Carniepunk Read online

  Elizabeth blinks, a hint of scarlet staining her cheeks. Without a word she exits the van, the door slamming shut behind her so hard the entire vehicle rocks.

  Brystion’s eyes flare wide and I catch the crisp slice of gold at the edges. “Go and apologize,” he commands. “Now.”

  “Don’t you tell her what to do.” Nobu’s wings snap open. “She’s only saying what the rest of us aren’t. You think listening to the two of you rut at all hours is a bag of peaches? Everyone knows it’ll never work out anyway.”

  “That’s none of your gods-be-damned business.” The golden shimmer about Brystion’s eyes grows brighter as he turns toward me. “Perhaps another mortal with brighter dreams?”

  Nobu’s fist cracks the incubus in the jaw and the two of them hit the floor. Feathers scatter everywhere like ebony snowflakes. For a moment I can’t tell who’s who.

  Until the sound.

  The awful cracking sound of splintering wood.

  I whimper, but it takes a moment before the men hear it and by then I’m already pushing them out of the way, no longer caring if I’m accidentally hit. My violin case lies beneath Nobu, but I already know what I’ll find.

  The two daemons pull away. Horror flits over Nobu’s face as I open the case. A thick crack shatters the neck of the violin, arching deep into the board.

  “That’s that, then.” It’s my voice saying the words, but I hardly recognize it. A flood of memories slams into me, everything from the last few months and before. If I look at the thing for too long I’ll start crying, and I don’t want to do that.

  Not yet.

  Nobu captures my wrist. “Little bird?”

  “Fuck off,” I snap, not wanting to hear him say it was an accident or that he was sorry. It wouldn’t matter anyway.

  I escape to the outside, leaving the two men to figure out what to do on their own. Marcus stands guard on his tree stump, hands resting between his knees. He twitches as though he wants to run. I can hardly blame him.

  “Elizabeth?” Her name hangs in my throat.

  He jerks his head toward the far end of the field, but he eyes me cautiously. “She took a walk. She was crying.”

  “I know.” Shoving my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, I trudge in the direction he indicated, the grass squelching beneath my boots. The field is empty of all but moonlight, but a faint scent of cigarette smoke trails on air thick with tension. I follow it to where Elizabeth perches on a fallen log, puffing on her usual Marlboro Light.

  She doesn’t look up when I approach; her mascara streaks faintly on her cheeks. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear it.” She takes a long drag and closes her eyes. “You think I don’t already know what you all think of me? I’m no musician. No artist. Just some fucking groupie banging the lead singer of a band that’s going nowhere.”

  A puff of smoke drifts from her lips as she exhales. “And even that’s in question.” Now she does glance at me, and the whites of her eyes glitter bitterly. “You’re such a cunt.”

  My head jerks as though I’ve been slapped. “Excuse me? I came out here to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did, but I hardly think that—”

  “Like I care. I was so happy to find out Nobu was bringing you along. Another woman in the band I could at least commiserate with over the little things.” Her mouth curls into a sneer. “But you’re nothing but a goddamned diva.”

  Anger runs hot through my ears. “You don’t know shit. You have no idea what I’ve given up to be here.” I thumb behind us. “You think I enjoy sleeping in a van? I could be in a five-star hotel right now. With room service and a fucking shower. Playing with the world’s finest orchestras. Flowers at my feet and people kissing my ass left and right.” I pace around her, heedless of the smoke she blows in my face. “But here I am, trying to keep a roof over our heads by pretending I’m something I’m not.”

  “Poor thing,” she mocks, flicking the cigarette on the ground and stomping it out. “You’re a spoiled brat who wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit her on the ass. And by the way, the band doesn’t mesh right because you’re holding back.”

  “What are you talking about? Nobu said he wanted me to stop hogging the spotlight, so I did.”

  “Whatever. Everyone else is just waiting for you to show what you can do. And then you put on this act, like you’re surprised people love your music. It’s fake. Everything about you is fake.” She heads for the van before I can respond, but pauses, the edge of her face crested silver in the moonlight. “I’m not anyone fancy and I don’t really know the first thing about music. But I always thought a good musician shouldn’t play down. She should lift others up.”

  And then she’s gone, walking swiftly away with her head down.

  Shame floods my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I mumble after her. For a moment I wish I were anywhere other than here. Even Juilliard. I have the sudden urge to give my old roommate a call, but I barely said good-bye to Abby when I left. I have no right to expect advice from her now.

  My feet find a rhythm as I walk around the log, trying to figure out where I’d gone so wrong. I’d been so trapped in my life. Everything structured. Preplanned. Unable to make my own decisions. Form my own opinions. Every move and concert decided on. Every piece I was supposed to play scheduled well in advance.

  I’d been dying. Trapped between the outer layers of my skin and the music inside, battering itself upon my bones to get out. And now I was free, wasn’t I? Free to call the shots. To play what I wanted. To dress how I liked. To be where I wanted to be.

  So why was I here? Drifting among the masses of OtherFolk and traveling like a vagrant, playing music—that Nobu insisted I play?

  The realization that I’ve quite possibly traded one cage for another hits my stomach. I want to vomit.

  “With great power comes great responsibility,” I quip to myself, but it’s a hollow joke. Abby would have understood, though. It’s not even about power. Simply being free isn’t enough. I have to take control of my own life.

  On my own.

  I could, right? Just grab my things from the van and disappear on the road? Hitchhike, maybe.

  Oh.

  That’s right. My violin is broken. Without it, I won’t have a way to earn any money. I swallow bitter disappointment. Trapped again. Even so, there was still Nobu. Would he understand?

  In the distance an electric guitar wails, the familiar riff of Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” resonating with a sultry twang. I wince. Brystion normally sings this, and I’d have added backup. I can picture him singing to the audience with those rolling hips and that seductive smile, using his incubus charm to leave the ladies in a swooning mess of hormones.

  It hurts to realize they’ve decided to go ahead with the gig, but it’s a moot point. I can’t join them. I can’t even fault Nobu for not coming out to find me, given the last thing I’d said to him. Might as well just head for the stage to watch the show.

  At least I won’t have to deal with Nick gloating at me during the whole set. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise.

  An uncomfortable idea threads itself through my mind. Surely Nobu hadn’t attempted to break my violin on purpose? I push it away, not wanting to entertain the thought.

  But it lingers, even as I make my way to the fairgrounds. The music has changed up and I easily recognize Marcus’s sultry guitar playing. As a band we all had our strengths, and everyone had gotten a chance to showcase their abilities.

  Except me.

  Anger grows ever deeper, and by the time I stomp up the center aisle beneath the tent and plant myself in the empty seat next to Elizabeth, the only color I’m seeing is red. The blonde’s eyes remain pink and puffy. She nods at me, but there’s nothing particularly friendly about it. Onstage, I catch a glimpse of Nobu singing, his wings spread wide and unashamed as he covers the Lucifer song “Datenshi Blue.”

  “Fallen Angel Blue.”

  He’d told me what it meant once, but whatever the ly
rics are, the liquid Japanese syllables all sound like a good-bye.

  He gives me a tight smile when he sees me, but I turn my head away, unable to look at him. The song ends, leaving him breathing hard into the microphone. Normally at this point in the set Brystion and I would do a version of “The Raggle Taggle Gypsy.” But not this time.

  One of the amps blows out with an ominous crackle, and the band disappears backstage as a roadie fusses with it.

  “I’m sorry about your violin,” Elizabeth says during the lull. “Brystion thought you might use Nobu’s electric one instead, but Marcus said you’d never play it.”

  “Electric violins have no soul. No . . . life.” I chew on my lip, stretching my legs out in front of me. “I can’t explain it. They don’t sing. They just parrot what you tell them to play. I’d take a busted-up piece-of-shit acoustic over plastic any day.”

  “Well, if it’s an instrument you need, I’ve got one you might borrow.” Nick’s voice cuts through our conversation like a splash of ice water. Elizabeth’s face grows stony as our eyes meet. Whatever our enmity was, in this we would stand together.

  “Go fuck yourself, cheater.” I don’t turn all the way around to look at him. “I don’t need magic to play music.”

  “Well, that isn’t mine to lend, my dear—but the one I’m Contracted to has indicated I must make amends for my earlier rudeness.”

  “Yeah? Well, tell him to buzz off too. Don’t. Want. Any.” My heart quavers at the lie. The mere thought of getting a chance to play that golden violin again makes me tremble. I could get up on the stage and cut loose, as was my due.

  But I refuse to take the bait.

  Almost.

  I finally glance at Nick, but whatever I expected to see, it wasn’t abject misery. “Please. We offer you the chance to borrow an instrument of exquisite quality. Enough to get through the show. Or perhaps more, if you would agree to a Contract.”

  I give him a sour look. “I wasn’t born yesterday. There’s going to be a catch and I don’t want to pay the price.”

  “No catch. He merely wishes to let you try it out. If you don’t want it after that . . . well, then. You move along.”

  “And what do you get out of all this?”

  He swallows. “A chance at honor.”

  Even Elizabeth snorts at this. “Who are you Contracted to? I want to know what I’d be stuck with.” I say the words seriously, but I’m not even remotely entertaining the possibility of anything but playing this gig and then returning the instrument. I have a life to find. Somewhere. One that doesn’t involve Contracts to strange OtherFolk.

  “He wishes to remain anonymous for now,” Nick replies. “But after the show, we can meet and discuss everything. All the arrangements, should there be any.” He pops open the case beside him, to reveal—

  “A Stradivari?” I blink. “Are you shitting me?”

  “It is a Guarneri.” Something sad flits across his face. “An old friend of mine. One of many.”

  I hardly hear him, my hands already reaching for it, the gloss of the polish beckoning. Inside, I tremble at the idea of touching it, let alone playing the thing. But you could. Play it . . . give it back. Get on the road and be gone. . . .

  Responsibility.

  Fly away, little bird.

  And yet.

  “And you just happen to be waltzing around with an instrument worth millions of dollars? Right.”

  “And yet you’re holding it.”

  I blink and realize he’s right. I’m holding a motherfucking Guarneri.

  What the hell.

  “Fine. I’ll borrow it for this set, meet with your guy, and that’s it, right?”

  “What are you doing, Mel?” Nobu rumbles, a storm cloud striding toward us.

  “Our friend Nick here has offered me the use of his spare violin. I’m going to get on that stage and play what I want and then give it back. That’s it.”

  Nick’s mouth quirks. “Assuming your keeper lets you play it at all, that is.”

  “Don’t,” Nobu growls, snatching me out of the chair to march me behind the stage. “I’m begging you, do not do this.”

  I pull away from him. Nick’s last words sting with their truth. He’s goading me, but at the moment I don’t care. “I’m making my own decisions, Nobu. Not you. Not anymore.”

  “Yes. Poor ones, it seems.”

  “You’re worse than my mother. At least she was honest about using me.” I stare at Nobu, rage burning inside. Where the intensity came from, I’m not sure, but once unleashed it wouldn’t fade.

  Before I realize it, my hand is at the top of my corset, fingers pulling out a folded piece of parchment.

  Our Contract.

  Fire flashes back at me in the depths of his eyes, disbelief warring with anger, and somehow it’s enough that he doesn’t think I’ve got the guts to go through with it that drives me to tear it in half. He flinches as the fluttering remains scatter upon my boots.

  Without pausing to look at me, he stalks off. A sharp twang lances through my chest as though something has broken.

  Wait. The words form on my lips but I can’t give voice to them, pride warring with incredulity. I grip the neck of the violin with fingers made of ice. “Good-bye it is,” I mutter.

  I would deal with it later. Figure out Nobu later. My life . . . later. I just want to play.

  I quickly mount the stage and run my bow over the strings. An answering hum fills the tent. I spend a quick moment warming up, nearly weeping at the perfection of the tone.

  Unlike the golden violin, these notes ring silver in my mind, with a richness I can only guess comes from the instrument itself. I step forward into the spotlight. Where I’d been in for nearly the entirety of my life. Where I belong.

  Bach’s Sarabande in D Minor slips from the strings.

  Nobu’s presence looms behind me, filling me with sadness. My eyes meet Nick’s in the second row, but they’re hollow, as though whatever spark that gave him life had fled long ago.

  With each note, the voice of the violin grows stronger, pulling and pushing until I lose myself to it completely. After all, this was the song I was playing when I first met Nobu.

  Might as well be the last.

  And then I’m not even thinking of him at all.

  When the final note fades, the silence is . . . well, it’s one of those pin-drop things, except I can barely notice anything but the spotlight shining and the terrible chasm inside me. As though I’ve poured every ounce of myself into the audience.

  It should feel good, but I’m oddly empty.

  A breath shudders out of me, the bow hanging between my limp fingers, and I sink to my knees, spent. I glance over at Nobu, surprised to see the look of horror on his face.

  “What is it?”

  “You . . . you’re—”

  “Mine.” A dark voice shatters my thoughts, the sound’s color blacking out all other knowledge.

  For a moment I’m transported to a despair so deep, I may never find my way out of it, and it’s all the more horrifying for the pleasantness lingering just out of reach. But through it all rings a chord—at once familiar and terrible.

  The flattened fifth.

  Also known as the Devil’s Chord.

  “Don’t look, Mel! Whatever you do. Don’t look at Him.” Nobu barrels into me, shoving my face into the floor, his wings arched protectively. “Don’t look.”

  I try anyway. I have to. The sheer presence of the man wrapped in shadow behind us insists on it. Nobu catches my face to hold it still.

  “Please, don’t.”

  “Why do you deny what is mine by rights, lapsis?”

  Nobu winces. “I’m sorry . . . my Lord.”

  The words send a new thrill of horror racing down my spine. “My Lord”? I swallow as I realize who it must be, but I can’t form the name, even in my mind. “I don’t understand,” I whisper.

  “The violin.” From the corner of my eye, Nick approaches the stage, even as the r
est of the crowd hangs motionless. Statues.

  “I don’t want it. You can ha—” My words are cut off by a strangled yelp as Nobu covers my mouth.

  “Shhh! Anything you say is binding here.”

  I struggle to sit up, but Nick’s next words chill me even more. “I offered you the use of the violin. All you have to do is return it and we’re done here.”

  “Right . . . but—”

  “It has your soul, Melanie.” Nobu voice is anguished. “When you played . . . somehow the violin took it. You can’t give it back or He will own your soul.”

  A ripple of amused laughter sounds behind me, at once joyful and wretched.

  “Indeed. Give me what is mine and your soul belongs to Me. Or enter a Contract to become my new TouchStone.”

  Nick flinches as I glare at him. “Honor, my ass.”

  He gestures to his own golden violin. “You weren’t supposed to be able to play this. Only His TouchStone may do so. But you did.”

  “You can’t Contract her,” Nobu says suddenly. “She’s my TouchStone.”

  “There is a torn Contract that says otherwise, boy.” Nobu curses, and my heart drops.

  “So that’s it?” Panic flutters like an epileptic butterfly in my chest. I eye the front of the tent. Surely if I ran, I could get away. A hand grips my shoulder.

  “There is no way to flee the sin of your pride.”

  “But you don’t need me.” I point at Nick. “He’s better than I am.” Inside, my cowardice cringes upon itself, but he’s thrown me under the bus just as quickly.

  “Nicolò has served me well, but I grow bored with his jaded assumptions.”

  “Nicolò,” I say weakly. “The Nicolò?”

  “But of course. The Devil’s Violinist has ever been My servant.”

  My mouth drops. Paganini. I’d been playing against Paganini. No wonder he’d been able to outplay me so easily on the Caprice. He’d written the fucking thing. My head snaps toward him, and he gives me a wry shrug.

  “Bastard,” I snarl, trying not to cry against the unfairness of it all. In my arms, the violin glitters silver, the strings humming in agreement.

  Nobu’s arms and his wings wrap around both of us. “What do I do? I can’t—I can’t do this.” His lips fall upon me, kissing my mouth and cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Nobu. I’m so sorry. . . .”