The Enchanter Heir

Chapter Thirty-eight

I’m with the Band

Emma awakened with a jolt, momentarily disoriented, her arms crossed over her face to ward off danger. Propping up on her elbows, she looked around. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, flaming dust motes in the air.

Right. She was in the Oxbow Building, eighth-floor studio, view of downtown.

She pulled her shirt away from her clammy skin. Jonah’s shirt. She’d bought pajamas at the store in the student center, but when it came down to it, she’d slept another night in Jonah’s clothes. She pressed the faded cotton against her nose. It still carried his scent.

They ought to bottle that, she thought. And call it Boy Blue. Or, maybe, Bad Idea.

She had nothing to bring to this game. She had no skills. It was her kind of luck to fall for a boy who could read minds. Well, emotions. Did that include lust? It was humiliating . . . like walking around naked with someone who was fully clothed. A just God would have given that gift to Emma . . . so she could sort out the liars.

What time was it? She groped for her phone. Not there. Where was her phone?

Oh. It was back at home. Tyler’s home. It seemed so far away, now. Just one more dream that fades upon waking. A stopping place on a journey to nowhere.

Her groping hand found the notebook paper with her wish list on it—the notes and measurements she’d taken at the woodshop the day before. The shop at the Anchorage was top-shelf, just like everything else on campus. Still, it had an air of neglect, as if the administration had sunk a lot of money into it at the front end, but nobody had paid much attention to it since. It didn’t smell like any woodshop she’d ever been in. Not even any sawdust on the floor.

She’d made a slow circuit of the larger tools, trying them out with scrap lumber she found in the discard bin. The tools looked nearly new, though some of the blades needed sharpening and everything was covered with a fine layer of dust. She was used to Sonny Lee’s tools and their quirks. For instance, how the pulley on the table saw would slip on the shaft and bind against the body of the saw and you had to act quick if you smelled burning rubber or you might burn up the belt. Or how you had to give the old disc sander a spin to get it going because the capacitor didn’t work and it wouldn’t start up on its own.

There wasn’t much in the way of materials—woods, fittings, and the like. Wistfully, she recalled the racks of seasoned woods she’d left behind at Tyler’s, and wondered if they were still there. I need to get back there, she thought. Somehow.

Propping herself up in bed, she scanned the rows of tiny, precise handwriting, making a few additions and clarifications. New saw blades. Lubricants. The specialized wood glue Sonny Lee always ordered from Germany. And woods: birch and ebony and book-matched maple.

Setting her list aside, she slid out of bed and padded across the floor to the bathroom. She was at a boarding school, where they had set times for things. She’d probably already missed breakfast. She didn’t want to miss lunch, too.

A blinking light in one corner of the mirror caught her attention. She squinted at it, puzzled. Then poked at it with her finger without result.

Then she remembered. Jonah had said something about a digital display embedded in the mirror.

A remote was propped against the backsplash. She scooped it up and began hitting buttons until a message appeared.

We’re in the practice rooms on the first floor. Take the elevator down (use your key card). Entry key is GIST27. Nat.

Emma pulled on the jeans she’d bought the day before, crispy and new. She chose a black T-shirt with Security in stark white letters on the back and a line drawing of a castle keep on the front. She tugged a brush through her resistant hair, twisted it into a knot, grabbed a hunk of crumb cake from the refrigerator, and went to find the practice rooms.

Emma stepped off the elevator on the first floor. To her left, toward the front, was a common area, with a flat-screen television, comfortable furniture, and a fireplace. It was deserted.

The rear of the warehouse was a rough-finished workspace that showed its warehouse bones, partitioned off with dividers. She walked down a short hallway lined with doors. Displays next to each door listed the room schedule for the day. As she neared the end of the hallway, she began to feel the thud of percussion under her feet, and heard the faint, anguished cry of a blues guitar, the wail of keyboards. Next to the last door, the display said simply Diaz.

Through the door, she heard a voice that all but brought her to her knees.

Just one kiss,

That was never meant to be. Just one kiss

One more bitter memory.

A blighted love, a mortal sin, A doomed encounter skin to skin.

She eased the door open. It was Jonah, a vintage Stratocaster slung low on his hips, knees bent, head thrown back, eyes closed as he searched out the chords with his fingers. Which should have been difficult, since he was wearing fingerless gloves in studded black leather. Who wears gloves, even fingerless ones, to play guitar?

And why was Jonah playing with the band she’d first heard at Club Catastrophe? She looked them over. Their lead guitarist was missing—the one who’d played the Parker Dragonfly.

The other players were the same. Natalie hunched over a drum kit, her sticks a blur, face gleaming with sweat. The purple-haired girl from the fitness center played an Ibanez bass guitar, and the boy who played keyboards was the same, too.

Emma leaned against the doorframe, head swimming as Jonah’s voice poured over her.

Just one kiss,

Was enough to break my heart. Just one kiss,

A disaster from the start.

Like the kiss of frost that chars the rose, An assassin in a lover’s clothes.

Jonah prowled back and forth, exuding a feral heat, his movements mesmerizing, his T-shirt plastered to his washboard abs, jeans riding low on his hipbones.

Get ahold of yourself, girl, Emma thought. You of all people know better than to fall for a musician.

Just then, the music tangled up in itself and dwindled away amid laughter and good-natured swearing.

“What the hell was that, Severino?” Nat asked.

The keyboardist blotted his face with his sleeve. “I was . . . you know . . . improvising.”

Natalie snorted. “I thought maybe you were starting your own band, right here and now.”

Severino looked up and spotted Emma in the doorway. “Hel-lo there! Who are you?”

Jonah had been trying out some riffs, but now the guitar cut off abruptly. He stared at Emma with a stricken, guilty, almost horrified expression. The kind you get when you’ve been caught making out with your best friend’s boyfriend.

“Emma!” Natalie said, grinning. “You’re finally up. How are you feeling this morning?”

“What are you doing here?” Jonah demanded. He’s blushing, Emma thought. He’s actually blushing. “I invited her,” Natalie said. “Why?”

“Because she said she wanted to hear us play,” Natalie said, giving Jonah a behave kind of look.

“Great to see you, too, Jonah,” Emma said. She strode over to the keyboardist and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Emma Greenwood, from Memphis.”

“Rudy Severino,” Rudy said, grinning at her. He was good-looking, and knew it, but sometimes confidence looks good on a person. It was more stage presence than arrogance.

“And this is Alison Shaw,” Natalie said, pointing at the bass player. “Rudy, Alison, this is Emma Greenwood, a new student here at the Anchorage.”

“We’ve already met,” Alison said, around the pick in her teeth.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Emma said. “Pretend I’m not here.” She straddled a chair, resting her arms on the back. “Was that one of your original songs? The one you just played?”

“Yes,” Jonah said, keeping his eyes fixed on his fingerboard, busily tuning a guitar that was already in tune.

“That one’s brand-new,” Natalie said. “Jonah and his brother collaborate on songwriting.”

“Your brother Kenzie?” Emma asked. “The one you mentioned?”

“Yes,” Jonah said. “There’s nothing wrong with his mind.”

“He’s a genius,” Natalie said.

Ducking out of the strap, Jonah set the Strat in its stand and grabbed up a water bottle. Tilting it, he took a drink, the long column of his throat jumping as he swallowed, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

Wrenching her eyes away from him, Emma focused on the Strat. How long had it been since she’d held a guitar in her hands? A week? It seemed like an eternity. It was all she could do to keep from crossing the room and snatching it up. But she knew how people could be about their guitars. Herself included.

Somehow, she had to get home and get back what was hers.

Jonah was taking his time. It was like he was intentionally stalling. Like he didn’t want to play in front of Emma.

“Hey!” Natalie said. “Let’s get back to it,” she said. “I have to be in clinic at four.”

Jonah lifted the Strat and slid back into it. “Let’s move on to something else. I think we’ve got that one down.”

They played another original, something called “Doomtime,” which was less bluesy and more rock and roll, with a thrumming percussion and in-your-face lyrics. Jonah sang lead, and Severino layered in a harmony. It was the kind of song that made you want to get up and move, with a refrain that stayed in your head. Next was a song called “A Tientas.” Natalie sang lead on that one, with Jonah harmonizing. The lyrics were in Spanish, but it seemed to be a song they both knew well. Next was a bluesy ballad, something called “I’ll Sit In.”

I don’t play no love songs,

I just can’t harmonize.

There’ll be no sweet kisses in the dark, I’ll never look into your eyes.

But if you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.

When it comes to songs of heartbreak, I’ll fit in.

For emotional disaster

You know I am the master.

If you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.

Severino got a phone call, and the band took a break. Emma nodded toward the Strat. “Do you mind if I give that a try?”

Jonah gazed at the guitar for a long moment, a muscle in his jaw working, then shifted his gaze to Emma. His expression was an odd mix of dread and anticipation. “Do you play?” he whispered.

“I play a little.”

“Be my guest,” he said.

She lifted the fine weight of the Stratocaster onto her lap.

“Nineteen-fifties?”

Jonah nodded. “’Fifty-seven, yes.”

“Do you know about vintage guitars?” Natalie asked, toweling off.

“Vintage is where I live.” Emma launched into the open ing riff of “Heart of Stone.” Feeling that rush that always made picking up a guitar worthwhile. Hearing the sweet sound of the Strat beat against the practice room walls. “So sweet,” Emma breathed as the last notes faded. The action was a little high for her taste, but otherwise this guitar made it easy to sound good.

She looked up to find three people staring at her, Natalie grinning as if delighted, Alison looking stunned, Jonah wearing an odd mix of pain and longing and apprehension on his face.

“You’re lucky to have this,” she said, running her fingers over the saddle. “It must’ve been pricey.”

“Gabriel has a large collection of guitars,” Jonah said, his voice hoarse and strange. “He’s a total geek for equipment.” Emma tried to hand the guitar back to Jonah, but Natalie put a hand on her arm and said, “Play something else.”

“No, really, I—”

“Play something else,” Natalie ordered. “Do you sing, too?”

“Natalie,” Jonah said, shaking his head. “I don’t think we—”

“Play something else. And sing,” Natalie said, glaring at Jonah.

It was just way too tempting. Like a street junkie confronted with the offer of a fix, Emma couldn’t say no. For the first time since leaving Memphis, she felt like she was in the right place, wearing the right clothes, jamming with the right people. She flexed her fingers, pitched her voice low like they did down on Beale Street, and said, “This here is a little number by Big Mama Thornton called ‘Ball ’n’ Chain.’” She wrung everything she could out of that Stratocaster, pouring weeks’ worth of rage and pain and grief into voice and fingering. Partway in, Natalie began a soft cadence with brushes and sticks, providing a floor for Emma’s anguished flights of notes.

Emma kept sliding glances at Jonah, assessing his reaction. He looked torn, his hands twitching, mirroring her fingering, his face wistful. Yet his eyes were shadowed, shifting, all greens and cool blues, like the light in a forest when the treetops are moving.

When they’d finished, Natalie slid off her stool and crossed the practice room to where a guitar case leaned against the wall. She undid the catches, lifted out a Parker Dragonfly, and plugged it into the amp. This place is like Christmas for guitars, Emma thought. “Here,” Natalie said, thrusting the guitar at Jonah. “Try this one.”

“Natalie,” Jonah protested, holding the Parker on his lap like it was a child with a full diaper.

“Don’t be a baby,” Natalie said, settling back behind the drums. “You play the Strat all the time.”

“It’s not that,” Jonah said. “I just—”

“Would you rather Emma played the Dragonfly?”

“That’s not fair,” Emma protested weakly, cradling the Strat in her arms, her hair sliding over its shining surface.

“These are Jonah’s guitars.”

“The Dragonfly is only newly his,” Natalie said. “It belonged to our lead guitarist, Mose Butterfield. He died recently, and left the guitar to Jonah.”

“He’s dead?” Emma’s heart stuttered. “You mean the one I saw at Club Catastrophe last month? What—what happened?”

They all looked at one another. Anybody could tell they’d been friends forever. Emma was an outsider for sure.

“Mose had been in ill health for quite a while,” Natalie said finally. “A combination of the effects of the poison and heavy use of street drugs.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Emma said. “Is that why Jonah’s sitting in?”

“We’ve wanted Jonah in the band for a good long time,”

Alison said. “That’s the only good that’s come out of it.”

“So,” Natalie said, as if eager to dispel the gloom. “You’re damn good. I’d like to hear more. You play mostly blues?” Emma nodded. “Mostly. That’s what I grew up on.”

“I’m wondering what songs we know that you might know,” Natalie said, furrowing her brow. “We don’t play a lot of covers, but—”

“Actually . . .” Emma glanced at Jonah, who had apparently resigned himself to jamming with her, because he was correcting the tuning on the Dragonfly. “Actually, I have some ideas about the song you just played. ‘Doomtime,’ wasn’t it?”

Natalie nodded, a wicked smile curving her mouth. “Could you run through it again? Jonah, you just do your thing and I’ll see what I can do.” Having the guitar in her hands had restored her confidence. This is the only thing I’ve ever been good at.

They played through “Doomtime.” Emma wasn’t aggressive . . . she just threaded in and out of Jonah’s chords. Sonny Lee always said it was like putting embroidery on a silk dress or necklaces on a pretty woman.

By now, Severino was back. “Hey!” he said. “You never mentioned you were bringing in a ringer.”

“Let’s try something else,” Natalie said. Emma was finding out that she was as intense about music as she was about healing.

They played through their repertoire. “A Tientas.”

“Logjam Blues.”

“I’ll Sit In.”

“Ask Me No Questions (I’ll Tell You No Lies).”

“Ruined.” And covers of a few rockand-roll standards.

Jonah sang lead on most of the songs, Natalie and Rudy added scraps of vocal harmony. Emma wove through Jonah’s guitar work, each time adding more to the web of melody. He was a natural collaborator, seeming almost to anticipate what she was going to do before she did it, and turning on a dime to respond to what she did. With each song, they stepped on each other’s toes the first few times, but by the last run-through, it was more of a marriage of equals, each claiming his own space.

Natalie tilted her head, puzzled. “I can’t tell which of you is playing lead, and which rhythm guitar,” she said.

“Exactly,” Emma said. “That’s the whole point. I’ve got six strings on my guitar—or twelve—and I want to use them all.”

“Where’d you learn to play like that?” Natalie asked. “Have you been in a lot of bands?”

“Nothing serious, or for very long,” Emma said. “But I sit in a lot. Or I used to.” She cleared her throat. “When I lived in Memphis. If you’re jamming with players you don’t know, you have to figure out how to meet in the middle real quick.”

“Hmm.” Natalie shot a look at Severino, looking like a cat with a canary or two put away for later. Severino grinned back and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Natalie,” Jonah said, as if he knew exactly where this was going. “Don’t you have to get to the clinic?”

“It’s perfect, Jonah. You said our sound was thin. We need another layer. Not just icing on the cake. Actual cake.”

“You sound like a jilted lover on the rebound, Nat,” Alison said, unplugging the Ibanez and settling it back into its case. “Ready to rush into a new relationship with someone you hardly know.”

“Give her time to settle in before you go recruiting her,” Jonah said, beginning to break down his equipment. “She may find she has better options. Besides, it’s not fair to put Emma at risk so you can play in a better band!” His blue eyes glittered green.

Sonny Lee always said that Emma had an ironwood backbone—hard as iron, resilient as wood. And now it came into play.

“Hey!” she shouted.

They all swung around to look at her.

“Am I invisible or what?” She slid down from her stool, unplugged the Stratocaster, and returned it to its stand. “Emma,” Natalie began. “I don’t think we—” Emma bulldozed right over her. “I’ll be straight with you, because that’s the way I am. I don’t know whether any of this will work out—the school, the band, the town—any of it. But I like what I’ve heard and seen so far, and I’m clean out of options. I’ve had a good time today . . . better than I’ve had in a while. I’ll take a chance on you, if you take a chance on me. No contracts, no obligations. I’ll sit in for a few practices, if you want, or play one gig, then you can decide. Or decide right now, I don’t care. Just don’t argue about it in front of me. That’s rude. I was raised on the streets, and even I know that.”

They all looked at one another. Severino burst out laughing. “I think she fits in real good,” he said.

“Now I’ll get going, so you all can talk amongst yourselves.” Emma paused. “If you decide you want me to sit in, though, there’s one condition.”

“What’s that?” Natalie asked, shooting a smug look at Jonah.

“I need to go back home and get my guitars.”