Eighth Note (Fire Ballad Book 1)

by Kimberly Adams

  “She’s just a business partner. Two of the specials, Mags?” He suggested, winking at her. The mid-forties woman blushed and nodded, the customer before her completely forgotten.

  We settled into our orange, pleather seats, the torn plastic scraping uncomfortably against the back of my thighs. My jean shorts were cut-off and rode up to the tops of my thighs when I sat. I tugged at my scoop-necked, gray tee-shirt.

  Cole seemed too big overall for the booth, and attempted to stretch his long legs out under the table. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

  “Nope. I prefer anything that used to have horns.”

  He grinned, scratching his chin before nodding. Now that he was sitting across from me, I had a better view of the sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. In the car, I hadn’t noticed the art from the passenger’s seat, and I leaned forward, reaching for him.

  He almost jumped when I traced my finger over the inked words.

  “Stop being a baby. What does this say?” I asked, pushing the cuff of his tee-shirt up a little to find where the tattoo began on his shoulder.

  He looked up at the ceiling, squashing himself back against the seat as far from me as possible. I realized that I was giving him a full helping of cleavage shot, and I slammed back into my seat as well.

  “I am the highway.”

  I read the words as he said them, realizing the tiny design in and out of the letters was actually a long bar of music. “Chris Cornell. Audioslave.”

  He only nodded.

  “I met him last November, in Ohio. He has a four octave vocal range. That’s pretty amazing.” I mouthed the words on Cole’s arm, watching his bicep tighten as I concentrated. “What does it mean? Who’s it about? Rebecca?”

  “You are one hundred percent journalist. I don’t like questions, though, so let’s just eat, okay?”

  “You think I’m a journalist?” I smirked, turning to stare out the window at the parking lot. “Hi. I’m a music journalist. I’m Eva Reed, and this is my press pass.”

  “Sounds natural,” he admitted, and I shook my head, reaching to spin the bottle of Tabasco sauce in my fingertips.

  “The reason these musicians talk so openly with me is because I don’t care about the press or my own fame. I just want to hear about their songs. Their music.” He watched me, and I reached for my ringing phone, answering it quickly. “Hey Mom.”

  “Eva, I just talked to Will. Are you okay?”

  Cole excused himself for the restroom, and I nodded. “I’m fine.”

  I could hear my dad’s voice in the background, and my mom quieted him softly. “Tell her I’ll send a car for her. Now.”

  “Mom, tell him I’m fine. I’m a grown up. I can handle my own life.”

  “Eva, we worry. Dad trusts Cole, but-…,”

  “I don’t trust him, Roam!” West interrupted, and she hushed him again.

  “Just trust me, okay? I’m capable of taking care of myself. Tell Dad I love him. Love you too, Mom.”

  I disconnected, silently thanking my mom when she didn’t call back. My parents had been through hell and back to be together, and I hated to cause them any grief. My dad was way too overprotective, and I’m sure Will was getting an earful from him about ‘letting’ me go. As though I was the little woman. Hell no.

  My dad was old-fashioned. West believed it was his responsibility to take care of my mom, even though my mother was the strongest woman I’d ever known. They loved each other, unconditionally, and I wondered if Will and I would have survived some of the things that they’d been through.

  “How’s Roam?” Cole asked as he returned, and I nodded once.

  “She’s fine. My little sister is nine months old. She keeps them busy.”

  “She magical, too?”

  I eyed him as Maggie appeared with our BLTs. How well do I know Cole? I remembered what my grandfather had told me once, about my powers. Be wary of who you share your secret with.

  Intentions often begin with good and end with evil.

  “We don’t know if she has magic. Yet.”

  He stilled, focused on me, and I felt my chest tighten a little at the intensity of his glare. “Listen, you’ll have to trust me if we’re working together. I have to trust you. Agreed?”

  “I don’t trust anyone completely, Cole. Not even my own husband. To trust is to rely on someone to be there for you when you’re at your most vulnerable. If I sit around waiting for someone to save me, I lose time. I save myself,” I added, swiping my thumb across the screen of my phone absently.

  He took a bite, chewed, and then reached for his glass.

  “Sounds lonely.”

  Ignoring him, I hurried to finish my food, shifting my gaze to the parking lot.

  Chapter Seven

  Somewhere between the main road and the miles of dirt that led to Cole’s cabin, the sky opened up and pummeled the car with sideways rain. Thunder cracked in the sky, dividing the music I was playing into morbid pieces of sound. “What in the hell?”

  “Hail,” Cole ducked under the wipers, trying to see through the windshield even as the giant balls of ice beat against the glass.

  “It’s June!”

  “Relax, it won’t last.” He made a sharp, right turn, and finally I could make out a structure in the distance.

  “Are we there yet?”

  He hit the brake, throwing the car into park. “Come on, kid.”

  We dashed for the cabin, the two-story house offering an overhanging front porch to shelter us from the sudden weather. Cursing, I reached for my cheek, and Cole narrowed his eyes.

  “You got cut,” he realized. I touched my cheekbone, pulling my fingers away to stare at the blood.

  “It’s fine. It’ll heal,” I murmured, gesturing to the door. “Key?”

  He dropped to the side of the door, feeling along the wood. I watched him dig two fingers into a knot hole. “In here.”

  “Seriously?”

  I started to make fun of his security measures when he jerked his hand away suddenly.

  A spider the size of a quarter skittered out of the hole.

  “Fuck,” he turned his thumb over, and I realized that the thing had bit him. I stomped on it before it could leave the porch, twisting it into the planked flooring before scraping the sole of my shoe against the door jamb.

  “You’ll heal, too, immortal,” I chided, reaching into my bag. I had my knife in seconds, and stabbed the blade into the knot. Digging around, I flung the key out, watching it drop to the wood by his feet.

  He stared at me, unimpressed. “Couldn’t you have just pulled it out with magic?”

  “That… would be lazy.” I retrieved the key, irritated that I hadn’t thought of that myself. But no, I was right, that would be incredibly lazy, and eventually if I depended on my magic to do all the menial tasks involved in my daily life, I’d be a hundred pounds heavier before I knew it.

  “Don’t expect luxury. This place has been closed up for years,” he warned. I sneezed in response, gingerly side-stepping an old umbrella tin. “I’ll call in the morning and have the electricity turned on. The water-…,”

  “Electricity I can do.” I snapped my fingers and the light fixtures sizzled to life, illuminating the dust-covered entryway. “Water, not so much.”

  “There’s well water, but it’s not good for drinking. I have bottled water in my car, for now.”

  “If we were dying of thirst, I could probably make water happen. Out of necessity.”

  “Your powers sure come with a shit-ton of rules.”

  “You have no idea.” I extracted my phone from my bag, cringing. “No bars. Great. Will is going to freak out.”

  “Can’t you just send your owl with a message?” He dropped his bag to the floor, and I deadpanned.

  “Did you just make a reference to Harry Potter?”

  “Now that you pointed it out, the humor is lost.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but there was no humor there to begin with.”
>
  “Hey.” His voice sobered as he reached for my bags, tossing them against the wall with his own. “You can dream with your husband. You did it before.” He pointed out. “That’s pretty fuckin’ amazing.”

  I watched him trail his hand over his upper arm, over the lyrics inked along his bicep. Shrugging, I nodded.

  “Okay, what do we do first?” I had to raise my voice over the rain pelting the roof. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, then down over his face.

  “If you feel up to it, we can meet Nina’s parents tonight, and then head over to the studio tomorrow morning.”

  “If I feel up to it? Why do you think I’m here?” I shifted my bag, pointing to the stairs. “My room up there?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll sleep wherever you aren’t, honey.”

  “O-kay,” I made my way up the wooden staircase, taking in the details of the cabin. My dad’s house in Ohio resembled a lodge, with woodworking, luxury, and space that was modern and lavish. This place didn’t compare, and I paused mid-way up the staircase, lost in thought.

  “When you reach the top, turn right,” Cole called from below.

  “Hold on,” I replied, pulling my magic into my fingertips.

  With a slow wave of my hand, I watched the cabin change from dingy to inviting, from dated to contemporary, like the Technicolor scene in The Wizard of Oz. Cole took a step backward, watching the walls brighten, the flooring shine, and the fireplace jump to life.

  “Damn,” he murmured, beneath his breath, lifting his face to mine. “Are you doing this, or just making me see this?”

  “It’s like art. My sketches. I’m painting what I want you to see. It doesn’t make it any less real,” I added, turning to continue up the stairs. “Wish I could build a satellite tower.”

  “I’ll let you know if I get reception,” he called, but I’d already turned into the closest room to the stairs. My magic had touched every inch of the cabin; the room’s neatly made bed, fresh pillows, and updated furniture were pleasing enough. Tossing my bag to the bed, I crossed to the window that faced the back of the property.

  The rain had stopped, leaving behind a foggy, gray expanse of wooded area. The forest belonged in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, crawling over every inch of the landscape. No wonder Cole had moved his wife out here. There were no other houses in sight, and no sign of the highway we’d taken to the off road.

  Squinting, I bowed slightly, trying to focus on the movement at the edge of the woods. Large, black birds hovered near a ditch. A stream? Cole had mentioned that the house had well water. I assumed there was a pond or lake near the cabin.

  Something warm dripped against the back of my hand. I lowered my eyes, watching two more dark, red droplets join the larger one near my knuckles.

  Lifting my fingers to my cheek, I touched the scratch from the hail, pulling my hand away.

  Blood. I was still bleeding. It should have healed by now. I’d been injured as an immortal enough times to know how quickly I could expect my body to heal based on the severity of the injury. This time, a simple scratch should have cleared before I reached the top of the stairs. “Cole? Do you have-…,”

  I turned, colliding with his chest. He stepped back, automatically reaching for my cheek.

  “You left a trail of blood up the stairs,” he glanced down at his tee-shirt, and I was thankful it was black. Hopefully the stain won’t show. “Sit down. I have a first-aid kit in the car.” He’d already disappeared into the hall, and seconds later he returned with a clean towel. “Hold this over your face.”

  I tried for magic, thinking that a Band-Aid had to fit the necessity category, but only ended up with the first few notes of Donna Summer’s Love to Love You Baby.

  What? Weird. I didn’t even try to play that song.

  Lying back on the bed, I listened to the music with the towel pressed to my cheek. I was tired- exhausted- though I’d slept for a large portion of the drive. I heard the front door bang shut, and Cole’s boots on the stairs.

  “Why are you playing this song?”

  Taken aback by his irritated tone, I shrugged, starting to sit up. “I don’t know. It just started when I tried to make a Band-Aid, or heal myself, or something,” I reached for the plastic first-aid kit, but he shook his head, pulling it away and popping the tabs to lift the lid.

  “Would you turn it the fuck off, please?”

  I waved my hand, silencing the music. And then I did something I never, ever, ever (well, almost never) do.

  He lifted the alcohol wipe to my face, his fingers stilling in the air. “Are you… crying?”

  “No,” I growled, dragging the back of my hand over my eye. He tilted his head to the side, watching me carefully.

  “I don’t mean to be short with you. That was Rebecca’s favorite song. I never liked it, and I sure as hell don’t want to hear it now.”

  “I don’t even know why I played it. I don’t like it, either.” I mumbled, lowering my eyes as he proceeded to dab the alcohol pad over my cheek. The burn made me suck in my breath, and he tried to work faster. Catching his wrist, I gathered my thoughts. “Just go. I can do this myself. I’ll meet you downstairs-…,”

  “Eva.” He positioned himself closer to my side, shaking his head. I felt him smooth my curls away from my face, carefully tucking them behind my ears. “Hold still. I’m almost finished. Talk to me about Nina. Tell me what you meant by auto-tuning.”

  I let him continue with my cheek, raising my eyes. “What do you know about pitch?”

  “Pitch? What about it? Pitch is… pitch.”

  Rolling my eyes, I winced as he applied the sticky adhesive strip. “Music scales are divided into twelve pitches, each separated by a semi-tone. The differences in note are as simple as… the two adjacent keys on a piano… or frets on your guitar. Auto-tune is pitch correction. The purpose is to retune to the closest semi-tone.”

  “Okay, I’m following.”

  “There’s a formula used to increase or decrease pitch as it relates to frequency. You can’t just change a frequency without changing the speed of its wavelength, and-…,”

  “And… you lost me.”

  “Okay. That’s okay, it’s irrelevant. Nina was trying to mix the frequency of tone to create a subsonic beat. The result is infrasound.”

  “Huh?” He murmured, packing up the first aid kit and crumpling the Band-Aid papers in his fist.

  “Um… subliminal messaging. Like in advertising. In commercials. She believed that if she could incorporate infrasound in her songs, they would be… unique.”

  “What, she was trying to… hypnotize her fans?”

  “I don’t know. She talked about her father being a doctor, and something about sound being used to treat mental disorders. But she had to cut the interview short.”

  “Sounds like we need to talk to Mr. Fayette.” He reached for the corner of my eye, brushing his fingertip over my cheek. “You sure you want to go?”

  I sniffed, irritated that I’d let him see me get all emotional (for no good reason) and glanced in the mirror. “Yeah, come on. I’m rocking the Nelly cheek Band-Aid. I don’t want to waste this on an evening in.”

  He tousled my hair, and I glowered at him, about to berate him for treating me like I was an eleven-year-old. “Listen, you talk a good game, honey, but you’d better tell me when you’re scared. Do you understand me?”

  I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, lifting my eyes to his. “Is that a challenge?”

  “Come on,” he groaned, leading me to the stairs.

  Chapter Eight

  The sign welcoming us to Walton- Population 3,060 marked the obscure drive that Cole was searching for. The Fayette’s sprawling mansion was set back in the foothills of the Catskill mountains. My cheek had finally begun to heal, and I peeled the Band-Aid away, touching up my make-up in the rearview mirror.

  The rain had slowed to a mist, and I dug a ponytail holder out of my purse.

  “Your hair is big,” Cole had
the audacity to point out, and I glared at him.

  “Stay classy,” I growled, slamming the car door.

  “Hey, easy,” he patted the hood of the Chevelle. “Mack has seen his better days.”

  “You named your car a dude?” I shrugged the cream-colored cardigan over my bare shoulders, adjusting the matching sundress beneath. I tried to appear professional, but comfortable. I wanted her parents to feel like they could relate to me. I’d grown up in a mansion on the Atlantic shore, and I could be sophisticated with the best of them.

  “Rebecca did.”

  “The humidity makes my hair frizz.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to piss you off. If I wanted to do that, I’d point out the way your nostrils… kinda flair… when you’re-…,”

  “Ugh!” I sent him a you’re-gonna-die stare. “Let me talk, okay? And seriously, lose the tie. It’s doing nothing for you.”

  He yanked on the thin, black material, smirking. “You’re bossy.”

  “Shh.” I smoothed my skirt, making my way to the front door. The lack of both paparazzi and security told me that the whereabouts of Nina Fayette’s parents were kept highly secretive. Cole tugged on his tie, having thrown on a wrinkled, white shirt and a less-holey pair of jeans. He shaved, at least, and I bounced on my tip-toes to give his cheek a double tap. “Let. Me. Talk. Okay?”

  “All yours, honey.”

  I pressed the doorbell, and it rang in a series of tubular chimes. A camera whirred just above our heads, and an intercom sounded. “Yes?”

  “Cole Mathison and Eva Reed,” I announced, confident.

  The door was held open by a surly man, and it was obvious that he was doubling as both the muscle and the help. “Mr. and Mrs. Fayette are expecting you.”

  His deep voice lisped the words, taking away the severity of his expression. He was Italian, with thick lips and a chest twice as wide as Cole’s. My phone buzzed in my purse, and I cursed, digging for it.

  “Um… it’s Will. He’s probably worried-…,”

  “Take it. Just come find us when you’re done.” Cole prodded, and the guard gave an impatient nod.