secluded.
“Kate?”
Crest’s pleasant face came into view. Bloody hell.
“Which one is your car?”
“That one.”
I smiled at him, or at least I tried. Casting one last look after Bono, I let Crest open the door of his vehicle for me and forced myself to sit down. Later, Bono. I can always find you.
CREST’S RIDE WAS EXPENSIVE, METALLIC GRAY, AND bullet shaped. He held the door open for me and I arranged myself on the leather passenger seat. He got in and we took off. The inside of the car was spotless. No used tissues wadded and stuffed into the cup holder. No old bills or worn receipts littering the floor. No grime on the panels. It looked immaculate, almost sterile.
“Tell me, do you own a single pair of worn jeans?” I asked. “Just one pair so old that it has permanent dirt in it?”
“No,” he said. “Does it make me a bad person?”
“No,” I said. “You do realize that most of my jeans have dirt embedded in them?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes laughing. “But then I’m not interested in your jeans, only what’s in them.”
The city scrolled by us, its streets channeling an occasional gasoline-burning car feeding on the death throes of technology. I counted as many horsemen as I did cars. Fifteen years ago the cars had dominated the streets.
“So who was that man?” Crest said.
“That was the Beast Lord.”
Crest glanced at me. “
“Yes. The top dog.” Or cat.
“And that woman was one of his lovers?”
“Probably.”
A snow-white Buick cut us off, squeezing into the lane and screeching to a halt before the traffic light. Crest rolled his eyes. The traffic light flickered, flaring with blinding intensity and dying to a weak glow.
“Residual magic?” Crest wondered.
“Or faulty wiring.” The good doctor was picking up the magic jargon. I wondered where he’d learned about the residual magic effects.
“It makes sense.” Crest parked next to a large building. “We’re here.”
A valet opened my door. I stepped out onto the pavement. Crest’s car was in distinguished company. All around us Volvos, Cadillacs, and Lincolns spewed well-dressed people onto the sidewalk: women, smiling so wide, their lips threatened to snap and men, inflated with their own importance. The couples proceeded to make their way up to the tall building before us.
The valet got into the car and drove off, leaving us standing in full view. People looked at me. They looked at Crest, too.
“Do you remember the Fox Theater?” Crest said, offering me his elbow. Opening doors was one thing. Hanging on his elbow was another. I ignored it, walking to the door with my hands loosely at my sides.
“Yes. It was demolished.”
“They took the stones from it and built this place. Great, isn’t it?”
“So instead of building a new, fresh, sterile building, they dragged all of the agony, heartbreak, and suffering that permeated the stones of the old place into the new one. Brilliant.”
He gave me an incredulous look. “What are you talking about?”
“Artists emanate a great deal. They agonize over their looks, over their age, over the competition. A very minute detail can become a matter of great gravity. The building in which they perform soaks in their failures, their jealousies, their disappointments like a sponge and holds all that misery in. That’s why empaths don’t go to anything above the level of spring fair performances. The atmosphere overwhelms them. It was incredibly stupid to transfer the weight of so many years to the new place.”
“Sometimes I don’t understand you,” he said. “How can you be so damn pragmatic?”
I wondered what nerve I struck. Mister Smooth had suddenly turned confrontational.
“After all, there are other emotions.” His tone was irate. “Triumph, exaltation at the magnificent performance, joy.”
“That’s true.”
We stepped into the dim lobby, lit with torches despite the presence of electric bulbs. People around us moved in a steady stream toward the double doors at the far wall. We went with the flow, passing through the doors and into the large concert hall, filled with rows of red seats.
People looked at us. Crest looked pleased. We were the center of attention, tall, dapper Crest and his exotic date in a distinctive dress with a scar snaking its way down her shoulder. He didn’t see how much the crowds bothered me, he didn’t notice that I was beginning to limp. If I told him, it would only make matters worse. I kept walking and smiling, and concentrated on not falling.
We sat smack in the middle and I let out a tiny breath of relief. Sitting was a lot easier than standing.
“So who are we waiting for?” I asked.
“Aivisha,” Crest said with gravity.
I had no idea who Aivisha was.
“It’s the last performance of the season,” he continued. “It’s getting too warm. I didn’t think she would perform this late, but the management assured me that she will have no difficulties. She can use the residual magic.”
I leaned back in my seat and waited quietly. Around us people settled into their seats. An old woman, dressed in an impeccably white gown and escorted by a distinguished older gentleman, stopped by us. Crest jumped to his feet. Oh dear God, I would have to get up. I rose and smiled and waited politely until we completed the introductions. The woman and Crest chattered for a few minutes while the escort and I quietly shared each other’s misery. Finally she moved on.
“Madam Emerson,” Crest told me and patted my hand. “Probably the last true Southern socialite. You did very well. I think she likes you.”
I opened my mouth and clamped it shut. I hadn’t done anything but stand still and smile. Like a well-behaved child or a disciplined dog. Had he expected me to hump her leg?
A bell rang, commanding quiet from the crowd. A hush claimed the concert hall and slowly the velvet curtain parted to reveal a short woman. She was dark-skinned and heavy, with glossy coils of raven black hair styled high on top of her head. A long gown of silvery fabric cascaded in folds and plaits off her shoulders, shimmering, as if it was woven of sun-lit water.
Aivisha looked at the audience, her dark eyes bottomless, and took a tiny step forward, the cascade of silver moving all around her. She opened her mouth and let her voice pour forth.
Her voice was incredible. Startling in its clarity and beauty, it rose, gaining strength, building on itself, and power streamed from her, permeating the concert hall and the astonished crowd. I forgot about Crest, about Olathe, about my work, and listened, lost in the harmony of the enchanting voice.
Aivisha raised her hands. Thin slivers of ice grew from her fingers, spiraling, twisting, in perfect accord with her song. Like impossibly complex crystal lace, the ice stretched across the stage to climb up the side columns, blossoming into bundles of needle-thin feathers. It hugged the folds of Aivisha’s gown, a dutiful pet, happy to please, and I couldn’t tell where the silver of the fabric began and the crystal purity of ice ended.
Aivisha sang and sang, and ice danced for her, obeying her every whim. She commanded us, and mesmerized, we held our breath until her voice climbed to an overpowering crescendo. A burst of blue light pulsed from her, saturating the ice in an instant. The crystal lace burst, evaporating into the air. The curtain fell, hiding Aivisha from the audience. For a moment we sat stunned. And then the concert hall erupted in applause.
Crest squeezed my hand and I squeezed back.
Forty-five minutes later we pulled into the parking lot before my apartment building.
“Can I walk you to the door?” Crest asked.
