DARKNESS FALLING
By David Niall Wilson
Cover art by Neil Jackson of the Penny Dreadful Company
Smashwords Edition published at Smashwords by David Niall Wilson
Copyright 2010 by David Niall Wilson & Macabre Ink Digital Publications
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OTHER CROSSROAD TITLES BY DAVID NIALL WILSON:
THE NOT QUITE RIGHT REVEREND CLETUS J. DIGGS & THE CURRENTLY ACCEPTED HABITS OF NATURE – AUDIO
PROLOGUE
Excerpt from the Journal of Sebastian Barnes
Meteors don’t rise; not to success, not to fame. They fall, and they burn, and when they’re gone there’s nothing left but the strobed afterimage of their passing and the dust, riding the uncaring wind. That’s what I would have said to Klaus, if I’d thought he’d listen. Instead I kept quiet and watched as he built his own private kingdom in hell, dragging me along as a willing court jester. Klaus may have been a meteor, but God was he beautiful when he burned.
I know about meteors. I never burned as bright as Klaus, nor did I aspire to the heights he reached. The meteor traces a solitary path, as have I. My father, who was nearly fifty when I was born, was my idol – my life. He was a teacher. He taught music, and he taught the beauty of words. I was a good student, fascinated by the mysteries he unveiled. It was those lessons, I suppose, that brought Klaus and I together. I amused him.
My speech, the product of too many classical works of literature before puberty, and my sense of morals, which I inherited from long talks with my father, make me somewhat of an oddity. Archaic is the word that comes to mind. If not for my music, I might have ended up dusting the shelves in some museum, or rearranging books in a library. Klaus heard me, I once thought by accident, in a recital in my senior year of college. He liked what he heard and became determined to show me the world. Infatuated as I was by his looks, his popularity, and his seemingly unwavering control over the events of his life, I followed.
Of course, there was the music. If Klaus had been a gnomish dwarf, diseased and ugly, I still would have followed him for the music. I and a thousand others. In the end, it was the music that drew around him like a shroud.
It began in Germany, not ten miles from Klaus' birthplace, in the shadow of the mountain that held his father's tomb. It was a small town, a village really, and Klaus’ fame had long outdistanced his roots. We were there on a whim; that was the story of his life.
We walked those streets, the four of us, Klaus, Damon, Peyton, and I, moving like aliens on a visit to Earth from a far galaxy, or royalty slumming through the dregs of some ancient kingdom. Only Klaus and I were comfortable there, he because it was the place of his birth, and I because it reminded me of my own roots. I was raised in such a place, and at times I missed the quaint solitude.
The great cities of the western world accepted Klaus as a musical prophet, a dark, brooding god of the pantheon of rock music, a term he held in the lowest contempt. Klaus' music transcended the understanding of his audiences, moved them through private, inner realms where their insipid vocabularies and tired, clichéd consciousness was at a loss. They called him a star. They were nearly right. It was I who finally realized, and too late to do any good, that it was the path of the meteor Klaus aspired to, not that of the star.
He wanted to play on the mountain. He wanted to perform on the land where his father, and his father's father, sowed their seeds, where the ghosts of his past still walked. He wanted to leave his mark where his ancestors had left theirs. So that's where we went.
The people of Rathburg were distanced from us by culture, by a morbid, unavoidable sort of curiosity, and by their fear. They did not, I think, want us there – Klaus especially – and they did not want our music. We were outcast, and we brought a horde of others in our wake that belonged, if possible, even a bit less than we did.
Klaus would never perform without his entourage of groupies, fans, celebrities and wannabe's of the moment following, and if he preferred an obscure mountain above a small German village, that was where they would flock to, trashing taverns and devastating the quiet countryside as they came.
There were few among the citizens of Rathburg who even acknowledged us. We were a bad dream, a plague that would be cured only by the passing of time. Klaus haunted the streets, hovered in the darker corners of the Inn's public room, passed in resolute silence before the gates of the tiny cathedral, and ignored the accusing eyes that shadowed him.
He spoke with those few who remembered his family. He questioned those who had known his father, ten years dead. He walked for hours in silence among the small trails and cottages, staring for what seemed small eternities at things I could never know – things from a past he never spoke of, but that consumed him like burning flames.
He was never alone, but by the time we realized the truth of it, he was beyond our help.
Chapter One
The promoters who handled the concert on the mountain outdid themselves. The stage was a level plateau of rock that jutted from the side of the mountain about 150 feet above the small valley below. It was high enough to command a majestic view of the village of Rathburg, and low enough that the gathered masses would have no trouble seeing the band.
More precisely, the crowd would have no trouble seeing Klaus. While there were cliques and smaller groups who gathered to discuss the merits of Peyton, Damon, and Sebastian's musical abilities in contrast with other bands of the day, it was Klaus Von Kroft they were coming to see. The rest were just demigods in the rock hierarchy, worthy of note because Klaus chose to play his music with them, but ultimately replaceable and forgettable in the eyes of the fans.
Portable generators mounted on large trucks rolled into town three days before the actual show and parked discreetly behind the tree line, just beyond the looping bend in the trail that served as a road up the mountain. Snaking lengths of wire and huge black columns of speakers flanked the cliff face below the stage. Some were mounted further up and at angles designed to create the strongest acoustics in such a large, open space. There were huge cones directed at the base of the mountain in order to use the reflective quality of the stone. The idea was to capture the sound and hold it near the stage as much as possible.
The 'seating' was an open field. Concession booths had been erected around the perimeter of this area, as well as tables for the mixing boards and equipment. Public facilities lined one side of the road, and truckloads of beer, ale, and wine arrived in a seemingly constant stream. They didn't expect much trouble with police here, but of course, not having the police meant that security could be a problem as well.
The concert's promoters had imported a small army of security guards and created a sort of base camp about a mile below Rathburg. Their job was to babysit the army of fans, roadies, and camp followers flooding into the town.
The concert field itself was a large, dish-shaped valley with only two viable entrances. Across these they strung portable chain link fences with swinging gates and ticket stations. The area was as secure as any big-city stadium or auditorium, though much more picturesque. While it was certainly possible for some enterprising fans to attempt climbing in over the mountain on either side, it was not likely they would be able to do so unnoticed, and it was certainly enough to discourage the majority.
One thing promoters will go to great lengths for is the guarantee of profit. There was enough room for 30,000 fans, and tickets were going fast. Suddenly what had been Klaus' whim, an idea the band's agent and the promoters had opposed from the start, had become the concert event of the year.
Sebastian stared up at the last of the huge PA columns as it was hoisted into place. A huge hand settled onto his shoulder, startling him, and he turned.
"Jesus," Peyton said, raising his gaze to follow Sebastian's, "maybe we are in for a serious party. If they don't end up raising a damned Klaus idol some day and start worshipping it, I'll eat my cymbals. Every rich girl in Germany will be here soon, and a lot from other places. Maybe there will even be a few left over for us, you think?"
Sebastian smiled distractedly. Peyton's tastes were a lot less subtle than his own, but that was part of the big drummer's appeal. It seemed like every moment he wasn't adding the rhythm to one of Klaus' performances, he was out trying to carve more notches in his romantic belt. At times, he amazed Sebastian, and at others he disgusted him.
Peyton was one of the finest percussionists alive, and, more importantly, he amused Klaus. That was a prerequisite for joining the band, and rare enough to make Peyton special. What he'd said in this case was, in fact, nothing but the truth. The mere cast-offs from Klaus' groupies would set most men on fire.
"If they do put up that statue," Sebastian said, "there will be a bidding war to see where it's erected."
The two turned away from the stage and headed back to the small cottage they shared. The cottage beside theirs, more of a chalet, housed Klaus and their lead guitarist, Damon. Sebastian might have been jealous of this arrangement if he hadn't understood from personal experience who was getting the smaller share of everything in that match up. Klaus and Damon stepped out of their door as Sebastian and Peyton approached. Klaus grinned and stretched lazily.
"Breakfast?" he asked.
It was a rhetorical question. None of them would miss breakfast, though they often didn't wake and get to it until later in the day than is normal. The staff at the Inn would be clearing away the remnant of the morning meal and readying themselves for lunch when they arrived, but it wouldn't stop Klaus, or any of them, from ordering eggs, bacon, and biscuits. It would also put another brick in the growing wall between the town and the band, but Klaus was used to getting what he wanted.
They walked slowly down the hill and entered the Inn. The heady scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted them, and Klaus drew in a deep breath of it.
"Heaven," he said to no one in particular. He smiled at the girl who came to seat them and followed her to a table near the rear, away from the few locals lingering over breakfast.
Damon stumbled along and rubbed his eyes, as if he'd never really agreed to wake up. He didn't sleep well on road trips, because he preferred to spend his time pining and moping. No matter how comfortable his bed was, or how early he got to it, he spent his night awake, staring at the ceiling and missing his fiancé. As the one member of the band in a serious relationship, he wasted no opportunity to make the others feel guilty for dragging him away from home.
He'd left his heart in the care of a girl in Hamburg named Melissa two years earlier and had never been the same. He still followed wherever Klaus and the music led, but he was only really happy when the band played near home, or was in the studio recording. The wild life he'd once shared with Peyton no longer appealed to him, but the lack of sleep accentuated his haunted, rock-start image. That made it a wash.
The band was an oddly matched quartet. Klaus was tall with long gold hair that fell over his shoulders and spread out like a lion's mane. He had green, cat-like eyes, a broad muscled back, and the physique of a dancer. He gave off a sense of aristocracy, as if he might have been a lost Russian prince from a romantic fantasy. When he entered a room, or stepped onto a stage, there was an almost audible crackle of energy. He spoke softly, but there was an underlying power and rhythm to his speech that gave even simple conversation a melodic quality.
Damon, in stark contrast, was so thin he appeared half starved. His hair was dark as lamp-black and draped over his collar in a fine, blue-highlighted cascade that stretched nearly to his knees. He kept that hair carefully braded in a pony tail he could tie up and out of the way if he needed to. He had the melancholy aspect of a lost soul and the deep set, haunted eyes of a martyr. Since Melissa had complicated his life, his already sunken features had borne all the animation of a George Romero zombie.
Damon had long, slender fingers, but the muscles in his wrists and forearms rippled when he moved. His lightning speed and subtle artistry on the guitar were almost magical at times.
Peyton was the biggest of them, with curling black hair, a carefully groomed beard, and a chest like an Olympian. He was well over six feet tall and probably weighed in at over two hundred and fifty pounds. It was an enigma how such a powerful, boisterous man could apply the finesse he did to a set of drums. Of equal mystery was his appeal to the ladies. He gave no indication of settling down, made no promises to any of them, and yet his boyish grin and eternal party philosophy drew more than a little attention from the fairer sex.
Sebastian was quiet, unassuming, and calm. Slender, just under six feet tall and dressed more like an out of place professor than a rock star, he was the last person you'd notice in a crowd. Musically, his keyboards formed the structure for the band's sound. Peyton was the heartbeat, Damon the fire, and Klaus, perhaps, the soul – but Sebastian was the network upon which it all hung. Klaus was well aware of this, but the others seemed not to notice. Sebastian was used to it.
Just then, Sebastian was glancing around the interior of the Inn. Light filtered in through the four small windows that lined the front wall and broke up across the intricate wooden frame. The room was open and comfortable. The scent of coffee was even stronger than it had been when they'd first entered, accompanied by the pungent aromas of sausages and freshly baked bread.
The girl returned with a pot of coffee and four mugs. She took their orders shyly and backed away from the table. Klaus watched her distractedly, and then turned to Sebastian.
"I want to try that new piece tonight," he said. "The one with the old harp riff, you know?"
Sebastian nodded. He did know. It was a solo from a medieval piece he'd heard somewhere, probably at a recital at the university. His synthesizer had an eerily accurate harp simulation, and he'd worked at the bit of song, embellished it, and honed it before presenting a tape of the music to Klaus.
That was how they worked when they wrote the music. Genius that he was, Klaus fed off the others. There was none among them lacking in talent or inspiration, and it was the bits and pieces of things they brought together that kept the creative fires burning.
The night Sebastian had given Klaus that tape, they'd listened to it once together. The room had been utterly silent; a far away, dreamy expression had drifted over Klaus' features.
Klaus had taken the tape, his bass, and his twelve string guitar into the next room, locked the door behind him, and stayed there. The two had shared a suite of rooms in Frankfurt at the time. They were on the third week of a European tour, the same tour where Damon met Melissa. Peyton and Damon had been out that night, and with Klaus locked away, Sebastian had nothing to do but to sit, read a book, stand in the window and gaze out at the streets below, and think. He heard the faint strains of music from the next room; some that he thought were the tape, and others that were obviously Klaus on one instrument or another.
Three hours had passed. Sebastian had finally managed to concentrate on the novel he'd been reading when the door to the other room opened and Klaus stepped out. He said nothing; he handed the tape back to Sebastian, turned, and walked out of the room, not to return until well after dawn.
Sebastian played the tape. At first there was only the harp solo, just as he'd presented it to Klaus. Then his recording ended, and the tape rolled on. Klaus always carried a small four track recorder with him on the road, and he must have had it in the room. On the remainder of the tape, several tracks had been hastily mixed and assembled around the basic solo.
There were lyrics, as well. Music had been added that stretched beyond the solo, and then rolled back to it easily. Klaus must have dubbed the tape at least twice, even if he'd sung along with his guitar; there were too many intricacies to the recording for any other explanation.
What Klaus had created was a ballad, a love song written for a woman Sebastian was certain his friend had never met – a dream lover, or a fantasy? The structure was weak without the keyboards and percussion to hold it together, but there was an eerie power in the notes, and a compelling edge to the lyrics that stuck in his mind. He was so wrapped up in the sound, so lost in the words, that when the song ended he'd sat staring at the wall until the loud click of the tape recorder reaching the end of the tape startled him back to awareness. The song was magnificent.
Klaus had returned just before dawn. When he came in, Sebastian was still sitting, staring at the wall. The tape deck was stopped at the end of the tape where he'd left it. Klaus met his gaze for a long moment, studied his face, and then walked from the room and went to bed.
Sebastian had stored the tape carefully, and that had been it. Klaus had never mentioned the song, and Sebastian, uncertain over his friend's silence, had left it alone. They'd never told the others about it, or presented the tape, and as far as Sebastian knew, Klaus had never played the song again.
Now, over eggs and coffee in a small German town a thousand miles from anywhere, Klaus brought it up casually, as though it had been the obvious next project in line. Sebastian turned and glanced at the others.
Peyton and Damon stared at Klaus, and then at Sebastian, then back at Klaus.
"What harp solo?" Peyton cut in. "You holding out on us Sebastian?"
"What song are you talking about?" Damon asked, frowning. "I don't remember anything about…"
Klaus held up his hand and waved them silent with an impatient gesture. He gave them a quick rundown of the night Sebastian had given him the tape, and how he'd taken it and written a song around it.
They nodded warily, but kept their comments to themselves, waiting. They didn't have long. Without preamble, Klaus dropped his bombshell.
"I want to play it in the concert here," he said. "On the mountain. Who knows? Maybe the girl I wrote it for will be here."
"Great," Damon muttered, turning to catch Peyton's gaze with his famed raised eyebrow of drama and frustration. "Three days, Klaus. We have three fucking days and we've never even heard this song. How in hell do you expect us to be ready to play it for this show?"
"Girl?" Peyton cut in. "What girl is going to be here?"
Klaus ignored the drummer and spoke directly to Damon. "We can do it." He glanced down and watched the designs on the swirling surface of his coffee. "I know we can."
"But," Peyton threw in, growing serious, "remember the last time this happened? Remember that song, what did you call it? Cat Woman? We worked on that bloody thing for four days – most of four nights, too. What did it get us? Hooted off the stage when Sebastian and I tripped over that bit with the bridge, that's what. It's too risky."
It was no use, of course, and they all knew it. Klaus' mind was set, and Klaus was in charge. There was nothing left for them to do but to launch into the project, for better or for worse, and pray it didn't louse the show up too badly.
"At least it's a ballad," Sebastian commented to no one in particular. "I mean, it won't be as intricate as a lot of our music."
Peyton and Damon stared at their coffee and scowled, and Sebastian fell silent.
They fell into a discussion of the arrangement, and after a few minutes they were all involved, leaning in to contribute their part. They loved the music; even the seemingly impossible act of writing, learning, and performing a new song in three days couldn't change that.
They worked out the details, smoothed the beat and familiarized themselves with the overall structure of the song. Klaus even went as far as to hum the tune at one point, which he'd memorized completely and modified considerably since the tape that Sebastian had heard. By the time the last cup of coffee and a couple of small snifters of cognac apiece had disappeared, they were all eager to start.
They rose, paid for their meal and exited the Inn. It was after noon, and the citizens of Rathburg swirled about them. The band paid no attention to them; their minds were focused on the work ahead. Still, Sebastian caught some of the looks they were given in passing, and felt the underlying sense of distance. They passed by the cottage Sebastian and Peyton shared in favor of Klaus and Damon's place, which was slightly larger.
They'd set up a small studio of sorts in one room using small, high quality backstage amplifiers, a very small simplistic mixing board, and Klaus' four track recorder. Klaus set up the equipment with practiced ease, then turned to Sebastian.
"Get the tape, will you Sebastian?"
Sebastian nodded. He had no idea how Klaus knew he'd have it with him, but he kept several tapes in a small felt-lined compartment of his synthesizer case, and the tape in question was among them. He'd carried it, in fact, since the day he'd first heard it. He produced the cassette, and Klaus popped it into the machine. Turning so that he could watch all of their reactions at once, he hit the play button.
He watched Peyton and Damon as the moody, soulful tune wailed out of the monitor speakers. It was a very different type of thing from their other music, much softer and more subtle. The two never changed expression, nor did they move. When the song ended, they turned, exchanged a glance, and Peyton grinned.
"My God, Klaus," he said. "You'll make slaves of the entire audience with music like that! If you sing that to all those women, how will I ever manage to steal a kiss from any of them?"
Damon said nothing. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and he reached immediately for his guitar, setting controls and changing his lower string tuning. The others watched in silence.
Damon turned on his amplifier, hit a note, re-adjusted the controls, and began to play. It was a harmonic replica of the harp solo, played through a stereo chorus and a flanger (set on low). Klaus froze, stared, and concentrated on the sound. It was beautiful. Damon's eyes were closed, and it was a full two minutes before, blinking and shaking his head, he stopped the strings with his pick hand and returned Klaus' stare.
They were all still and silent until Klaus gave a signal, and they went to their instruments. It was like being on stage; they communicated without words and moved as a single unit. Klaus pressed the record button on the tape deck and stepped to his microphone. He tossed his long, golden hair out of his eyes.
Sebastian didn't wait for more signals. The need to play gripped him, and he began the harp solo, modifying it to match what he'd heard in the Inn, when Klaus had hummed the tune and twisting it closer to what Damon had played only moments before. Halfway through the solo, Damon insinuated his guitar and wove around the notes with an almost inhuman cunning.
Behind them all, in the corner, a shimmer of cymbals rose, followed by a slow, resonant drumbeat. It was powerful, but sinuous, seemingly off the rhythm, but then, somehow, perfectly in sync. Klaus closed his eyes, let his head fall back, drew the microphone to his lips and began the first verse. His voice rose steadily until it competed equally with the instruments and became the lead, the rest a complicated and magical backdrop of sound.
There was no hesitation in their performance, not the slightest hint of discord, even in the transitions between verses. They played, and Klaus sang. When his voice faded, Sebastian and Damon soared with a twining solo that brought tears to both their eyes and threatened to blind them. They faded back into the drumbeat, and Peyton brought it all to a close with the same shimmer of cymbals he'd used to bring it to life. It was over.
Sebastian stepped back from his keyboard as if his fingers had been burned. Damon lifted the guitar strap over his head and let the instrument fall to the floor with a jarring crash of amplified sound and feedback. He walked out of the room without looking back. Peyton sat behind his drums, eyes glazed and empty. Klaus had never stopped staring at the heavens
Sebastian staggered toward the door. On his way past, he managed to flip the off switch on Damon's amplifier and cut the horrible grinding sound. Once outside, he and Damon headed in opposite directions. Damon walked toward the town; Sebastian headed for the mountain, and the solitude of the trees.
All of them sought the same thing – a long moment of private silence that would not break the spell of the melody echoing through their minds.
Chapter Two
The last day before the concert passed in a blur. There were more promoters and slick-haired corporate suits running around near the stage and perimeter of the fenced concert area than Sebastian could Count. He watched them swarm like ants and shook his head. Along with the promoters, there were early-arriving concert-goers in bright vans, low-slung sports cars, and even a couple of chartered buses. All the local businesses were closed, with the exception of the Flagon and Barrel, which would probably rake in more income in sales and lose more in damages this one night than any entire year of its previous existence.
The locals had abandoned the streets. Their doors were closed and locked, and their windows shuttered as if they expected a great storm. It might have been from fear, but for some reason Sebastian didn't believe it. They weren't frightened; they just didn't want to be involved. The citizens of Rathburg had conceded the moment, divorced themselves from the nightmare circus of noise and glitter that had washed over them and stolen their reality, and sealed themselves away to wait for it to pass.
The band stayed out of sight, for the most part, not wanting to be seen early and mobbed by over-eager fans. Klaus moved silently behind the scenes, checking the layout of wiring and lighting, testing microphones, smiling at anyone important in that way of his that put even the stiffest-necked promoter at ease.
Sebastian watched his friend work for a moment, then turned and went in search of Damon and Peyton. He found them in the studio, sharing a bottle of wine and a loaf of good, homemade bread they'd scavenged from the Inn. Damon picked idly at one of the two or three acoustic guitars they always had lying about. It took a moment for Sebastian to register that the tune he played was a low-key version of the solo from the new song.
"Like the calm before the storm, eh?" Sebastian said as he entered, taking a seat beside Peyton. "It's hard to believe it's even happening. I mean, a show begins with the dressing rooms and make-up girls, and the headaches. This is a bit…different."
"Damned spooky is what it is," Peyton mumbled. "Damon and I have been talking about this bloody mystery song of the Maestro's. I mean, I've been playing drums for years, and I've played a lot of music, but never anything like that. The damned song played itself. Hell, it played us. It's just not normal, and it's going to be hard to control an audience when Klaus sets his voice to it, backed by the power of those stacks out there."
Sebastian shook his head slowly. The same thoughts had occurred to him more than once, but he'd thought it his own paranoia. To hear Peyton say it made it more real, and more frightening. "Just more of Klaus' magic," Sebastian said at last, only half convinced himself. "You know he'll never fail to surprise us, Peyton.we should be used to it by now."
"No," Damon said, "I mean, he made the tape, and the words are his, but there's more to this than that. When I heard it, it was as if I already knew the song. I didn't improvise that lead. I played it from memory. And Peyton's drums – no offense, man, but you don't ever come up with a beat like that without some work and some thought." The guitarist's eyes shifted to meet Sebastian's gaze. "And how did you follow transitions that had never been laid out?"
Sebastian stared at Damon and blinked. That had never occurred to him, and now he wondered why. They'd played the song only once, and yet there had been nuances of rhythm, key changes, even a short bridge, and all without a signal from anyone when each section should begin, or end.
"What could it mean?" He asked at last. "I mean, it's no use crying impossible about something that has already happened. What the hell could explain something like that?"
"You found the song first," Peyton pointed out. "Suppose you see if you can remember where. Maybe we've all heard it somewhere and it was just so long ago we can't remember where, or when. If so, it's possible your little harp riff brought it back to us, you know?"
Peyton's grammar was lacking, as usual, but Sebastian saw immediately that what he said made sense. It would not only explain the fluidity of the song, but it would also ease all of their minds to know there was a logical explanation for what they'd experienced. He sank back in his chair and tried to remember.
"I think," He said at last, "that it might have been my third year at university." Closing his eyes, he tried to sink back through time and put himself in the proper frame of mind. "It was a fairly rare occasion, even in a fine arts school, when there was a harp recital. There are so few left in the world that can do the instrument justice. I went on a whim, nothing better to do, I guess. It's coming back to me, but I can't for the life of me remember the woman's name."
As the memory suddenly gripped him, his eyes lost focus on the room, and his companions. The cottage walls receded and were replaced by ivy-clad towers and tall, stone walls.
~* ~
Wind whipped loose leaves about in random patterns, scattering them across the steps to the pavilion. Sebastian's thoughts were random as well. It would be good to hear the harp played again. The harpist was thought to be among the finest remaining to the instrument – a true master. It was funny that he'd never heard her before, but who was he to question the professor's of such a grand institution?
There were only a few others in the audience. It was the middle of a school week, and late for the beginning of a recital. It was scheduled to commence at 9:00 PM. Sebastian managed to slip up close to the stage where the view and acoustics were better. The curtains were still pulled, but there was scuffling and movement on the other side. Settling in, he removed his coat and draped it over the arm of the seat beside him.
The auditorium felt ancient and imposing in its pompous grandeur. The curtains swooped elegantly to a high, domed ceiling that arched over him like a huge, ornate bowl. The walls were hung with stately lamps that resembled the oil-filled torches of days gone by. They suffused the room with a mellow golden light that did not raise the shadows too sharply, but instead blended them into the edges of things, melting everything that met his gaze into a single whole. The effect was relaxing, and Sebastian was just beginning to feel that he might nod off when the curtains slid to the sides with a steady rush of sound.
And there she was. His emotions in that moment conflicted violently, defying description. She was lovely, and the harp itself was huge and magnificent. Her red hair cascaded over the white material of her gown like molten lava. Her eyes – and it was odd that he could make them out so clearly from such a distance – were sea green, and very deep. He could have sworn they were focused directly on him, but he was certain, at the same time, that every man in the audience, and some of the women, no doubt, felt that same thing. He found that he had stared at her, dazed, for so long that she'd begun to play, and he hadn't noticed.
What she played was the introduction to a song, a song that would stick with him when her face and her name did not. There had been no opening ceremony to the recital, and the program didn't list the music by composer or title, but Sebastian remembered how her voice rose to join the harp. It was a very high, powerful voice, and she blended it with the notes of her instrument so closely that at times they sounded like ghostly after-images of one another. Her gaze never left him, and by that point he was curiously certain that it was he who she'd stared at.
There were other songs; some he could recall vaguely, others he had no memory of whatsoever. It was well after midnight when he departed the auditorium. He wandered the streets for hours and finally made his way to a local pub, where he'd haunted a dark booth until the bartender asked him to leave.
The woman's eyes followed him. If he closed his own, and it had become increasingly difficult not to do so under the influence of too many hours without sleep and too many mugs of beer., the memory of those eyes filled his mind. Storms raged in their green depths. Their power was oddly compelling and sharply focused. He was the focus, but he didn't know how, or why.
Sebastian saw messages in that gaze, promises and warnings. He felt a huge sense of loss when, upon finally arriving at his dormitory, he realized that he would never see her again. The realization shocked him awake.
He turned and ran back to the auditorium, his eyes watering from the cool air rushing over his face. The auditorium was dark, the doors closed and locked. Only empty shadows and a few loose flyers, caught in the wayward fingers of the breeze greeted his return. He turned and trudged back to his room, and his bed. As he slept, the memory of what had happened waned and slipped slowly away.
~ * ~
"Hey, man, cut it out! Sebastian!"
Peyton's huge, bear-like paws gripped his shoulders and shook him roughly. The drummer's voice was filled with urgency, but Sebastian could not for the life of him figure out what it was that his friend wanted. He felt as though he'd been dragged from a pleasant dream, and as his mind cleared a bit he almost resented being awakened into too-bright reality.
"Wake up, man," Peyton said again. "What the hell happened? Jesus, this is strange enough without you going off to La-la Land on us."
Sebastian shook the drummer off and stared around the room. His eyes widened in comprehension. The room focused, and he knew where he was – what he'd been doing. Had he fallen asleep? He had only been relaxing, trying to piece together that odd song and his memories of that long ago recital, and…
"Boy," Damon said, picking his guitar up again, "she must have been something."
"Who?" Sebastian asked? "What the hell are you talking about? Who was something?"
Damon and Peyton stared at him as if he was some sort of giant, talking bug that had wandered in and claimed to be Elvis. Falling back into his seat, Peyton said slowly.
"You just told us about a harp recital, man, a red-headed woman – staying up all night – drowning in her eyes? You don't remember any of that?"
Sebastian's expression must have answered for him. Harp recital? Something tugged at his senses, something about green eyes, but it wouldn't surface.
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he said finally. "I was just relaxing, trying to remember where I'd heard that song. I must have dozed off, or something, but I don't remember anything about redheads, or harp recitals. Maybe you guys were hallucinating. I think I was asleep."
He knew how lame it sounded. It was obvious that something had just happened, but it was frightening to be the focus of their attention and not to know why. One more strange, unexplained moment to tack onto the current string. He didn't know what else to say, so he asked the question foremost in his mind.
"What did I say, then, Peyton?" he asked. "Tell me what I said."
Looking at him as though he might explode, disappear, or turn into some kind of monster, Peyton brought the wine bottle to his lips, took a huge swallow, and replayed the lost moments of Sebastian's afternoon to his friend's bewilderment.
"But," Sebastian said, when it had all been told, "I don't remember that. I mean, I obviously don't remember telling you anything, but I don't remember any such harp recital, even after you've repeated it for me. I'm not the kind to forget memorable performances – especially from sexy women with whirlpools for eyes."
"We never should've come here," Damon said finally. ‘All this shit about Klaus' father, and playing on the mountain where his family lived, it isn't about the music at all. It's about him, and at the moment it's all a bit too freaked out for me. All he sees is this big night, playing on the mountain. Now he drags out that song as another way of making it special. I don't want to play it at all."
Turning, he added, "I wish Melissa was here."
"I don't like it either," Peyton chimed in, "but I don't think we have a choice. I mean, it seems to have some kind of hold on us. You're playing the damned thing now, while we talk, for Christ's sake."
Damon dropped the guitar into his lap as if it had grown suddenly hot, or slimy. He stared at his fingers with no sign of recognition in his eyes. "Damn," he said, rising swiftly and reaching for the bottle. "Damn."
Klaus took that particular moment to make his entrance. Silence filled the room so palpably that it pressed down on them, stopping all movement. Klaus took in the strangeness of expression and strained postures. Then he smiled.
"Don't suppose one of you'd like to tell me just what the hell the problem is here?"
"No problem," Peyton muttered. "Just nervous about the show, is all."
"Right," Klaus smirked, dropping heavily onto a small stack of pillows on the floor. "That's why you all clammed up when I came in and sat there like a bunch of conspirators. I'll save you the trouble; it's the song, isn't it?"
Peyton turned his eyes to the wall and pretended to examine a small oil painting. Damon's gaze never left his hands. He looked as though he still didn't trust them. Heaving a sigh, Sebastian answered.
"Yes," Sebastian said, "It's the song. So, what do you think, Klaus?"
Klaus smiled. Now that he'd drawn his audience, he grew serious, though he lost none of his cool confidence.
"I think," he said, completely serious for once, "that it is the most intriguing, impossible song I've ever encountered. I think, despite the strangeness of how it all came together, that it is probably the best thing we will ever play. That is a sobering thought, gentlemen. Are we ready to cross the hill? Are we ready to play our consummate performance tonight? Or is there more?"
The question sobered them. The thought was new, and disturbing, and on the surface seemed very likely to be true. This song was, beyond any stretch of the imagination, the best thing they had ever played. The best they would ever play? That, of course, depended on several things, most of which they seemed to have exactly no control over. It depended on the night's performance repeating the magic of the first rehearsal. It depended on just where the damned song had come from in the first place, and if there were more to follow. And it depended on them all making it through one hell of a weird set of events with their minds intact.
"It doesn't make any sense," Damon said bitterly. "I mean, we bust our asses for years trying to get the perfect sound. Now along comes this song, from nowhere, or from Sebastian's dreams, who in hell knows? All of a sudden we're perfect. We don't need to rehearse. We don't need to polish the new act. We just pick up our damned instruments and play, and it's perfect."
"And it felt so good," Peyton threw in, dragging his gaze from free of the wall and the painting he'd been trying to lose himself in with a sudden jerk. "I mean, you'd think if it was too easy, we wouldn't enjoy it, like we'd been ripped off. Not with this song. I loved every damned minute of that sound – lived it. If that's the last music we can play like that – I may not be able to play music again at all."
"My, my," Klaus said, his cat-got-the-canary grin spreading to cover half of his face. "Aren't we the depressing group? No more music? Never that good again? Man, I'm glad you asked my opinion. With only your own minds to guide you, you'd all be ready to commit suicide over this."
Sebastian frowned. He'd lost his sense of humor for the subject, and he was fast losing it with Klaus and his superior attitude.
"Suppose you tell us your opinion, then," he said. "Suppose the great god of rock and roll speaks and enlightens the masses before we commit group hari-kari and make the cover of Rolling Stone for the last time. Suppose you tell us just what the hell you think is going on?"
Klaus' eyes simmered for a moment. They all watched him and waited to see which way he'd go. Sebastian might have pushed too far, but at the moment it didn't seem to matter. If the music were over, what difference could it make? If not, Klaus would have to answer.
"Suppose I do," Klaus said finally, all trace of humor gone from his voice. "Suppose I do. Tell me, Sebastian, have you ever reached what they call a plateau in your music? You know what I mean, one of those days when, after years of mucking around, suddenly you can play something you once thought impossible?"
Sebastian thought about it, and then nodded slowly. Such moments were actually fairly common to the careers of musicians.
"Well," Klaus went on, warming to his subject and pushing aside his anger at Sebastian's outburst, "that's just what I think may have happened here. A collective plateau. You remembered the solo. I wrote the lyrics. Damon stitched his guitar into the pattern, and Peyton laid the foundation. All the same as any other song we've written – except for when the lyrics changed around among us – but this time it clicked. This time, when I wrote my words, your solo seemed to speak to me. This time when I sang, Damon's guitar focused on my words and blended with them. This time Peyton felt the beat from the heart. This time we did what our own idols have done. We created a great song. That is all we did, though, and it was us who did it – nobody else. Only us."
The word bullshit sat on Sebastian's tongue, ready to leap, but he bit it back. What was the point? He saw from Damon's expression that he felt the same. Peyton only snorted.
"You don't believe that," Sebastian said finally, "and neither do we. We all know music. Performance is an art. There are no masters who can just walk on a stage and perform perfectly. We are not perfect. We need practice, work, and time to bring a song from idea to life. This song was alive before we touched it. It scares the hell out of me."
Klaus stared at Sebastian, his gaze calculating. It was obvious he wanted to call his friend a fool, to override all of their doubts and assert his own version of reality. It must have been equally obvious that he was the only one who believed as he did. He kept his silence.
A knock sounded at the door, and Peyton went to answer. It was, of course, one of the countless promoters scuttling about like vermin. There was only an hour until show time.
Sebastian settled back in his chair again and fell silent. Klaus said nothing. Peyton turned back to the painting on the wall, and Damon picked up his guitar and began to strum. His fingers returned to the same, haunting tune, but he didn't seem to notice.
Chapter Three
The early afternoon sun glistened brightly off of the polished surface of the dark limousine as it pulled up in front of the Flagon and Barrel like a sleek slice of night. Nobody rushed out to greet it. After a brief hesitation, the driver's side door opened, and a tall, slender man with golden-brown skin climbed out. He closed the door carefully, as though afraid of causing any disturbance to the car or to its passengers. He looked about, assessed his surroundings, and then walked confidently toward the front door of the Inn.
Nobody inside moved to open the door. When he entered, there was scuttling movement, but no word of greeting was spoken. He looked to the small desk that sat in the corner of the lobby, but no one was there. Whispers of sound reached his ears. He craned his neck slightly, tilted his head to the side like an animal on a scent, but he could make out no words.
With two quick steps he crossed the room and brought his hand down smartly on the small bell that sat on the desk.
The shrill ringing echoed interminably, accentuating the emptiness of the room. Finally, with infinite slowness and eyes downcast, an old woman shuffled out from a back room. Her eyes never rose from the floor. Her movements were those of a cowering animal, and she seemed, almost, to be in a trance.
The dark man watched her advance, and he smiled. His smile was crooked, not quite fulfilling its promise of good humor. The woman moved in utter silence to the desk, drew forth a pen and scribbled frantically in the ledger. The man's smile widened. When she reached out with a set of keys, he took her hand in his own and watched as the revulsion shivered through her. He let his touch linger, just long enough. A soft whimper escaped her throat, and he released her, taking the keys.
The woman backed slowly away, sobbing quietly and shivering. Copper watched until she disappeared completely from sight before turning to exit the Inn. It was good to be back after so long. It was good to be remembered.
The limousine sat as he had left it. He returned to the driver's side, climbed in behind the wheel, and started the engine. They had their own entrance, and he was eager to reach it. Rosa didn't like to be kept waiting and she would blame any delay on Copper. Since Rosa's satisfaction was his life – he could not allow delays.
The engine purred and the spinning tires sent streams of gravel shooting off behind them as he drove out of the small dirt lot and around the corner of the building. There was an attached shed at the back of the Inn, a garage of sorts. Copper got out, opened the door, and then came back to pull the long black car into its "stall." Only after the door had been sealed behind him, plunging the limo into utter blackness, did he move toward the passenger door. A stray sliver of light might have meant his death.
Within seconds of the door opening, Rosa stood beside him. She poured from the interior, a darker shadow flowing against the ebony of the void that surrounded him. Her appearance brought a strange vertigo – a sense of detachment. She existed so far beyond any reality he had ever known that he'd never been able to reconcile the two worlds, past and present. When Rosa was near, the world became a dream, or a nightmare.
Rosa stood nearly six feet in height. Her hair, the color of mellow flames in the dark hours of the night, not quite orange, but not pure red, fell in a brilliant cascade over slender shoulders, reaching to the small of her back. Her eyes, the deepest, sea-green eyes Copper had ever seen, were remarkable to the point of distracting one from the physical perfection of her form. Even a man enamored of the beauty of a woman's legs, or her breasts, would find that what he could never forget about Rosa was her eyes.
Then there was Alex. Alex did not flow from the interior of the car, he flashed into view like a jet-black star. His movements were not sinuous, or sensuous. They crackled with energy and dark intent. He was neither tall, nor broad, but he exuded strength. His presence was intimidating. He moved like a wild animal.
His long blond hair whipped about his features in what seemed to be windswept disarray, though Copper knew it to be painstakingly molded to that ideal. His eyes were dark, almost black, and they held no emotion. They were the eyes of a serpent. Alex never smiled.
Together, Rosa and Alex were like ice and fire. Long ago, when Copper had first met Rosa, he had made the mistake of believing that Alex was the stronger. Logic, and years of hard lessons, had prevailed. Though fire could melt the tips of ice, the ice was old and powerful. It could crush, or freeze. It could end fire so surely that one would have to push the limits of imagination to remember that it ever existed. There was no doubt who was the more powerful of the two, or how much Alex resented it.
Finally there was Alicia. Alicia was the odd cog. She seemed almost shy, at times. Her eyes were full of emotion and compassion. She had power of her own, Copper knew, but she seldom made this fact known in any tangible way – not like the others. She was black, slightly darker than Copper, but still very light skinned compared to some. Her accent was a mixture of French and the deep south.
She was exquisite, and she scared Copper to death. For one thing, she was one of them, and he was not. She could take him at any moment she chose. For another, Rosa had picked her. There was no way to know how Rosa would react to his feelings toward one of her own, and yet, there was no way to deny the feelings.
The limousine door closed behind them with a decisive click. The darkness was different with the three of them loose – charged with purpose. Copper crossed to the far wall, found the latch to the inner door with practiced ease and released the lever. There was no shift in the darkness as the door slid open. Only a small gust of damp air marked the fact that anything had changed.
Copper stood aside as the others preceded him into the dank interior. He knew that the door led to a long abandoned cellar of the Flagon and Barrel. Rosa had chosen and outfitted the place many years back. It hadn't taken her long to convince the Innkeeper that it should be reserved for her. It had taken no time at all, in fact. The people of this village knew her well. Their fathers and their father's fathers had known her, and her family. There was no fight left in them, only fear.
His years with Rosa had not left Copper unmarked. He had changed steadily since she stole his heart and spirited him away from his people. His memories of that earlier time had begun to fade. He remembered green jungle and elephants; he remembered a hot sun and cool, humid nights. Mostly, he did not remember at all. It took too much concentration to keep Rosa happy, and to remain alive, and the memories were too vague to be of any use to him.
Though he wasn't fully changed, he was no longer completely human, either. His eyes had no trouble in adjusting to the utter lack of light. He seldom went out for long periods by day. It was not that he could not, merely that his senses were now keener in darkness. He appeared whenever there were affairs to be looked after. The villagers knew him, and they feared him almost as much as his mistress. He was, after all, chosen.
Despite the fact that it had been vacant for years, the room looked much the same as it always had. There was a single table, ringed by several plush, leather-upholstered chairs, and a group of nearly a dozen couch-like divans that served as beds, which were scattered about the room. Along the walls lay strange companions, a pair of harps, a lute, two guitars, and three sets of iron manacles fastened to the stone of the walls. Even the shadowy light of the room couldn't hide the darker-stained spots on the floor beneath the restraints. Copper showed no reaction to the ancient stains; he had seen it all before.
There were four hours left until sunset. There were five hours until the gates of the concert would officially close behind the lucky few who were privileged to attend the night's performance. Rosa, of course, was privileged to whatever she wished. They would be allowed to enter late through a side door by the stage. Copper had seen to it. He couldn't understand his mistress' wish to attend such a performance; her tastes were normally much more refined, but he did as he was directed. She had insisted on attending this spectacle, and he knew better than to question her.