By
Kelley Armstrong
Izzy sat in front of her computer, headphones on, eyes closed, listening to the latest top five rock songs, looping them over and over, struggling to find meaning in the lyrics. To find lyricism, poetry. Hell, at this point she’d settle for a clever rhyming couplet. She’d sampled the top country hits, but that wasn’t really her forte. She loved good old rock-and-roll, not surprising, given that if she’d been a boy, her father had planned to name her Ozzy. An old-school roadie for a father. And an English lit professor for a mom. That particular mix was partly what landed her in this very place, at this desk, so deeply engrossed in her task that sweat had broken out along her hairline.
When the phone rang, she jumped, her headphones tumbling off, almost taking one dangling earring with them. She winced as she disentangled the earring with one hand and lifted her phone with the other.
“I have news,” her agent trilled, somehow managing to get three syllables out of the last word.
“Let me guess,” Izzy said. “There’s a newly formed punk group out of Nowhere, Missouri, that wants to give me amazing exposure by covering ‘The Unquiet Grave’ free of charge.” She paused. “No, wait. They’re asking me to pay them, right?”
Monica sighed. “You are such a pessimist, Iz.”
“No, I’ve just had that generous offer too many times. Sometimes brought to me by my agent, no less.”
She swore she heard Monica’s lacquered pageboy crinkle as she bristled. “That was a successful punk rock group from Kansas City. It would have been good exposure . . . before Grave. You are now a bona fide songwriting star, my girl. I head them off at the pass if there isn’t money attached. Significant money.”
Izzy eyed the bills stacked on her desk. “Actually, if there’s any money attached, I’d like to hear—”
“Significant. Otherwise, you look desperate.”
True, except for the fact that she was desperate. “The Unquiet Grave” was two years old now, and she was the writer, not the performer. It hadn’t exactly made her rich.
“Do you want to hear my news?” One syllable for news now. Apparently, Izzy had not displayed the proper degree of gratitude.
“Sure.”
“A major recording artist heard the NPR retrospective of your work and has contacted me directly. Directly. Not through his agent. Not through his manager. He wishes to speak to you about writing a large amount of his next album.”
“Uh-huh.”
The line echoed in silence. Then Monica said, “Did you hear me, Iz?”
“I did. That’s why I said ‘uh-huh.’ I’m just waiting for a name attached to that ‘major recording artist.’”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Izzy shifted the phone to her other ear. “What?”
“He’d like me to keep his name out of it until you two meet in New York tomorrow—”
“New York? I’m expected to meet someone in New York tomorrow, at my expense, I presume, without even getting a name? Hell, I wouldn’t drop everything and fly out for Bruce Springsteen.”
“I should hope not. Have you seen the sales on his last album? I swear, girl, you are the oldest twenty-nine-year-old I have ever met. I’m actually glad I can’t give his name because you’d probably say ‘huh?’ despite the fact his last three albums went plat-i-num.”
“Give me a try.”
Monica snorted. “Not likely. I made a deal. As for flying your ass out there, he’s comping the ticket. First class. Have you ever even flown first class, Iz?”
“Sure, I got an upgrade once.”
“Pack your bag. Gather your portfolio. You are going to New York at the crack of dawn, and when you find out who brought you there, just remember, I like Bollinger. Cristal is for thugs.”
Izzy sat on the bank of Bank Rock Bay in Central Park, listening to the pound of feet jogging across the Oak Bridge. She closed her eyes and imagined them as drumbeats. There was music there, as there was everywhere. One only had to find it. She knew that better than anyone.
She fingered her portfolio of sheet music. Old-fashioned, Monica would sniff, but Izzy found music in the medium, in the crackle of paper, in the hand-scratched black lines. She’d brought an iPod, too, with recordings of her latest songs, but she preferred the sheets. An old-fashioned medium for an old-fashioned art. The crafting of music from poetry.
Even in rock, there was a place for poetry. For beauty. For balladry. She created both—turning old ballads into rousing rock anthems. It was, as one might expect, a very narrow specialty. Despite this, critically acclaimed artists weren’t exactly clamoring to work with her. Even Whiskey Roar—who’d seen their first gold album based largely on the success of her re-imagining of “The Unquiet Grave”—had only contacted her once more for a song, buried deep on their second album, as if an act of charity.
“’Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk.
The finest flower that ere was seen ...”
When Izzy heard the words, she thought she was still lost in her thoughts. Then she realized they were real and she jerked upright.
“Just don’t ask me to recite more.” The man’s figure was almost hidden in the dark shade as he walked toward her. “That’s the only part I memorized and only to impress you.”
“But that stanza isn’t in my song.”
“Which makes it even more impressive, right?”
He stepped into the sun. A slender man in his mid-thirties. Dark hair falling into his eyes. A boyish grin. Glittering blue eyes. He was dressed like any other park-goer—in jeans, a T-shirt, and old sneakers—but the moment she saw him, her jaw dropped.
Shit. Holy fucking shit.
She made a mental note to send Monica her Bollinger, whether this meeting panned out or not. For once, her agent had earned it.
“Beau Wallace,” she said.
“That’s what my driver’s license says. Or so I think. Haven’t used it in a few years.”
Before she could stand, he plunked himself down on the bank beside her without so much as a fastidious glance at the grass and dirt.
Beau Wallace. Monica might lament her client’s old-school tastes, but Izzy sure as hell knew who this was. Former boy-band crooner turned mega-selling solo star. If she was being perfectly honest, she might admit to a Beau Wallace poster in her bedroom when she was twelve. These days, he got a little too much airplay on light-rock stations, but she still had a few of his hits on her playlist.
“I want to branch out,” he said, as if reading her mind. “As flattering as it is to top the easy-listening charts, after a while”—he lowered his voice conspiratorially—“it’s not so flattering, if you know what I mean. I want to go harder, roughen my edge. Maybe I’m kidding myself to think I have an edge to roughen but . . .” He shrugged. “I want to try.”
“Sure.” A lame answer, but it was all she could manage, her inner adolescent shrieking, “I’m talking to Beau Wallace!”
He glanced toward the path. A woman had appeared there. About Izzy’s age, pretty but unsmiling, with a dark ponytail and darker shades. Dressed, like Beau, in jeans and sneakers, but wearing a denim jacket despite the warm late spring day.
“No, not a stalker fan,” Beau said, nodding to the woman. He raised his voice. “Not a fan at all, are you, Jill?”
“I like your work just fine, sir.” She tilted her head. “Some of it anyway.”
Beau laughed, and though the woman—Jill—didn’t crack a smile, Izzy got the feeling this was an old joke between them.
“Jill is my bodyguard,” he said. “But right now, I don’t think it needs guarding. Go amuse yourself, Jilly. Give me an hour.”
The woman hesitated, but at a look from Beau, she dropped her chin in a nod and strode off.
“As I was saying,” Beau continued, “I want a change and a challenge. But I don’t want to forget my roots, either. I’m a balladeer, and that might chafe, but ballads have been good to me. What I want, then, is to acknowledge my roots and tweak them. If you know what I mean.”
She did, better than he could imagine, but she only said, “You want a real ballad. With a heavymetal beat.”
Another laugh, as easy as the one he’d given Jill. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Heavy-metal isn’t quite my scene or my audience. But I want rock. Solid rock.”
“Old school.”
“Exactly. More AC/DC, less Iron Maiden. More Zeppelin, less Sabbath. Can you do that?”
Izzy smiled. “With a little help from you, I sure can.”
Most creative types were flakes. Flakes with money were worse. They’d think nothing of flying her out, wining and dining her, making vague pronouncements about their hopes and dreams, telling her how much they loved-loved-loved her work and were dying to collaborate with her…and then never contacting her again, their whims having drifted elsewhere, like a leaf floating downstream.
Beau Wallace was not one of those guys. He knew exactly what he wanted, and the minute she agreed to discuss it, he set to work. He’d brought a list of his favorite ballads, not only in order of preference but identifying the elements that spoke to him. They sat on that bank until Izzy’s butt numbed. Jill came by half a dozen times, only to be waved away by Beau, too intent on their discussion to spare a word for her. The bodyguard didn’t seem to mind. She brought coffees at the midway mark and then continued doing whatever she’d been doing, periodically checking in.
Then, after they were done talking business, he relaxed, seeming content to linger, looking out at the water and chatting. Chatting about her no less. Where did she get her interest in ballads? Which were her favorites? Had she ever considered folk music? They’d laughed about that. Folk was the obvious choice for ballads, but neither of them had any interest in it.
Soon the sun was dropping, the light playing on the water, and Izzy commented on that.
“It looks like music,” she said.
He glanced over quizzically. “It does?”
She pointed out the sun’s reflection on the ripples and started singing the notes as the sun bobbed between the ripple “lines.”
Beau grinned. “Okay, I get it. Not a bad tune either. A little slow though. The wind needs to pick up.”
He did get it. Few of his kind did.
She smiled. “It’ll pick up tonight. And I bet the moon works just as well.”
His grin turned wolfish. “Are you saying you want to see the moon on the water with me, Isabella?”
Her cheeks heated. “No, of course not. I just—”
“Damn.”
The grin changed, simple boyishness now, putting her at ease again. They talked some more. Before they left, he told her where he was staying—the hotel and the alias. “In case you decide you do want to see the moon on the water.” Another grin, one that said he was just kidding…unless she’d rather he wasn’t. She’d blushed, said good night, and hurried off.
Izzy watched the moon play on the water. The bank in Central Park again, but not near the Oak Bridge. That was a little too public, even at this time of night.
She’d called Beau at his hotel just past midnight. Told him she had a song for him—the perfect song—and she wanted to show it to him in the perfect location—where they’d discussed it that morning. A bullshit story, of course, but he’d been the one to nudge-nudge-wink-wink about the moon on the water, so the moment she suggested it, he likely figured he was getting a rumble in the Ramble and hopped to it.
He was a bit of a fool, really, which was disappointing. All humans were, of course. Herself included, having joined their ranks nearly thirty years ago, after her rebirth. A regrettable but necessary transition. The world was no longer a safe place for fae. In the modern, wired-in world, people noticed when you didn’t age. So she’d undergone the process of death and resurrection, brought back as a babe and exchanged with a human one, becoming human herself by feeding on her new mother’s milk.
Some parts of her fae self remained, primarily her love of music. No, more than love. It was the stuff of life. She consumed it and was, in turn, consumed by it. Which led to a problem with only one solution.
Beau Wallace appeared at the stroke of two, like a shining faery prince. There was some fae blood in him—she’d seen that when he’d spoken of his music, and she could see it now, shimmering from his skin in the moonlight. She still felt that girlish flutter inside, seeing in the flesh the face that had once adorned her wall. She was, after all, human now. Mostly.
“So you have a song for me?” he said as he strolled to the bank.
“No, you have one for me.”
His grin faltered for perhaps the first time since they’d met. She stepped forward and looked him in the eyes, calling forth every bit of fae charm she still possessed.
“You have a song for me,” she said. “The sweetest, purest song I have ever heard.” She took another step, her gaze fixed on his. “I need your song, Beau. I need it the way you need air to breathe. Your song feeds mine, and without mine, I would wither and die for wanting. I’ve taken seven songs before yours. Seven wonderful songs from seven wonderful men, and they live on, through me, through my music. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To live forever? Through music?”
Her lips went to his. It was easy. Always so easy. They looked into her eyes and they heard her words and they breathed their song—with their life—into her and—
He yanked back from the kiss. “What the hell?”
She reached for him, but he staggered out of her reach, his face screwed up. “No, seriously, what the fucking hell are you on, Isabella?”
Okay, maybe not so easy this time. Damn it. Those few drops of fae blood seemed to inoculate him to her charms.
She dropped her face into her hands. “Oh my God. I’m so embarrassed. You’re right. I took something this guy offered me earlier, and I don’t usually do that and . . .” She broke off on a sob.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Let’s just get you out of here.”
She cried louder, waiting for him to come over and comfort her.
“Enough of that,” he said, and there was no sympathy in his voice, only annoyance. “Let’s get you a cab. We’ll—”
She sprang. She caught him by the throat, hands wrapping around it, cutting off his gasp. She pressed her lips to his again, kissing him and drawing out his—
He punched her in the stomach. Hard. She didn’t let go, but squeezed his throat tighter, pulling out his breath with her kiss while choking it out with her hands. He went slack, finally giving in to her charm, kissing her back even, reluctantly at first, then picking up, kissing her hard, feeding her his song, his hands rising to wrap in her hair and—
He wrenched her away from him. She kept her grip, iron-tight, on his neck. When he opened his mouth to speak, she squeezed harder. Then his hands were around her neck.
“Let go,” he wheezed. “Let go or—”
She kissed him again and when their lips touched, he flung her back, her grip tightening fast and hard as he began to struggle violently. He kicked, knocking her legs from under her, but she kept her grip and they went down, her on top of him, their hands still wrapped around each other’s necks. Hers slipped just enough for him to gasp a few words.
“Stop. Damn it, I don’t want to hurt—”
“Then don’t,” she managed. “Stop struggling. Let go. It’ll be over soon.”
He kicked at her again, and kept kicking, kneeing, scrabbling. She’d be a battered mess when this was over, but it would be over. She had the advantage of a little not-quite-human strength. Yet somehow it wasn’t enough. The moment she loosened her grip, he found a better hold, pressing hard, gasping for her to stop, just stop, damn it, let go and he would, too. Only she couldn’t. She was close—so damned close—and she needed this, needed it like she’d never needed anything before. This was music. He was music. Pure music. She could feel wisps of his song filling her, and she had to have it all, had to . . .
The world seemed to spin. He released her fast, grabbing her as she fell, his lips going to hers now, trying to breathe his life into her. Trying to bring her back, despite all she’d done to him. There was music in that. In that final act of kindness. Of goodness. She heard it, even as her life seeped away. The strains of death’s music, so clear and perfect, and she breathed it into him. Her music, for him. Perhaps an apology. Perhaps, simply, because she did not need it anymore and because he could use it, and she could live on, in that small way, through him.
She gave it to him and she listened to those final strains and then . . .
Silence.
Ever since Beau’s first hit single with the band, he’d been warned about parasites. “Folks will always be looking to take advantage of your talent, son. They don’t have any of their own, so they’ll steal yours.” Which was true. It had happened many times. He looked down at Izzy’s body. Just never quite so literally.
He had no fucking idea what just happened. Drugs, he could say—and would, when the police arrived, though he had a feeling they wouldn’t find any in her system. He was just very, very happy that one of those early mentors had warned him to tape business conversations. He’d always heeded that advice—even tonight, because he had come here for business.
He’d had no intention of screwing around with Izzy. Jill would have his balls for breakfast if he cheated on her. Not that he would have anyway. He’d flirted with Izzy because, well, there were certain expectations that went with this career and he felt obligated to deliver. He would have just flirted and teased his way out of it as he always did. That, he expected. This…
He looked at her body again. Shit.
Footsteps pounded down the path. It was Jill, a damp coffee stain on her faded denim jacket, as if she’d literally dropped her cup when he texted.
“Apparently, she wanted more than a cuddle in the woods,” he called as she ran over. Still feeling shaky, he rubbed the back of his neck with an unsteady hand. “Tried to strangle me. There was nothing I could do. She wouldn’t stop, so I had to stop her, and I couldn’t bring her back.”
Jill stopped short and stared at him. “You stopped her?”
He chuckled, wincing as his throat hurt. “I’m a modern guy. I can take care of myself.” He fingered the rising bruises on his throat. “Pretty much.” He winced again and coughed softly. “But the next time I say I don’t need you to stick close…”
“Ignore you?”
“Please.”
Jill gave him a hug, quick and fierce. Then she placed the call. As she did, Beau stared down at Isabella. Why? Goddamn it, why?
For the music.
The answer seemed to whisper to him on the breeze and he looked out at the distant water, the moon playing on the ripples. Playing a song. Before, when he’d told her he could see it, he’d been lying. Humoring her. Now, he saw it. A song playing for Isabella. A tragic and terrible and haunting song, like all the best ballads.
He reached for his phone to record the tune. Then he stopped, rummaged in his jacket, pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen he carried for impromptu autographs. And he began to write.