“You didn’t see the fear on Karney’s face,” Clay said. “The Hailmaker wasn’t there physically, but he was there.”
“Karney was a paranoid fuck,” Fiasco agreed, “and from what I can see, he made one of you too.” The crease in his brow deepened; his shoulders were lifted almost to his neck—you would have thought he was listening to closing arguments to euthanize his mother. “Him, I get,” he told Savy. “Clay’s got a rich daddy and he already lives in a rock-star palace—six figures is probably his allowance for mowing the lawn. But you, of all people—”
“You’re right,” Savy said, “I want this worse than anyone. I need this. So doesn’t it tell you something that I’m not doing the Dance of Joy right now?”
Another pause. Savy’s eyes flicked around the room, also hoping, perhaps, that Boyle would show up and bail them out.
“Signing to Island or Reprise is a huge risk, however you slice it,” Fiasco allowed. “But do we have to get so fucking dramatic and, fuck, supernatural about it?”
“Priest knew things about us,” Spider said, on a thought-flow of his own. “Shit you can’t find out just by sleuthing on the internet. It didn’t seem weird in the backseat with him. But now…”
“Careful, Spidey,” Fiasco said. “Paranoia is contagious. Just look at Sav. She does our first singer—is still doing him apparently—now our second singer comes along and it’s her superstitious mind she’s letting him fuck. Shame, shame, leave it to a chick to jeopardize and ruin the game—”
Savy’s palm landed flush against Fiasco’s cheekbone. Spittle flew from his mouth and splattered Clay’s wrist. Fiasco stood there, head cocked, face flaring a darker shade of red. He was quiet, but not stunned.
“Maybe it is my fault,” Savy told him. “We should’ve told you guys before we got into that limo tonight. I’d be skeptical too. We sound psycho-damn-tropic.”
Fiasco swept the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “You hit like a girl, know that?”
“Well, let me try the other cheek. Maybe you’ll cry this time.”
Spider stepped between them. “Guys, please.”
“Rocco!” Clay yelled. Because their dialogue had become roundabout and pointless, and if ever he needed the ability to summon a spirit, it was here, now. “You could really help our cause by joining in!”
And Fiasco and Spider looked at each other, trying to comprehend, to lash their sanity together before it was lost in this lunatic sea. Savy’s gaze toured the room before she exhaled and shook her head.
Fiasco gave the room a diplomatic once-over, just to be sure. “I don’t know what the two of you are on, but I thought it was band policy to say no to drugs. I mean, listen to yourselves. Scared of devil-men, calling for ghosts. I’m getting worried you’re gonna tell us you stole Karney from the hospital.”
“I never believed in ghosts either,” Clay told him. “But Boyle is here, trapped in the place he died. Just—give him time to show.”
Fiasco waited all of ten seconds before snatching Spider around the back of the neck. “Let’s leave Mulder and Scully to it.” He took four steps to the door, dragging Spider alongside, before halting and glaring back. “You don’t get to decide this alone. I put everything into this band too. I’m the reason we all fucking know each other.”
“Let’s sleep on it,” Spider said, desperate to avoid undoing knots that had taken months—years, in some cases—to forge. “Does anyone work in the morning?”
Savy lifted her hand. “Nine a.m.”
“Alright, let’s meet at The Knickerbocker at noon for lunch. We’re in this together, right? Whatever’s happening, we need to make the best decision. That’s going to take calmer hearts—and less skeptical minds.”
Clay nodded. “The drummer makes the most sense.”
“Hell must have frozen over,” Fiasco agreed. Begrudgingly he and Savy pounded fists. Clay shook with Spider and thanked him for pacifying the room. But Clay could read too much in Spider’s face: Confusion, a subtle twitch of veiled anger, and the overt concern that, just as their ship reached paradise, his frontman had gone cannibal.
Clay stood in the Generator’s doorway with Savy, watching their rhythm section set off the motion sensors as they walked away. The next time he saw them, everything was different.
When Clay and Savy were alone again, Boyle made his entrance stage left.
“We could’ve used your help there,” Clay said.
“He’s shaking his head,” Savy said.
Your boys have already been seduced. Your father’s girlfriend too.
“A lot happened tonight…” Clay sighed, feeling Savy at his elbow. When he spoke next, it was in the tone of a confession. “You might not want to hear this, Sav, but we can’t keep secrets. Nothing anymore.”
Over the next few minutes, Clay relayed the events that had taken place in the hours before they’d gotten into Priest’s backseat—his jealousy of Bass, his introduction to the girl in the masquerade mask, going back to her apartment, Essie intruding to save him, getting a knife in her chest, seeing her die, then seeing her turn up, unharmed, an hour later. He told them about the girl’s face, the flesh around her eyes cut off in the precise shape of the mask, and how her flesh had felt cold, but he didn’t go so far as to describe the sexual details—that was a private horror he’d relive in flesh-crawling detail on the inevitable sleepless nights ahead. Clay concluded with Roethke, his calling the girl a succubus, his warnings, and his reluctance to help, despite Boyle haunting his e-mails.
Now you see the Hailmaker’s influence. Rest assured, he’ll pull everything out to get you under contract.
“And what are we supposed to do?” Clay demanded. “Just say no?”
If the girl had strapped you down and forced you to have sex, she wouldn’t have had dominion over you. The power of seduction lies in your own willingness to surrender.
Clay relayed all of this to Savy, who nodded without expression (she’d been stone cold during Clay’s story). “What about Essie?” she asked. “How could she
