The feeling of being unwanted and outcast is familiar to me. I was always hated by the other gods, most of whom still sleep, bound to earth and darkness.
One of the gods is awake, though. I can sense him distantly, can feel the incessant dirge of his wrathful mourning for the glory that once belonged to the Tuatha Dé Danann. He feels me, too, and he despises my existence. I try to shut him out of my consciousness, like I do with the ghosts.
Left alone in this subterranean lair while my summoner pursues his goals elsewhere, I wait and I wander, empty of purpose, tortured by voices. I meander through dripping tunnels and forgotten halls, aching and angry.
“Stay here,” my summoner told me before he left. “Stay away from humans at all costs. If you must go out, remain in the shadows and wear this.” He handed me a white mask, designed to cover every feature except my mouth and jaw. “You’re disgusting without it.”
I could not answer him. For weeks after being trapped in this form, I could barely move, and I had trouble speaking my thoughts. The blond vampire who locked down my powers possessed a compulsive voice, a mental control I’ve never seen, not even in the days of old. A magical mutation of sorts. I still hear her voice in my head sometimes—a low, sinuous threat, a golden chain, deceptively beautiful and horribly irresistible.
Thanks to the echoes of her voice, the sneering rebuke of my summoner, the distant roar of the sea god, and the cries of the merciless dead, I am going mad.
The only time I feel the slightest relief is when I listen to music. In my subterranean dwelling, I have a radio—my summoner called it an antique—and I listen to it with the volume turned all the wayup to drown out the wails of the ghosts. There is something called a record player as well, and a few boxes of records my summoner purchased from a shop somewhere in the city. He said they were cheap, that no one wanted them anymore. I cannot fathom such disregard.
Music is a mercy. It tears my emotions out of my chest and lets them soar in midair, exposed and soothed at the same time.
I began with the radio and the records, but they did not provide enough variety for my voracious appetite. Before my summoner abandoned me, he left me a few treasures to ensure my survival—a laptop, a phone, and a plastic rectangle called a debit card, apparently connected to a vast supply of human currency. The laptop sits on a desk, plugged into a yellowed socket in a wall of bare brick. Through it, I have discovered a world full of music…and other possibilities. I can purchase food and clothing for this body, and I can have them delivered to the old service door at the end of the canal.
With the laptop, I can investigate any subject as deeply as I desire. I can access a vast library of music composed within the past several decades. Most of my days are spent devouring music, studying its structure, reveling in its ascendancy beyond scientific rules into a realm of creative magic.
And yet despite having all this at my fingertips, I feel empty, haunted, hollow. There is an aching void inside me, as deep as the chasm in which I dwelled for centuries. I am always searching for new music, for a song that will perfectly express everything I feel…and for the perfect voice that will serve as the balm to my wretched soul.
3Christine
“You gotta pay your dues if you want to make it in this business.”
When you live in Nashville, you hear that statement almost every day, and I’m sick of it. I don’t want to pay my dues. I’d like to be able to pay rent for a decent apartment instead of having to live in the shitty back hallway of the New Orpheum Theatre.
Today, the person telling me to “pay my dues” is Carlotta Vanetti, a curvy woman in her midtwenties with flawless makeup, acrylic nails, and a cascade of caramel extensions. She’s standing in front of my desk, tapping those glossy nails on the varnished wood while I pull up our events calendar to see if the New Orpheum has availability for her birthday party.
The New Orpheum Theatre isn’tjusta theater. It’s a sprawling industrial complex that has been mostly renovated and features a bar, several dance studio spaces, a chapel for weddings, and a gigantic ballroom for receptions and parties. Then there’s the theater itself, decorated in a decadent gothic style, draped in suffocating crimson velvet and gleaming with electric candelabras. The building also houses green rooms, dressing rooms, storage rooms, and “residences,” whichis a fancy word for tiny studio apartments that the owner, Firmin Richards, rents out to cash-strapped twenty-somethings like me.
My studio apartment is a severe downgrade from the beautiful suburban mansion I grew up in. In fact, it’s barely worthy of the word “studio,” more like a closet with a mirrored wall at the end to make it seem larger. The toilet is located in the tiled shower stall. I don’t have a sink, so I have to spit my toothpaste down the shower drain. I’m pretty sure none of it’s up to code—like much of the work that’s been done to the New Orpheum—but Mr. Richards has a business partner with connections in city government, and somehow, they’ve been able to weasel their way through the inspections and obtain every permit they applied for.
They’ve cut corners everywhere, and eventually, it will start to show. But until then, it’s my job to make sure the books stay full of high-profile events—like Carlotta Vanetti’s masquerade-themed birthday party.
“I’m fortunate to have connections in the music business,” she says confidentially, leaning over the top of the lobby desk. “Not to mention plenty of natural talent. I’ve performed in a bunch of shows, and I could get more roles if I wanted them. In fact, I might be starring in this new musical by a young composer who grew up right here in Nashville. It’s going to be big. I just know it. I have a gut instinct about these things, and it feels like fate, like the part was written for me. But that’s all very hush-hush. Nothing’s settled yet.” She mimes zipping her lips.
How considerate of her to brag about her connections and prospects to an aspiring singer with neither advantage.
“I won’t tell a soul,” I say through a dazzling smile. “And it looks like you’re in luck. We have an opening for the end of October.”
“Perfect! Thanks, doll.” Delicately, she plucks at her hair with herlong nails, tucking a loose curl back into place as she purses her lips. I’ve lived in Nashville long enough to tell when someone’s lips have had a little plumping assistance, and hers have definitely been overfilled more than once. Whatever makes her feel good about herself, I guess.
After taking her information and her deposit, I assure her that our event coordinator will be in touch soon with more information.
“That’s great. And you keep chasing those dreams.” She flutters her hand at me before stalking across the wide lobby and flouncing out through the theater’s rotating door.
Why did I tell her I wanted to be a singer? Mindless chitchat, I guess. She asked what part of the city I live in, and when I said I livehere, I saw the slight lift of her eyebrows, the surprise, the judgment. Maybe I wanted to convince her—and myself—that this job isn’t the end goal for me.
Maybe I’m tired of being unseen, unheard, and ignored, but honestly, it’s my own fault. Dancing onstage has never been a problem for me as long as I’m in a group. I could dance backup all day, every day. But singing for people? Nope.
Sure, I’ve pictured myself belting out jaw-dropping notes for an adoring crowd and hearing them cheer for me. I dream in cotton-candy colors, but the reality is a sour gummy worm, dust coated and too hard to chew. No matter how low the stakes, even on the tiniest stage in the smallest back-room bar in Nashville with the most accommodating audience, I just can’t make myself sing in front of anyone.
My struggle with performance anxiety is nothing new, but since my parents were killed, it’s gotten worse. If I try to sing in public, I go into a full-blown panic attack or I projectile-vomit. It’s infuriating. I’m pissed off at my own brain, at my parents, at the whole world. Yeah, I could use some therapy, but who’s got the time or the money?Not me, that’s for damn sure, because per fucking usual, my parents screwed me over one last time from beyond the grave.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. My parents were always more loyal to the Progeny cult and its leader, Wolfsheim, than to their own blood. When Wolfsheim summoned his followers to fight for him, I told my parents not to go. But they were devoted fanatics, dedicated to his cause. Mom was upset with me for even suggesting they ignore a command from their “progenitor,” and she refused to speak to me the morning they left.
But my dad pulled me aside into the study where he kept all the trophies of his music career. He used to sing and play bass guitar in a band before he switched to being a talent manager. It always weirded me out a little, seeing old photos of him in his heartthrob days, surrounded by girls begging him to sign their pictures, their arms, their boobs, anything. That was before I was born, though. When my mom got pregnant, he quit touring and shifted the focus of his career.
