“I’ll need you to submit the new lyrics to me,” said Mo, “as well as the lyrics to the rest of your material from here on out. I know,” he said over their protests, “it’s treating you like you’re children who need adult supervision, but you’ve done it to yourselves. You’ve squandered a lot of your goodwill with the administration, and frankly with me as well. And if I get word of any more of this kind of bullying, Aerosol Cheese will be disbanded.”
He let the shocked silence lie there for a moment.
“Guys, you know I encourage you to run with your creativity,” he said more gently. “You’re a talented team, and I don’t want to have to call a halt to the good work you’re producing. The faculty was even on the point of offering you the opening spot at the solstice concert next month.”
That stopped William’s breath for a second. The school’s annual solstice music festival was the biggest musical event of the year: bigger than Beltane, even, because it focused entirely on music and didn’t limit the performers to Ash Grove students. It drew people from many miles away—including, sometimes, talent scouts and agents—and it was a great opportunity to be discovered, especially since Ash Grove had started offering a streaming simulcast of the festival several years ago. To be chosen to open it was a real coup. Surely Mo wouldn’t have mentioned it if he really intended to break up AC.
“Is there a chance we can still be considered?” he asked. Almost begged.
Mo kept them in suspense for a moment. Then he said, “I’ve talked Dr. Aysgarth into giving you another chance.” The guys’ exclamations of relief he cut off with a raised hand. “You’ll post an apology on the band website and Facebook page by noon today. Tomorrow at morning assembly you’ll make an apology, as a group, to the entire student body—”
“Man, you’re kidding us, right?” Eric protested.
Mo said flatly, “If you don’t cooperate, any performing you do outside the requirements of your coursework will be done without Ash Grove’s assistance or endorsement. No more using school instruments, rehearsal space, or transport. No more advertising your gigs on campus. No more web hosting from the school for the band website. And, needless to say, no performing at all in the solstice concert. You get the picture?”
“Eric, shut up,” muttered Jeremiah. “An apology won’t kill us.”
But Eric was sauntering toward the door. “I don’t need Ash Grove backing,” he said. “My new agent will hook me up. You can keep your pissant garage band. Later, bitches.”
New agent? Had that weird guy actually approached Eric with his sales pitch? Either way, Eric was only hurting himself by defying Mo and the principal.
When the door shut behind Eric, Mo looked grimmer than William had ever seen him. “Does that go for the rest of you as well?” he asked.
They assured him it did not.
“All right, then,” said their teacher, somewhat mollified. “Work out the wording of an apology among yourselves, then, and run it past me and Dr. Aysgarth. In the meantime, I’m going to see that Mr. Nash gets detention. You’d better start auditioning guitarists, because he’s through.”
William’s resentment eased as they left Mo’s office. “She Says Yes” was part of the past now, and he was already testing out different melodies in his mind, looking for one that caught his present outlook. Sheila was meeting him in the smaller dance studio that evening, where she was practicing her flamenco number, and the thought cheered him. He whistled as he and the other guys left the building. It would be nice to have Eric gone, too, and now there was an opening for Tanner. This whole kerfuffle might be a blessing in disguise. And to get a chance at opening the solstice festival—
“What’s that?” asked Blake. “Something new you’re working on?”
Belatedly, William tuned in to himself. He had to smile when he realized what he’d been whistling. “No, it’s an old eighties song by the Producers. ‘She Sheila.’”
That evening after rehearsal he went to the small dance studio to meet Sheila. The room had the expected wall of mirrors, but the floor was sprung hardwood rather than the rubbery black surface of the larger studio where the ballet students practiced. He let himself in and stood just inside the door, watching Sheila as she danced alone.
She was so engrossed that she hadn’t seen him come in. Guitar music came from an iPod dock in the corner, and the sharp echoes of her high-heeled dance shoes added their own percussion. Face intent, she stamped and twirled, her flared skirt flying out around her. Her slender arms were lifted overhead, and he could see the muscles of her back, bared by the leotard. Her hair, unbraided, streamed around her, seeming to gather all the light in the room. He had seen her dance before, but never with this level of intensity and fire. He was captivated.
The music came to an end, and Sheila finished on a dramatic pose, her skirt settling around her. William whistled and applauded.
She flashed a startled smile at him. “I didn’t realize you were there,” she said. She was slightly breathless, and her face was pink.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you. You’re fantastic.”
“If only,” she said over her shoulder, crossing the floor to a chair by the wall where her belongings were piled. “I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.”
As far as he was concerned, she was performance ready. “I’ve always wondered, what’s with all the stamping? Is it just for rhythm?”
She picked up a towel and dabbed at her face with it. “Flamenco is about claiming territory,” she explained. “It’s defiance against anyone who wants to steal your land. So every time you stamp,” and she brought a heel down sharply to strike the floor an echoing blow, “you’re asserting your ownership. It’s very aggressive. I love that about it.”
It definitely suited her. Maddie would say Sheila had found the style of dancing that suited her alpha-bitch personality. But Maddie wasn’t here. He changed the subject quickly.
“Would you like to try it with me? There are still a few passages where I’m kind of sketchy, but I think I’m close enough for rehearsal.”
She nodded, tossed the towel aside, and moved to the center of the floor. He made a few tuning adjustments to his acoustic guitar and caught her eye. She gave him a nod, and he launched in.
He really needed to grow his fingernails out if he was going to get serious about playing flamenco guitar; the sound didn’t have the brightness of attack that he was going for. But it would do for the present. His mind wandered away from the mechanics of the piece and once again he got caught up in watching her. Whipping her skirt around with one hand as if she were a matador taunting an angry bull, then in the slower passages making those graceful twirly motions with her fingers. She was so… vibrant. That was the word.
Then she pulled up short and shot him a look, and he realized he’d lost his place in the song. Oops. To cover his embarrassment, he dashed off the intro of “Sunshine of Your Love.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, and he couldn’t blame her for sounding annoyed. He gave her his most charming grin.
“I’m testing your improvisational skills.”
“You dork.” But then she smiled and put her hands on her hips. “All right then. Bring it.”
He hadn’t expected that, and had to think fast. He started her off with something halfway Spanish-sounding, “Classical Gas.” She caught the tempo quickly and was keeping up pretty well with flamenco steps when he switched to “Maple Leaf Rag,” and she amazed him by tossing off some jazzy soft-shoe moves.
He made her laugh when he changed abruptly to Swan Lake, which she aced, of course, even without pointe shoes. “Come on, you’re not even trying,” she taunted, so he switched to “The Stars and Stripes Forever” and then “Freebird,” which put her imagination to the test. She pulled some Duncan dance moves out for that. But when he segued into “The Blue Danube,” she walked across the floor to him.
“I’m not dancing a waltz alone,” she said softly. “Are you going to join me?”
“Sounds like a rule that could get you into trouble,” she said.
“Believe me, it has.” But that was a direction he didn’t want his thoughts to go in. He put his right hand on her waist—such a small waist—and took her right hand in his left. He started to hum the waltz tune. He wouldn’t have to talk if he was humming.
He was a little surprised that she let him lead. He was more surprised that, even after she had been dancing hard and sweating, she still smelled nice. He was most surprised when she drew the dance to a stop and kissed him.
“That was to say thanks,” she said. Her face was very close to his. “I like dancing for you, and with you.”
He was having brain freeze again. “No problem, Maddie,” he said, and then for a hideous eternity they just stood there looking at each other in silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“I know you didn’t.” She left him on the dance floor and went to change her dance shoes for flats and put on a sweater over her dance clothes. When she shouldered her bag and started turning out lights, he took the hint and put his guitar back in its case. He joined her where she stood by the doorway waiting for him so that she could turn out the last light.
He tried again. “I’m really—”
She held up a hand to hush him. “Look, it’s been a long day for me, and probably for you too, so let’s not do this now, okay? You tell me when you’re free.”
“I don’t have any rehearsals tomorrow, so—”
“No.” She rested her hand on his heart. “Tell me when you’re free.”
Her blue eyes, looking straight into his, were enormous. He swallowed hard. “I—I am free. That way.”
It seemed like an age before she spoke again. “Okay,” she said at last. “I probably shouldn’t let myself get involved with a guy who’s on the rebound. But I like you. And I don’t like many people.” She snapped the light switch off and closed the studio door behind them. In the brightly lit hallway she gave him a sudden smile. “Let’s get something to eat,” she said briskly. “The snack bar’s open til nine, and I’m always, like, starving after I dance.”
His heart lifted, and when he held out his hand, she took it. “That sounds great, Sheila.” He made sure to get her name right this time. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to be using it a lot from now on.
Chapter 13
In the night, as Tanner slept, the succubus came to him.
“Tristan.” A harsh whisper through cracked lips. “How I’ve missed you.”
Out of a deep sleep he found dry, brittle limbs entwining him. A papery skin, no flesh, stretched over the bones of her body. Her eyes, once sea-green and luminous, were cloudy and gummed as they gazed into his.
Nausea twisted his stomach. No longer supple and luscious as she had been in life—or what passed for life—she was now gaunt and starved. Starved… The familiar sick languor began to seep through him as she sucked his life away.
“Don’t fight me,” she cooed. Fingers like twigs caressed his chest.
He struggled. Those desiccated bones should have snapped, but they held him fast. Fighting to free himself only made him weaken more quickly. His arms and legs were pinned to the mattress. His breath began to grate harshly in his chest as he struggled for air.
The brittle grasp tightened, and the thing brought its shriveled face close to his. “How about a kiss, lover?” A laugh rattled in its throat like a dried leaf snagged in a cobweb.
With a last desperate effort he flung the creature off him and awoke, gasping, on his futon in the Sumner basement.
He sat up and turned on the light, groped blindly for the remote and turned the TV on. The bright mindless chatter of a shopping network filled the dark corners with reassuring nonsense. One hand went to his throat to close around the rowan pendant that Joy had given him, and his eyes darted to the windows to make sure their safeguards of salt and rue and holly were still intact. He began to shake as the chill air of the basement bit at his skin, damp with perspiration.
She wasn’t really here. He repeated it to himself. It was only a dream. Joy had urged him to see a counselor about his nightmares, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. If he told the whole truth, he’d be labeled insane and medicated out of his senses; if he held things back, what good would counseling do?
He concentrated instead on thinking of Joy. Just one floor up, practically over his head, she was sleeping. He imagined himself lying in bed with her, feeling her warmth flow into his body, embracing her softness. He tried to slow his breathing to a calmer rate. Everything’s fine; I’m safe. Joy is nearby.
Remembering how recently he had feared that he might lose her to the taint of the succubus—that the girl who made his life worthwhile could be transformed into the creature who had made it hell—brought the rush of thankfulness, as always, that they had been spared that. He had been given so many second chances now that he didn’t even try to count them.
But he couldn’t shake the lingering horror of the dream. He picked up his phone and in a moment she was answering sleepily.
“I just needed to hear your voice,” he said. “I’m sorry to wake you.”
“It’s all right,” she said, in a near whisper so her father wouldn’t hear through the wall. “Did you have the dream again?”
He swallowed. “It was pretty bad.”
“I’m coming down,” she said instantly.
“No, your dad will hear.” He couldn’t handle a scene right now, or worse, being kicked out of the house. “As long as I’m near you I can hang on.”
“Then come up to the kitchen, I’ll fix you some cocoa.”
She could blot out the rest of the world for him, all of the terror and bleakness. But time with her, as much as he craved it, would be stolen from her sleep. It was selfish to ask her to sit up with him every time he had night terrors.
“I’ll be okay,” he said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, you go back to sleep. You need your rest… Joy?”
“Mm hmm?” Sleepiness was muffling her voice; he could picture her eyes blinking slowly, her face rosy from sleep, and had to fight down the urge to go running upstairs that instant to take her in his arms.
“I love you,” he said instead.
“Love you too. See you in the morning, ’kay?”
Having started in horror, his day didn’t improve much.
He didn’t try to go back to sleep. Instead he grabbed an afghan and went upstairs, where he had two escape routes and didn’t feel so bottled up. He huddled on the living-room sofa under the afghan and watched old movies with the sound muted until the sun came up. By the time Steven strode into the kitchen for breakfast, Tanner’s eyelids were at half mast. He felt like a wreck and knew from Steven’s face that he looked like one.
“You’re up early,” Steven commented. “Coffee started?”
It was obvious that it wasn’t. The machine stood cold and dry. “I’ll start it now.” He’d been making an effort to carry his weight around the house, but after nearly two years of having everything done for him, he still forgot sometimes to put his dishes in the dishwasher or run a load of laundry when the hamper filled. Steven, of course, noticed every single lapse.
Now he must have observed the unsteadiness of his hands as Tanner measured out the coffee. “Looks like you had a rough night,” he said. “Are you going to be able to work like that?”
So it was going to be one of those days where everything Steven said was a passive-aggressive dig. Awesome.
“If there’s any soldering or delicate work Bobby or Larry will take care of it. I should be fine.”
“Really? I know I wouldn’t want someone working on my expensive bike if he looked like he had a case of the DTs.” He took in Tanner’s sweatpants and st
ubbled jaw. “I guess Bobby doesn’t have a strict dress code, either.”
For just a second Tanner flashed back to a time when he could have snapped his fingers for a couple of security guards to remove Steven bodily from his sight. As glad as he was to leave his modeling life behind, there were perks about being a celebrity that he did miss sometimes.
“I don’t go in til noon today,” he said, hating that he felt like he had to justify himself. “I’ll get cleaned up before then.”
“That’s good,” said Steven, as a yawning Joy drifted into the kitchen, still in floral pajamas. Tanner’s heart lifted as it always did when he saw her sweet, funny face, and the sight of her pregnant belly stirred a feeling of protectiveness.
“How are plans for the wedding progressing?” Steven was asking, but Tanner evaded the question by giving Joy a good-morning kiss. He loved the way she kissed him: she gave all of herself, as if this moment mattered more than anything else. An overwhelming tenderness made him tighten his arms around her until she squeaked in protest, reminding him of the baby.
“Sorry,” he said, and placed a gentle kiss of apology on her belly.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. “Any better?”
“Now I am,” he said. “Thanks to you.”
The clink of ceramic reminded him of Steven’s presence; he had fetched mugs and was pouring coffee. “I was just asking Tanner how things are going regarding the wedding,” he told Joy. “Have you two settled on a location yet?”
“Not yet.” Joy smothered a yawn and sat down with her coffee. She had a pillow crease on one cheek, and her eyes weren’t all the way open. She looked so cute that Tanner wished he could call in to work, lock Steven out of the house, and spend the whole day in bed with her. “I’ve been looking at some of the packages at the Biltmore Estate,” she said. “It would be incredible to get married there.”
Casting Shadows (The Ash Grove Chronicles) Page 14
