16

The next Saturday, she and Calvin pulled the same routine—after the charity event, they went to go to “band practice,” and Calvin split off so she could meet with the Pit Viper. Calvin’s excuse actually turned out to be a perfect cover, because it allowed her to bring Betty with her. She’d also taken the time to do some homework and strengthen her alibi. Her band was named Bipartisan, though they’d considered Dracula Teeth and Nature In Analog. Two of the kids, the drummer and rhythm guitarist, were from the city, while the bassist, another girl, came from two towns over (she always thought of bassists as the two-towns-over band members, and anyway, her parents didn’t seem to care so long as the fictional musician wasn’t from Chicago or New York, where the “riffraff” came from). They were playing thrashier grunge-punk, though Fiona wanted to add more of a stylish influence, a little David Bowie and Dick Dale to get them out of the alternative niche. Their rhythm guitarist had an industrial piercing, which Fiona found gross but fascinating to observe. Calvin was in talks to get them a club show in the city, provided the venue would allow minors inside.

She’d made sure to pepper these details throughout conversations with her folks so that when Saturday rolled around, she was ready. “Ugh, our bassist is finally showing up,” she’d said, rolling her eyes at a text message from the Pit Viper describing a dream he’d had about her. “I gotta go.”

She tried walking to the Pit Viper’s place on her own but quickly got lost on the outskirts of his labyrinth neighborhood and had to call him. This time, when she first caught sight of him, there was none of the giddiness or anxiety. She’d never felt this way about someone before—this at ease.

“Let me guess,” she said as he strolled over to her, “your magic book makes it so that only you can lead people to your nefarious lair.”

The Pit Viper laughed. “Or you grew up in a town with a population of less than fifteen thousand, and all the buildings in this neighborhood look the same to you.”

“Watch your mouth,” she said. “Us small-town folks are tougher than you think.”

His grin grew sharp around the edges. “I guess you’re your father’s daughter.”

Whoof. The comment left her dumbstruck. She blinked hard a few times, trying to make sense of it in her heart. In a split second, he had gone from the man she knew to the DJ he played onstage, a tough and bitter being who meant business. Suddenly, the ease was gone—he was still someone to be watched out for. They walked silently for a couple of blocks before she could find anything to say:

“Not cool.”

He glanced at her and hunched his shoulders. “I’m sorry if that took you off guard. You have to remember, I’m not entirely over what happened.” He touched the edge of his forehead, and as he brushed his hair aside, Fiona noticed the scar again. It looked small to her, but probably felt massive and ugly to him.

She nodded silently. He had every right to be angry. Her dad had beaten him half to death, and if she still resented him for it, how must the Pit Viper feel? Maybe it was the thought that he still considered her some small-town nobody. But there was something about the look in his eyes when he said it, a coldness that came over him that she recognized from when he’d bluntly mentioned the possibility of assaulting her. Even if there was a warm, compassionate human being at his core, he aspired to ruthlessness. She hoped it was only a defense mechanism, that the potent moments they shared together were him shaking off that armor.

Then they were back up at his place. This time, he was less cuddly, more focused on teaching her. He walked her around the equipment in his room and told her the stats for every speaker he owned, as well as the kinds of cables and batteries each item required and the history of that particular hardware, both through the ages and during his ownership. (When they reached an old, brass bell emblazoned with a chord symbol similar to that on the Codex Canoris, he said, “Got that in Turkey. Don’t ask.”)

She loved his maturity, how seriously he took her and his own life. It was refreshing, like cool bedsheets on a humid night. He was powder, marble, ice, a beam of clean light rather than the atmospheric shadows it left behind. His weren’t the genres with their fashions and traditions, but the standout musicians, the acts that transcended their labels with their intelligence and vision. He was like his loft, a series of traits brought together and existing on their own in a wide-open space with nothing on which to brace themselves save his will.

Once they finished reviewing his setup, they sat down on his mattress, the book in his lap and Betty in hers. The Pit Viper stared at Fiona as though for the first time, like she was the awkward tomboy from the teen comedy who had showed up to prom looking fine as hell.

“What?” she asked.

“You with a guitar,” he said. “It all makes sense now. God, you look powerful.”

“You’re just turned on by a woman holding a musical instrument,” she said.

“That’s beside the point,” he said with a grin that admitted she was right. She softened and chose to forget the comment about her dad. If anything it was just him being honest with her, which was what she’d asked for.

“But I’m serious,” he continued. “The picture’s complete. Now, we just need to make sure she—Betty, right?—we need to make sure Betty and you have the right kind of relationship.”

“I’d marry her if the state would let me,” said Fiona. “We’re ready.”

“We’ll see.” He slid the book in front of her, the chord on its cover staring at her like three black eyes. “Play for it.”

“Play for the book? What should I play, ‘Turn the Page’? ‘The Book of Love’?”

“Just close your eyes and communicate with your instrument,” he said. “With my discipline, I channeled sounds that are already out there into my master copy. The instrumentis is about the unity of player and instrument finding the notes that are already there.”

“Ugh,” she moaned, dropping her shoulders. “Can’t I just summon my Patronus or something?”

“Be serious, Fiona,” he said. “Concentrate. Speak to the book through Betty.”

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and let herself drift. Darkness surrounded her, and as she breathed, she slowly lost herself in the void. She let her fingers idly run down Betty’s strings but never played them, just felt the grooved lines floating above the smooth black face of the guitar, her best friend, the thing she knew better than anything in the world…

She and Betty merged, creating music where there had been nothing a few seconds ago, causing a sonic big bang in the void through which she floated.

And as this new universe came into existence, Betty seemed to lift her head and stare into Fiona’s heart.

Adrenaline drove through her like a railroad spike. She gasped and snapped her eyes open, feeling electrocuted. She clutched Betty to her chest like the guitar was a life preserver.

The Pit Viper stared down at the book with bulging eyes. He was half crouched, his hands planted on the floor to either side of the Codex Canoris.

The book was open to a page. On the page was a note.

It was a single note, a strange hybrid sixteenth. Its stem was bisected by a diagonal line to form a sort of cross shape, and its head was hollow and contained a narrow eye that reminded her of ancient Egypt.

“What was that?” panted Fiona, inching slowly away from the Canoris as her every nerve writhed beneath her skin.

“That’s a tonus cultus,” he said softly. “A ‘worship note.’ They’re believed to be musical talismans of divine forces. They’re also sometimes called tonus culter, which means ‘blade note.’”

The latter definition definitely felt more like what Fiona had experienced—a slice down her psyche. But that wasn’t what she was asking. “Why did I see it? Why did I hear it in my fucking head?”

“Because you and Betty found it,” he said. “Together, you’re stronger than the average musician.”

Fiona stared at the note on the page. She hadn’t just heard it, she’d felt it. She’d known it. Through Betty, she had witnessed an entirely different plane of music in a single instant. The eye of the note seemed to stare directly at her. I see you.

Her breath came out faster and faster. Her heart pounded a blastbeat in her chest. Her vision blurred. It was too much. She couldn’t—it couldn’t be—

“Breathe, Fiona.” The Pit Viper was next to her, his hand planted firmly on her arm. His grip felt solid, and the look in his eyes was human, sympathetic to the shock she’d felt at having everything she knew shaken.

He knew.

Slowly, her shivering stopped. She breathed deeply, and inch by inch the world came back into focus.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Peter,” he said.

“What?”

“My name,” he said. “My name is Peter. My mother named me after the saint.”

Despite her shot nerves, she couldn’t help but chortle. “It’s not Pete Viper, is it?”

“No, it’s Pete Covalch,” he said. “It’s Polish.”

She started to laugh harder and harder, shaking with excitement.

“It’s not funny,” he said, blushing furiously, but then he started chuckling, too, and soon they both shook with laughter, the sounds intertwining in joyous harmony.

…

Fiona’s breakthrough with the worship note shot the Pit Viper full of excitement. He bounced around the room with a pen and notepad, scribbling down everything from Betty’s tuning to the position that Fiona had been sitting in when she’d hit the tonus culter.

Fiona laid back on his mattress and watched him take photos of the book with his phone and murmur about trying to recreate the moment in a controlled atmosphere.

He made a final scribble, tossed the notes on the bed next to her, and smiled at her. “We should go out,” he said.

“Out?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You just played music that hasn’t been experienced in close to a century. I think that deserves a little celebration.”

“Where?” she said, both intrigued and nervous. Part of what she loved about being with him was how they were locked away from the world, feeding on each other’s passion. She was worried he’d turn out to be like Horace, another guy who wanted to celebrate her minor triumph by getting trashed.

“Wherever you’d like,” he said. “Record store? Vintage guitar store? Coffee, pastry, a view?”

Dear God, it was like he had a direct line into her subconscious. “All of those things,” she said. Then, thinking twice, “As long as I’m home by eleven.”

He laughed and extended a hand. “Well, come on, light’s wasting.” She took it and let him pull her to her feet, and then he didn’t stop and yanked her into his arms. They stood for a silent moment, caught in each other’s eyes, and then she nuzzled forward and kissed him. His kiss was as respectfully restrained as always, but this time, she pushed him further, opened her mouth, let her tongue brush against his. It was as though he understood, like once the boundary of Home by eleven was spoken, they would enjoy each other within it. She savored the nuance of him, something boys like Horace seemed desperately without.

“Are you bringing your guitar?” he asked as they got ready to go out (he had said nothing about Horace’s hoodie being replaced with her old almost-too-small denim jacket).

“Oh, good call,” she said, eyeing the case and imagining the hassle of carrying it everywhere with them. Her wrist would feel like wood in an hour. “Shit, she’s a little heavy. Let me think…”

“It’d be cool if you walked around with her, like a samurai of old with a sword on his belt,” he said. “Ready to draw her just in case the instrumentis strikes you. That said, you’re welcome to leave her here.”

“Is that okay?” she asked faux meekly, digging the domesticity of it. “It’ll just be this once. And I won’t start leaving a toothbrush and a change of underwear, promise.”

“It’s totally fine,” he said, and, turning to go, added over his shoulder, “Toothbrush and underwear, too.”

They pounded the pavement toward downtown, drinking in golden autumn afternoon light and cold air laced with vent steam. He strode at his usual steady pace, and for once Fiona didn’t have to strain to keep up with him. She had been wrong—leaving the apartment didn’t feel vulnerable; it felt liberating, like they were badass royalty with the whole city as their concrete playground. His icy air of mystery was completely gone, replaced by a jolt of geeky enthusiasm that made him loveably human. She was seeing a whole new Pit Viper—no, it was Peter, Peter Covalch, a strange and wonderful guy but a guy nonetheless, bright and alive no matter where some ancient book had led him.

The industrial maze gave way to funky storefronts and ethnic grocery stores. Peter waved her toward a fortune-teller storefront with a huge half-closed eye on the window, but rather than go up the stoop they trundled down the basement stair to a door marked only with a neon open sign. Peter pressed a bell; there was an ugly buzz, and they walked into an over-lit, cigarette-smelling room stuffed to the gills with physical music. Lining the walls were folding tables stacked with milk crates of vinyl records, not to mention cardboard boxes of cassettes and plastic bins overflowing with T-shirts and songbooks. From somewhere amongst the deluge of collector’s items, The Smiths played out of crackly old speakers.

Fiona’s mind boggled at the density of it; the place looked as though she’d have to suck in her stomach to fit down the narrow paths between the tables. Peter waved to the balding man at the counter in the back—the man glanced up and nodded but didn’t wave back—and then motioned to the great musical mass. “The good news is, they have everything. The bad news is, it’s totally unorganized. Just pick a box and start.”

Forty minutes later, her fingers humming from flipping through vinyl and her shirt smelling of dust and rotten paper, Fiona had only made it through maybe a fifth of the crates. Though this record store felt more like an illegal gambling ring than the head shops she was used to shopping for vinyl in, its selection was superb, and she had narrowed her options down to a Record Store Day version of a Black Lips album, the new Mutoid Man, and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ Murder Ballads. She decided on Mutoid Man and, through some good-natured arm crossing and hand swatting, refused to let Peter pay for it, giving the disinterested old dude one of the ratty twenties her dad had foisted on her last weekend. She could’ve spent her whole life flipping through records, but she didn’t want to cut their afternoon short. He didn’t seem to mind; as they left the store, Fiona’s vinyl tucked under her arm, he pointed ahead of them and said, “Home by eleven!” like it was a medieval battle cry. She laughed louder than she should have, delighted to see him being unabashedly silly, happy he wasn’t ripping on her for being a teenager with a curfew.

The gear store he led them to was Buzzo Guitars, a vintage music shop she’d already been to on a family trip into the city. The fact that Peter wanted to show her somewhere she already knew about made her swell with pride. The inside was the usual hodgepodge of antique and new guitars, as well as the occasional fixer-upper (Like Betty had been, thought Fiona, and she accidentally said, “Aw!” out loud). They wandered the racks of old guitars, basses, and pedals, Fiona’s eye poring over every one, wishing she could have them all but not sure what to do with half of them. Peter floated at her side and smiled when certain items caught her eye but never mansplained any of the hardware to her.

She stopped at the cases and found herself dreamily staring at a custom-made leather guitar case with backpack straps and an Ace of Spades inlay at the end of the neck, so that the card would float over the wearer like a thought bubble. Peter noticed her openmouthed gaze, leaned over the counter, looked at the price tag, and whistled.

“Don’t even tell me,” she said. “It’s probably costs more than my guitar.”

“It’s definitely not cheap.” He looked back at her with a puckish smile. “You know, if you want, I could—”

“No,” she said, shaking her head violently. “No buying me elaborate presents.”

“You could take Betty everywhere with something like that. Samurai of old, sword on the belt, agent of living music. Could be cool.”

“Absolutely not,” she said. It took all her willpower to turn him down, but she had to. She wouldn’t let him shower her with gifts like some kept woman—at least, she thought with a Cheshire-Cat smile, not until she was sure that was what she wanted.

“Man, I can’t buy you vinyl, I can’t buy you overpriced guitar cases.” He sighed in dramatized exhaustion. “What about baklava? Can I buy you a baklava and coffee?”

“You can buy me an entire tray of baklava,” she said.

They sauntered another half mile, and when she saw the road-cone-orange lighthouse poking over the horizon of schmutzy brownstones, she prayed it was where they were going, which it was. The inside of Little Water Coffee was all aged blue-and-white linoleum, like a piece of Delft pottery and a failing diner had collided with one another. Everyone in line spoke to the too-tan woman with the pixie cut behind the counter in an Eastern European language that Fiona didn’t recognize. When they got up front, the woman clasped Peter’s face in her wrinkled hands and drew him close so that he could give her a peck on each cheek.

“My gorgeous boy,” she said. “You beautiful man. I listened to your tape, it was awful, I hated it. What are you eating? Who is this?”

“Trill, this is Fiona,” said Peter, motioning to Fiona.

“Do you like his music?” asked Trill, scowling at Fiona.

“Not really,” Fiona said.

“She’s too good for you,” said Trill, looking at Peter like he was pitiful. “What do you want? No, don’t tell me, apple fritters and cold brew.”

“Baklava,” said Peter.

“I’ll give you a baklava and an apple fritter,” said Trill. “Now that I’ve mentioned it, Fiona will not be able to stop thinking about it.”

When she came back with their coffees and wax-paper- wrapped pastry, Peter said, “We’re going upstairs.”

Trill made a noise in her throat and waved as though to brush him aside, and Peter walked into the kitchen with Fiona hot on his heels. They meandered, Peter saying hi to every waitress, baker, and dishwasher before leading her toward a filthy curtain hanging over a doorway in the back of the kitchen.

Behind the curtain was a staircase so narrow that it appeared to have been built inside of the wall. Peter led Fiona up slowly for what felt like forever until he slapped open the door at the end.

They stood on the roof, staring at the miniature lighthouse which, up close, was larger than Fiona expected. Two younger guys in aprons smoking cigarettes started when they appeared, but then relaxed when they saw Peter. He shook their hands, laughed at a joke. When he said something and nodded toward Fiona, they both wagged their eyebrows at him and gracefully headed downstairs.

Fiona and Peter climbed up an iron ladder on one side of the lighthouse and plopped down in the main basket up top. It was both larger and smaller than Fiona imagined, the space cramped enough that their hips and shoulders collided but elevated enough that she felt a little dizzy, teetering over the circuit board of the city on all sides. Fiona felt high on it, the height, the closeness of him, the bright, cold city Saturday floating all around her.

He broke out the apple fritter, split it in a shower of glaze crumbs, and handed her half. She took a huge bite and washed it down with sharp cold brew.

“All I could think about after she mentioned it,” he said, pointing to his remaining hunk of fritter.

“Yeah, dude,” she said. There was a silence as they just took it all in, this perfect treat on a perfect day. Shook her head and took a deep breath, savoring it. “All right, I give up. If your goal was to charm the pants off me, this? This is the way to do it.”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but this is a celebration. You did something impressive today, you and no one else. You get to have this. If everyone else out there”—he flung his hand out to the city, though Fiona could tell he meant a broader out there, the world, among the living—“could do what you do, be who you are, then they would get to appreciate this.”

“But I didn’t get here on my own,” she said. “I didn’t earn this. I’m only here because I’m with you. Besides, you can get an apple fritter anywhere.”

“You’re with me because you’re not like everyone else,” he said. “So you’ve earned me. I’ve earned you. We made it to each other. Finally.”

Fiona wanted to laugh at his dramatic flair and tell him that he needed to get to know her better, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She knew she was easy prey, a teenage rocker with a mysterious older DJ from the heart of the city, but he just made her feel so damn rare and important. She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her; she put her cheek on his chest, warm and firm under his shirt, and let herself hang above the world with him, surrounded by silence save for the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Hey!” The voice called them out of their moment. They glanced over the edge of the lighthouse to see one of the smokers from earlier waving up to them. “You got people downstairs, man! Asking about you.” Peter scowled, gave Fiona a kiss on the forehead, and leaped over the edge and onto the ladder, leaving Fiona to pick up the remains of their snack and follow slowly down.

Fiona got down the narrow stairs, past the filthy curtain, and through the kitchen before she could see Peter standing out in front of the counter, holding court with a crowd of excited onlookers.

Horace, Caroline, and Rita stood around Peter, staring up at him with rapt adoration.

Fiona stopped dead, felt her heels dig into the linoleum and her heart mis-beat in her chest.

Her plastic cup of cold brew fell from her hand and exploded on the floor. All their heads turned at once.

In an instant, she was in the kitchen with her back pressed hard against the tile wall next to the door. Her chest rose and fell as fear boomed through her. She felt caged, trapped by a place she didn’t know in front of her and questions she didn’t want to have to answer behind her.

“Ho boy.” Trill stood by her, whisking something in a metal bowl. She stared at Fiona with vague disgust.

“Back door,” whispered Fiona.

“To my right,” said Trill.

She burst out of the door and power walked down a back alley. An overflowing dumpster oozed creeks of green water that made her nostrils burn. Through the haze of panic, she wondered what exactly she was running from. Was it the gossip that would no doubt follow if her friends found out? The weird way they might act, knowing that her distant behavior was centered around their new favorite musician? Horace? For whatever reason, it was imperative they not see her.

She didn’t register the hunched figure at the mouth of the alley before she collided with him. There was a puff of weed smoke and a fit of coughing before they both fell into stunned silence.

“Oh, hey,” said Keller, his look of worry transforming into confused delight. “What are you doing here? Hey, did you hear the Pit Viper’s inside this bakery?”

Fiona’s mouth opened and closed silently as she grasped for an excuse. Around the corner, she heard the faint dinging of a bell, and then Caroline’s voice came soaring out into the air.

Fiona turned on her heel, trotted back into the alley, and crouched behind the dumpster, hoping it obscured their view. She felt Keller’s eyes following her the whole way and seared with embarrassment as she tried to keep the top of her head from showing above the lid.

“I can’t believe we saw him,” said Rita. “Good eye, Horace.”

“Yeah, even though Keller gave me fucking whiplash,” added Horace, sounding sullen. “Think he liked the idea?”

“There is no way he’s interested now, after me,” said Caroline. “Holy crap, I am such a nerd. Next time, you just have to stop me from talking. Jam a sock in my mouth. It would be better for everyone. Doug?”

“Huh? What?” asked Keller.

“What’s got you spooked, man?” asked Rita. “There a lewd flasher in the alley?”

“It’s nothing,” sputtered Keller. “Sorry. Just a little high.”

“You didn’t save me any, did you?” growled Horace. “Great, figures. Thanks, Keller, you jerk off.”

“Okay, Mister Crankypants, let’s go,” said Rita.

Fiona heard the slam of car doors, and their voices cut out. There was a shuffling cough that could only be Keller’s car starting. Once it rumbled off into the distance, she counted to one hundred and then stood up straight and walked down the alley with her head hung low.

Peter was waiting for her at the door to the coffee shop, mouth drawn and hands crammed in his pockets. Fiona’s whole face burned with red-hot shame, and she couldn’t even look at him as she passed and he turned to walk with her.

Outside of Central Station, she finally faced him. As she did, he took Fiona’s shoulders in his hands and half crouched to look into her eyes. His expression had softened in a knowing, if sad, smile.

“All the worlds collided a little too quickly, I take it?” he asked.

“Something like that,” she said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out. It’s not like I’m embarrassed of you or anything.”

“Sure,” he said, but his tone said he knew better.

“No, seriously,” she said. “My friends would actually have their minds blown by the idea. They’d be stoked.”

“And maybe that’s the problem,” he said.

“Maybe,” she admitted softly. “I just…I imagine how things would change if word got out about…us.” She waved a finger between them, sensing the pathetic understatement of the gesture. “And I’m not sure I can deal with that right now.”

He nodded. “That’s okay. We can take us a little easy.”

“Well, I don’t want that,” she said. “Today was perfect. It was beyond perfect. And I want…I do want more.”

He inhaled slowly. “Look, Fiona, you owe those people nothing. You’re better than them and their silly little lives. It’s why we got today, why you were able to speak to the book the way you did. So, if you want this to grow, if you want to grow, then you just need to be able to admit it.” He let go of her shoulders and stood up, looking down at her more as a teacher than a companion or equal. “Take your time, but don’t take too long. If you can’t admit that you’re destined for better things, I can’t help you find them.”

“I blew it, didn’t I?” she said, resigned and deflated.

“Not at all,” he said. “You’re just not ready yet.” He leaned forward and kissed her passionlessly on the lips. “I’ll see you next Saturday. But you should get going. It’s getting late.”

As the train rumbled back out into the burbs, Fiona’s foul mood stewed and stewed. She tried to listen to music, but every song sounded too loud and obnoxious, like the musicians were trying too hard; none of the singers got anywhere near the bleak, endless tunnel of unfathomable shame she felt. Earlier in the day, she’d sat next to him and created music that felt like a solar flare. They’d conquered the city like triumphant heroes and eaten flaky pastries on a lighthouse that sat above the world. But having her friends from home catch them together and know the reason behind her change in behavior would have made it all feel clumsy and naked. It was as though their presence was a gust of wind blowing away all the magic and mystery that Peter saw in her, revealing the small town in her heart. And it would make school a nightmare—Horace and Caroline wouldn’t see the strangely beautiful afternoons alone with Peter, they’d just see zippers and bra snaps, the grossest scenes out of the worst anime.

Or worse, like Peter had said, they’d marvel at her. They’d be impressed. She’d be made to feel lucky, cool, the kind of shallow and thirsty stereotype that Tess Baron aspired to.

The train rolled into Hamm. Fiona got out feeling sour and resentful, wishing her small-town life would just disappear and leave her alone in the city with Peter. She told herself she was through with it, over, done. But twice, she heard a voice and looked quickly over her shoulder, frightened she might see someone who recognized her.