at the square, and he saw red and blue lights flashing in some of them. Soldiers stood along the margins of the assembly, but none of the armed men were making any attempt to shut things down. Maybe because they didn’t want to start a riot, or maybe because they were vastly outnumbered. In any case, they remained still and everyone ignored them.
After his desperate race, after losing Reid, Jaxon should have been capable of little more than curling into a ball and passing out. But he’d always drawn energy from his audiences, as though they were enormous batteries, and tonight was the biggest charge of all. These people hadn’t plunked down money to hear a rock star sing a few favorite tunes. They’d come tonight risking their freedom, risking their lives, to listen to him. He wasn’t going to let them down.
With a deep inhalation, Jaxon stepped forward and picked up the guitar. His audience cheered and clapped, the din reverberating off the adjacent buildings. He had to wait for the noise to fade before he could test the mic. “Zdravi Starograd!” he shouted, showing off his entire command of Vasnytsian with the simple greeting. But the crowd reacted as if he had performed a prodigious feat, everyone roaring approval. Again he had to wait for them to calm down before he could speak.
“I’m sorry I have to talk to you all in English. I hope you understand. And I want to thank all of you—the people of Vasnytsia—for your friendship. I know it’s not easy for you to get access to my music, and it means so much to me that you make that effort. You are strong, kind people, and I’m so honored to have met you.”
The ovation and cheering were so loud that Jaxon felt them throughout his body. Good. More energy.
He slung the guitar strap over his neck and spent a few minutes tuning the instrument. He’d played many of much higher quality, but this one felt good enough under his fingers. It would do just fine.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to begin tonight with a brand-new song. I wrote it right here in Vasnytsia. It’s called ‘Battle Song,’ and you’re the first to hear me perform it.” And the last. He forced a smile and began to strum the opening chords.
As always, he immediately lost himself in the song. The notes wove a magical spell and he was back in that castle, grieving the loss of his lover, waiting for the enemy soldiers to arrive. His throat wanted to tighten and keep the words inside, but he had the strength to overcome his tears. Still slightly winded from his run, with a crappy guitar and crappier sound system, he gave the best performance of his life—he felt it in his bones.
But as he neared the end of the final chorus, a strange thing happened, something that had never happened to him before. New words came as if carried by his muse, and he extem
porized a new verse.
Even though the arrows take me,
Even though my songs are sung,
I carry love for a hero within me.
I bring you truth with my guitar and tongue.
The crowd applauded wildly. At least, Jaxon thought they did; he was too lost in his heart to be sure. And now, he knew, was the time for more direct words.
He searched near the base of the steps, and there in the corner nearest the building, hidden deeply in shadows, he spied a man and woman bent over a laptop. Jaxon descended the stairs. “Ready?” he asked.
The people with the laptop looked up at him. “I think so,” the woman said.
“Do you want to give instructions?”
She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “Yes.” She walked up to the stage with him and the crowd hushed at once.
Speaking in front of a large assembly would terrify most people under any circumstances, even without armed men and antigovernment conspiracies thrown into the mix. But this woman took the mic and spoke in a clear, steady voice. Of course Jaxon couldn’t understand most of it, but he caught his own name and the word Wi-Fi, and he saw the flurry of action as a large portion of the audience took out their cell phones and flipped them open. At the edges of the square, the soldiers shifted uneasily but didn’t draw their weapons. Even the most trigger-happy among them must have been hesitant to fire into a large, nonviolent crowd. Jaxon wondered why the soldiers didn’t just order the crowd to disperse, but perhaps they were afraid nobody would listen. Jaxon had the impression these people wouldn’t scare easily.
But he also realized his time was limited, so as soon as the woman stepped away from the mic, Jaxon took over.
“I’d really rather sing to you than talk. I’m a better musician than I am a speaker. But I have to tell you these things. And God, I really hope the world is listening right now.”
More movement from the soldiers, maybe more goal-directed now. Jaxon wouldn’t have long to make his case, so he thought quickly, trying to be as succinct as possible.
“Your prime minister is corrupt. Talmirov has been stealing millions from you—from Vasnytsia. And he’s been conspiring to help Russia invade sovereign nations.” The crowd rumbled in response—anger, maybe, but not aimed at Jaxon. At the edges of the square, the soldiers became more forceful, trying to clear a path to him. The audience wasn’t cooperating; in fact, it looked as if they were pushing back. But to Jaxon’s left, closer to the stage, another commotion had begun. He couldn’t make out what was going on there.
Doesn’t matter, he reminded himself. The message is the mission.
He spoke louder. “My friend Reid has—” His voice broke over the verb tense, but he continued. “Reid has proof of what Talmirov’s up to, but it’s encoded and he can’t get it out. They’ve tried to kill him over it. They might have already….” He couldn’t say it.
Voices grew louder and angrier. Soldiers shouted at citizens, who shouted back. The jostling grew worse, like churning waves at the edges of a great dark sea. But nobody was trying to leave, and the vast majority of the audience held up their phones, waiting to broadcast what he said next.
“Vasnytsians are good people who don’t deserve to live this way. World, don’t turn your backs on them! This week a good man risked everything, has given up everything, just to show you the truth. Don’t—”
The mic cut out with an earsplitting screech, and at the same time, the spotlights went dark. Now that the glare had gone, Jaxon could better make out what was happening in the square. Brightly lit windows in the surrounding buildings provided some illumination, as did hundreds of blinking and flashing lights from cell phone cameras. But what was happening in the square wasn’t good. More uniformed men had arrived, and while they hadn’t drawn their weapons, some of them were fortified with helmets and riot shields. Instead of trying to round up the bystanders, the soldiers seemed intent on getting to Jaxon.
Not much time left.
But dammit, the stage was still his, the audience still listening and still capturing him with their cameras. He had a robust voice; he could make it carry.
“Be strong!” he shouted. “Tyrants can’t stand by themselves. There’s so much life among you! So much good. And hope! I think the right side will never lose as long as there’s hope. I—”
Several people near the stage called his name, distracting him. He turned to look and—Oh God. Reid was there, his T-shirt torn and bloodied, his face puffy and raw-looking. But he stood near the base of the stairs and waved his hand, and he was alive.
With the guitar still strapped around him, Jaxon rushed down the steps and into Reid’s arms. Reid grunted at the impact and clutched him fiercely.
“You’re not dead,” Jaxon said.
“Not yet.” Reid let go of him and looked around. “I need to get you out of here.”
“No.”
“Jax—”
“No point in running. I’m using my time wisely.” He grabbed Reid’s neck and yanked him close for a fierce kiss. “I love you.”
Before Reid could argue, Jaxon raced back up the stairs. During the few moments he’d been offstage, more armed soldiers had arrived and come closer to the stage. But the crowd pressed tight around them, and now—Jaxon couldn’t tell who started it—the people began to sing. It was “Dance One More for Me,” the song he always used to close his gigs. Nothing could be more perfect.
Jaxon held up his hands and shouted, “Do what’s right! Please help my friends!”
And then, because he had no words left to persuade his distant audience, he joined the present audience in song. His voice soared, enriched and supported by hundreds—thousands?—of others.
A weird little redheaded kid in rural Nebraska had once dreamed of being rich and famous, knowing deep in his heart that what he really longed for was love. But now he’d found something even better, something he hadn’t dared hope for. Tonight Jaxon mattered, and that was the sweetest gift of all.
The chorus repeated again, the words as familiar to him as his own skin.
Don’t leave me yet.
The guitars are still playing. The stars are still shining.
Dance one more.
Don’t leave, don’t leave me yet.
As he sang, Jaxon watched Reid, who had joined in the song as well.
The crowd began the song again and was midway through the first stanza when Jaxon was shot.
He didn’t even realize it was a bullet at first. It felt like a blow to his shoulder, as if someone had punched him hard. He staggered back a few steps as everything slowed down, as the square went eerily silent. Then he felt the hot rush of blood and realized what had happened.
“Unusual way for a punk musician to die,” he said quietly. He turned to look at Reid and smiled.
The second bullet knocked him to the ground.
The pain throbbed, yet distantly, like someone else’s radio playing a block away. He felt as heavy as the stones of the castle as the crescent moon smiled down at him and… and….
Reid. Reid was there, tearing Jaxon’s shirt open. Jaxon tried to reach for him, but his arm didn’t seem to be working. “I broke the guitar,” he said. It was in pieces, but parts of it were still attached to the strap behind his neck.
Reid worked the strap over Jaxon’s head. “Hang on. Hang on, goddammit.” His voice was so rough, but his hands were gentle as they moved over Jaxon’s body.
Somewhere close by was a lot of shouting, a lot of frantic movement. Jaxon thought he caught his name, or maybe he just misheard some Vasnytsian. Didn’t matter. “Did we do it? Did they hear us?”
“Yeah, Jax. They heard.” Reid was doing something to Jaxon’s wounds, but Jaxon couldn’t tell what. His senses were all in a muddle. A cacophony of sound and sight and feeling—dull thuds of ache added to the sharper pain—and his mouth coppery with the taste of blood.
“Good,” Jaxon mumbled.
“Don’t leave me, babe. Don’t.”
“Reid,” Jaxon croaked.
With a growl like an angry bear, Reid whirled around and flew at the nearest soldiers. But there were too many of them, and three quickly subdued him, shouting in Vasnytsian as he struggled.
“No,” Jaxon cried weakly, trying without success to sit up. “Don’t hurt him! He’s—”
One of the soldiers fell to his knees beside Jaxon and pushed gently on his chest. “Do not move.”
“You fuckers! Don’t hurt Reid!” The effort made Jaxon gasp.
“No hurting,” the soldier said. “We will help you.” There was no cruelty in his eyes, just kindness and concern.
“Help?” said Jaxon, perplexed.
Then Reid called out to him. He’d stopped trying to fight the soldiers and now stood among them, unrestrained. “It’s okay, Jax. They’re on our side.”
Jaxon’s soldier grinned. “My wife is big fan of Jaxon Powers. She will kill me if I hurt you.” Then his expression turned serious. “I know how bad Talmirov is. Many of us know.”
“Oh.” That was the best Jaxon could come up with. Thankfully, more conversation didn’t seem expected.
“We must go now,” the soldier said. “Not everyone is friend.” Several of his colleagues came forward and lifted Jaxon into their arms. It hurt. And he was dizzy as they pushed their way quickly through the chaos. But the mission was complete, Jaxon had more friends than he’d realized, and Reid was right there, running alongside him.
Jaxon smiled.
