Carniepunk Read online

  He kisses me hard, his tongue darting over my lower lip. I nip his chin, smirking as he lowers his glasses so they cover his eyes, and we lose ourselves in the crowd again.

  The edge of dusk darkens the sky, but the waning sunlight does little to diminish the excitement of the people around us. Nobu’s observations of humans are fairly accurate, but I notice the OtherFolk slipping between the islands of humanity with an odd grace that’s so prevalent among their kind.

  Some are overt about it, hiding their magic behind shoddy costumes. People see what they want to see, after all—and if this fair was more fantastical in nature, no one was complaining. Pointed ears and furry tails, a hint of feathers, a smattering of scales. Tiny differences, easily overlooked by drunken patrons and overly imaginative children.

  I have no such issue. I can’t see through Glamours exactly, but the tones the OtherFolk put out when they talk or laugh or sing cuts right through my synesthesia, shining vibrant in my mind’s eye. I am blinded to their Paths, though. With three options—the Dark, the Light, and the Fae—I can only know what they tell me themselves. Nobu, Brystion, and the rest of the band fall squarely upon the Dark Path—mostly daemonic in nature, they are the bad boys of the OtherFolk. Their presence is negated by those of the Light Path—angels and the like—and the Fae are smack in the middle.

  Some, like Nobu, have moved from one Path to the other, though how or why he’s never told me.

  I’m not sure I want to know.

  All I really understand is that the OtherFolk and their respective Paths are connected to the CrossRoads in some way, traversing the space between the worlds at certain times of the day to dwell among mortals at their own discretion. Beyond that, I am ignorant as to the mechanics, and happily so.

  All I need is the music. And Nobu.

  Speaking of which . . .

  “I think I’m going to go check out the acoustics before we set up. Last time things sounded a little flat.”

  Nobu shakes his head but gives me a soft shove. “Go on. You won’t be happy until things are set up the way you want.”

  “Probably not.” A hint of annoyance lances through me. “After all, if you had to rely on anyone else, we’d never manage to sound good.”

  His face darkens. “We’ve talked about this, little bird. We’re a band for a reason—and that’s not to be your personal showcase.”

  I snort. “You need me. I’m awesome.”

  “Not if you’re going to act like that, we don’t.” His tone drops into something serious, and I steel myself against the lecture. “Listen, I know what you can do. You are more than your talent. You always have been—but arrogance makes you blind.”

  The words sting. I bite back the retort that threatens to erupt from my mouth. “What’s the point of even having me tag along if you won’t let me be who I am?”

  I turn away before he can answer, but I still see the flash of hurt upon his face. “I’ll meet you at the van in a little while.” It’s all he says, and a moment later he’s gone.

  I love Nobu. I do.

  But sometimes he can be so damn overbearing.

  Next to me, the merry-go-round starts up, and a cacophony of color blurs my vision.

  And then I hear it—the familiar sweep of a violin.

  Playing a concerto?

  Ah, yes. Mendelssohn. E Minor.

  My fingers twitch. Familiar, yes, but these notes . . . they cut across my mind like golden rain, shoving through any other sounds, wrapping them away in a delicate webbing until all I can hear is the music.

  I move as though entranced; I might walk forever if the player wills it. Like a child following the Pied Piper to my fate inside the mountain, and I will gladly follow and follow and follow. . . .

  I duck beneath the tent flap leading to the stage. In a short while it will be full of people—watching, dancing, clapping—but it’s empty now except for a few curious bystanders and some roadies setting up.

  What holds my attention now isn’t the stage itself, though, but the man upon it. Tall, long-limbed, and fully dressed in clothes that wouldn’t seem out of place in a Jane Eyre movie. There isn’t a bit of sweat upon his brow beneath the russet curls or the neatly trimmed sideburns, despite all the layers. His face has a certain ageless quality, as though time has stood still for him, but a cocksure twinkle gleams in his eyes.

  My Doc Martens are somehow graceful as I step through the tangle of wires on the floor, narrowly avoiding the techs. The man’s gaze falls upon my violin case and his smile grows broad.

  He finishes with a flourish and bows. “Care to join me?” A flush of pleasure rushes through me, and he holds out his hand as I mount the steps. “Call me Nick.”

  “Melanie. Melanie St. James.” The name drops from my tongue easily enough, though I don’t usually give it out. My former identity is a ghost, haunting every decision I make.

  His hand grasps mine and I know in an instant that this man is a master musician. The tips of his fingers brush over my knuckles; the faint thickness speaks to a lifetime of performing.

  He turns my hand over to get a better look at my own fingers. “Exquisite.” Next to his, mine seem almost short by comparison, although perhaps it’s more that his are so oddly elongated.

  “You aren’t like the rest of the OtherFolk.” I pull my hand away cautiously, wondering if he’s Glamoured.

  His eyes light up in amusement. “I assure you, I’m quite human, good lady.”

  “A TouchStone, I’m guessing?” Like me. A mortal bound to OtherFolk through a written Contract allowing the OtherFolk to move freely between the worlds, just as Elizabeth has with Brystion. It had seemed the natural thing for me to do at the time too, to sign a Contract with Nobu. It was an easy bargain to make with the man who had rescued me from life in a gilded cage.

  “But of course. What else would I be in such a place as this?” He gestures about the tent wryly.

  Nick’s ageless mien suddenly makes sense. I’ve heard there are interesting perks and side effects to being a TouchStone, though Nobu and I have never hashed that out. My TouchStoning him had nothing to with material gain.

  My eyes fall upon Nick’s violin and I frown. The wood is warm, burnished with a golden hue unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He draws the bow across the strings teasingly. The sound shivers in a quiet sob, but the color in my mind . . . oh, the color! Tiny sunbursts echo each perfect note.

  I have no idea what he’s playing, but it doesn’t matter. A rush of longing fills me with a desire so thick, I can taste it.

  Unbidden, I reach toward the violin as though I might pull some of that gold into myself, bask in the glow.

  He stops playing, and I jerk my hand away just as my index finger brushes the tip of the scroll. I flush. Touching another person’s instrument without permission is rude on a number of levels. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  He shrugs it off. “Please, why don’t you take out yours and we’ll play something.”

  I can only nod, unable to shake away the craving for those brilliant notes from my mind. A pleased expression flickers over his face, and I turn to remove my own violin.

  The case is battered on the outside, the cracks breaking up the leather like the web of some deranged arachnid. I undo the fastenings and stare down at it. It suddenly seems shoddy compared to Nick’s. I shake myself inwardly. Why the hell am I even thinking this way? Instruments can make a difference in the quality of musical sound—but it’s the player that matters, far more than any level of superior carving work.

  And yet I can’t help stealing another glance at Nick’s, envy building even as I tighten my own strings and rosin the bow.

  I close my eyes to concentrate and an immediate sense of calm washes over me when my fingers bend around the neck. My nose fills with the gentle wood smell that reminds me of rain and Nobu. My right pinky twitches as it brushes over the slight scratching on the back.

  My initials, scrawled there in a childish act of rebellion.<
br />
  But now it only makes me smile, and I raise the violin to my shoulder, my cheek moving to press against the rest. The bow hums over the strings in a slow, sonorous sigh before I start a quick drill, pausing to turn the pegs in the scroll here and there until the colors align in my head just so.

  Perfection.

  Finally I glance up. “Did you have something in mind?”

  “I thought we might try a duet.” Nick runs his bow up the strings pensively.

  I shrug. “Whatever you want.” He raises a brow at this, and my hackles rise. I’m more than confident in my ability to pick up anything he attempts. My classical repertoire is extensive, and playing with Nobu has opened a new world of “less classical” pieces. Everything from rock to Romani—it’s all fair game.

  But I’ll do it his way for now. He eyes me thoughtfully. “A little ‘Table Music for Two’? I don’t have the sheet music, but . . .”

  Also known as “The Mirror,” this was a playful Mozart duet where each musician played from the same sheet, but one played it upside down. “I know it. I’ll play upright.”

  As pieces go, it’s fun, not too long, and an amusing way to gauge each other’s talent. I nod and count off the beat. One. Two. Three.

  Four.

  Our bows hit the strings at the same instant and the music pours forth even as my mind lights up with its usual accompanying visual display. My fingers know where to go before I’ve finished processing the song from my memory.

  But the colors are anything but smooth. The rainbow patterns of certain keys show up in their typical vibrant greens and blues, but it’s separate from Nick’s music. Instead of our parts blurring into a whole, his golden notes shine brighter, seeming to wrap around mine.

  It’s too much. Instead of complementing my playing, his side threatens to overwhelm it.

  A thin line of anger threads through me. It’s been a long goddamned time since I’ve met anyone who’s my equal, not counting a few of my instructors at Juilliard—and even then I could match a number of them.

  And Nick is holding back. The look in his eye when our gazes meet is full of pity. You will never be as good as me.

  Fury forces me to renew my efforts and I finish up with a savage flourish, blinking against the fading gold.

  “Rather impressive.” He’s all politeness and lies. My fingers turn white around the neck of my violin in answer.

  “Don’t patronize me,” I snap. “Let’s try something else.”

  “Whatever you like, I’m sure.”

  My teeth grind together at the casual dismissal even as my mind sifts through the music in my head. The perfect song falls into place.

  Paganini.

  Caprice no. 24.

  Considered one of the hardest pieces for the solo violinist, it’s one I’ve spent more hours than I care to remember learning. Years of practice and cramping fingers. I’d bled for it.

  “Let’s see you try this, you bastard,” I mutter beneath my breath. Any calm I have skitters away, my nerves struggling to stay in focus. A moment later and I’m off, the playfulness giving way beneath the difficulty. I stay on target, every ounce of my training now at the forefront. The need to prove that I’m better lends an edge to the sound, rage trembling through every scrape of the bow.

  I frown when I realize there’s an echo.

  No.

  Not an echo. He’s accompanying me, mimicking every movement . . . but playing just a tad off-kilter. The colors blur into a discordant miasma that makes me dizzy. My jaw tightens until my teeth nearly pulse with each chord.

  He’s doing it on purpose.

  A challenge, my inner voice crows, sending my fingers into a frenzy of effort I haven’t made in ages. The air crackles around us and then I gape as the music changes. Not mine.

  I know how the piece is supposed to go, but he’s turning it into something else.

  Improvisation.

  The color shifts and I attempt to follow. A note behind, a chord too slow, but I’ve got his number in the span of a few seconds. The pattern solved, I surge forward, meeting him note for note until suddenly it’s over.

  Blood rushes through my ears, met only by a silence that seems all the louder for the absence of the music. I’m panting, air flooding my lungs as I attempt to quell the shaking in my wrists.

  “It was a good attempt.” Nick bows, but his mouth curves into a mocking smile.

  I fight to keep the scowl from my face. He’s outplayed me, but how much of that was due to his violin versus his actual talent? My pride stings as I reach for excuses. I underestimated the hell out of him.

  “Whatever. I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”

  “Says who?” Nick asks mildly. “A song played is a song released to the world, to be interpreted by the listener. Your playing was admirable, yes, but it lacks something.”

  “Yeah. That violin.” I lay my own instrument in its case. “There’s something funny about it.”

  “You have no idea,” he murmurs, handing it to me. “Feel free to give it a go, but I really don’t think you’ll care for the results.”

  My fingers curl around the neck and I pluck a single string. The resulting plink lights up my vision like a thunderbolt.

  Nick’s jaw drops, but I’ve already placed it beneath my cheek and the bow slides over the string, notes of such perfect clarity and resonance emerging . . . and my mind stills.

  The world drops away until all that’s left is the sweetness of the sound, the soft sigh and hum. The first strains of Tchaikovsky emerge, the gold swirling, swirling until it seems as though I stand on the brink of the universe.

  I have but to reach out and I could hold it all, play it all . . .

  The violin is snatched from my hands, something akin to pain vibrating through my fingers.

  “That’s enough.” Nick’s smile remains, but it’s brittle and his cheeks are flushed. “That was . . . unexpected.” He waves me off. “No matter. I look forward to seeing your performance later this evening. I’m sure you’ll play to the best of your ability.”

  “Easy words from someone with a magic violin.” Nobu’s accusation rumbles thick and dark behind me, the distaste of his words butting through my vision with black precision.

  My head snaps toward him, even as I gloat triumphantly. “Called it.”

  Nick shrugs as he puts his violin away. “It makes no difference what you think. You are an inferior musician.”

  Nobu’s brow cocks high. “Is she? Then how do you explain that?” I crane my head to where he’s pointing, nearly sinking to my knees when I see the crowd pressing at the entrance of the tent.

  OtherFolk?

  Nobu’s eyes flick toward me and his voice softens. “She called us—and we came.”

  “I what, now? Called you how?”

  Nick continues to pack his things, silent. I move toward him, but Nobu’s hand around my ankle pulls me up short. Later, he mouths from below the stage. I scoot off the platform instead, my own violin cradled safely on my shoulder.

  The crowd shuffles forward to get a better look at me as I stalk out of the tent. I’m used to adoration, but there’s a hunger here that speaks of something far less innocent. Even Brystion and Marcus gape at me. Nobu thrusts past, though, his wings opening wide to clear the way.

  I wonder at this flashy display of magic, but apparently the rules of the game have just changed. Nobu’s wings curl around me to shield the view, and he manages to return me to the safety of the van, our bandmates close behind.

  My mind whirls with the implications of Nobu’s words earlier. I was “calling” OtherFolk? What the hell was all that about? I’ve almost always been aware of their presence, but I don’t think that’s what he means.

  “Do you want to explain what just happened? In English this time?” I slump on the floor of the van, my arms crossed. Beside me, Brystion leans against Elizabeth. Her blue eyes are wide as she stares at me, and the silence stretches out until I punch Nobu in the shoulder. “Hello
?”

  “The Wild Magic,” he mutters. “Somehow you reached it while you played and called us to you.”

  “The what?”

  “You know the CrossRoads work via magic, right?”

  I shrug. “Everything’s magic with you guys. Why would that be any different?”

  “It’s the Wild Magic that holds all it together. The glue.” He cocks a brow at me and I can’t tell if he’s scared or proud or what. “And you just managed to use it. Via your music.”

  I shake my head at him. “It wasn’t me. It was that violin. Magic, like you said.”

  “No. It wasn’t just that.” Brystion pauses a moment and he shares a glance with Nobu. The angel’s nostrils flare wide and in that moment I realize there’s more going on than they’ve said. “You’ve done it before, Mel. Not call to us, exactly, but sometimes you skirt the edge of it when you play. The magic of the violin probably just amplified it.”

  “Well, that’s news to me.” I focus on Nobu, dread knotting my gut. “Did you know about this?”

  He doesn’t even have to answer. His face barely moves, but that little twitch in the corner of his left eye gives him away as discreetly as a neon billboard.

  “I see.” The tension fills my lungs with cement, weighing me down so I can’t breathe. If I exhale, I’ll shatter. No one says anything, and I stare at my fingers. “So where does that leave us for tonight’s gig?”

  “There isn’t going to be one. We’re going to can the show and get on the road.” Nobu nods to himself as if somehow that makes it all better.

  “You don’t get to make that decision for all of us. We need the money.” Brystion gets to his feet. “I know you’re all for this romantic living-on-the-road bullshit, Peacock, but some of us are getting a little tired of it.” Elizabeth nods. These are her words spoken from his mouth. As though she had her hand up his ass like some kind of incubus puppet.

  I choke back an ugly laugh. “What’s the matter? Tired of playing Whac-A-Mole with your mouth in the public view?” The words slip out before I can stop them, but the damage is already done.