A Trace of Moonlight (26 page)

Maybe if I believed they had no real power over me it would be true. I ignored them and they seemed to do the same. Maybe it was a subconscious truce. Whatever it was, I’d take it.

We were rising, or the path was falling away. I couldn’t quite figure it out. Tiny pinpricks of light beamed, but they were so very far away. Sonja’s wings were outstretched and there was a feral gleam in her eyes as the light from my shield played over her skin.

I wondered if she’d fed.

She turned toward me and nodded. Trusting her to know what she was doing, I let the memories of Melanie sweep by like a river of . . . music.

Of course, what else would it be?

Notes and half-forgotten chords swirled about me . . . the piece she’d played during one of my recitals so long ago . . . the first time I’d seen her play at the Hallows, her solo slipping off into a wild cadence, dancers spinning and spinning and spinning on the dance floor. The night she took me out when I first arrived
in Portsmyth . . . the way the Doors flared to life when she played, opening the CrossRoads.

Door Maker, the OtherFolk named her. Player of the Wild Music. Violin virtuoso. Street busker par excellence. Traveler of the roads. Juilliard dropout.

The names were many, but just facets. Bits and pieces of how others saw her, but none of it really came close to all that she was. For a moment I imagined how Nobu fit into the equation, if she had loved him . . . what her true ties to him had been.

But above all, she was still my friend. Red-haired. Green-eyed. A cliché of beauty and soft curves and violet tea-shades, leather corsets and combat boots. The flash of her teeth when she smiled. That odd little quirk of her brow when she found something amusing. The crooked knuckle on her left pinky. The spiral tattoo on her shoulder. The silver scar at her jawline . . . the Devil’s kiss, marking her as His.

Where are you?

I cast the thought into the Dreaming.

What did she dream of? What nightmares did she face?

But I knew the answer, didn’t I? I imagined her violin, shining silver beneath the light of the CrossRoads. I didn’t have the full details of how she’d received it, but I knew her reaction when it had been lost before.

A vibration thrummed through me, faint. The merest tickle at first, becoming sharp and frantic. The image of the violin grew stronger and more vibrant. A wave of despair washed over me, nearly driving me to my knees. My shield wavered and I lost the vibration as I tried to keep it from collapsing.

Sonja’s head jerked toward me. “There,” she murmured, her hand pointing into the darkness. “It’s
coming from that direction . . . assuming what you’ve found is actually her.” The succubus’s mouth compressed. “There are mimics out there.”

“It felt like her. I think.”

“Try it again. We need to be absolutely sure before I lead us there.”

I nodded, my eyes drifting shut again. This time I immediately brought up the violin and the reaction was a tangible. Pain. Panic. Fear.

Abby?

“It’s her,” I gasped.

“Hold on to it.” Sonja snatched my hand, her power lifting us and hurtling us forward. “Whatever happens, don’t drop the connection.”

We plunged into the darkness, my stomach rolling as I held on to that tenuous bond, feeling it slide from my mind like rainwater through a sieve.

Hold on, Mel . . .

Abruptly Sonja stopped, but I hurtled forward like a slingshot, her hand slipping from my grasp, my shield flickering as I realized I was on a path. Not the CrossRoads—no silver here—but dark cobblestones of sable with a pale flicker of light bursting over them like the electrical impulses of a neuron.

Everything went black, and then . . .

 . . . I was on a stage, playing and playing and playing. My fingers bled with music and my neck burned with the knowledge of who I was really playing for and I could only close my eyes against it because Abby was gone and it was for nothing . . .

 . . . I was in the back of the battered van, lying in his arms. A soft grunt in the front passenger seat told me the incubus was getting his usual blow job from that Elizabeth girl, and Nobu snorted at me. Quietly, we snuck out
and wandered beneath the night sky, his wings trailing behind him like a shadow . . .

 . . . I was playing for an audience of paper dolls. I longed to set them free, burn them with my music the way it burned within me. Would they burst into flame and ash? But I was only a little bird in a gilded cage. I sang for my owners upon their command . . .

 . . . I am dying. My soul has been stripped away, and there is nothing left for me but to fade away, the Wild Magic muffled and quiet . . .

“Melanie!” I shouted into the void, unsurprised when the darkness swallowed up my voice. I pushed out on the shield, illuminating as far as I could go. My mind was whirling with her memories and her inner anguish and for a moment it threatened to pull me under. I took another step closer, trying not to drown in them.

What would happen if I was absorbed into her dreams? Strands of darkness tangled around my legs, my arms, pulling me down and down and down.

I struggled with my shield, swallowing a cry as my mouth was covered, my vision going red. In panic, I lashed out, the shield fading away.

No!

“No,” I mumbled. I would
not
go down this way. Abruptly, I stumbled forward as something slammed into me from behind, scraping the top of my head like a torpedo of sandpaper and teeth.

What the hell?

My own nightmares loomed out of the shadows, the sharks’ teeth gleaming in the electric violence as they surged forward to rend and tear at the inky tentacles that gripped me.

I had only a minute to wonder before my mouth was freed. My mind pulled away from what it was seeing, my shield falling back into place, and I concentrated on making it stronger.

The oddness of having my own nightmares fight Melanie’s was completely fucking with my head. And still the sharks tore into the darkness until I could see what appeared to be the glowing glass edge of . . . something.

Her own inner shield, perhaps? Sonja had told me normal dreamers had their own inborn defense. Melanie’s had taken the shape of a metallic dome.

My sharks began to circle closer and closer, their bodies skimming over the thick crystal. They were searching for a weakness, I realized. One retreated into the darkness, whirling around midway and slamming itself into the wall.

“Stop!” Instinct told me that breaking into her Dreaming Heart like that was going to cause more harm than good. If her inner psyche saw me as a potential enemy, I’d never get in to see her. Plus, the thought of unleashing my nightmares upon another soul was repugnant in the extreme.

She had her own demons to fight. She damn well didn’t need mine.

The sharks continued to circle and I forced my shield to flare out even farther, the light spreading like a halo to bathe hers. “Enough.” I commanded. “You are no longer needed.”

Those dead eyes rolled white as they passed, but amazingly enough they undulated away through the Dreaming.

I suppressed a shudder. For all that they were obeying
my commands, I was always going to be a short step away from being consumed myself. Dangerous things to let in, nightmares.

I paced around the outer edge of her Dreaming Heart, my feet treading in what felt like a deep groove.

“Melanie?” I said it softly this time, sending my mind out in a quiet probe, testing for any weaknesses I could find in the structure. Somehow I would find a way inside, but it had to be of her own volition, or it would be for nothing.

There . . . I caught the flicker of silver in a faint etching over the nearest point to where I was. The dome itself remained dark, but there was an almost friendly wink to the light. It looked like a door. Encouraging.

“It’s Abby . . . would you let me in?”

The light of the door paused and began to melt away. I placed a tentative palm on it, a rush of warmth shunting up to my elbow. Melanie . . . or something akin to her inner essence, anyway.

There were shadows here, but I caught a familiar hint of laughter as well, the music in my ears suddenly soaring into a crescendo.

I was beginning to understand the level of intimacy Brystion had had with me. There was a sacredness to it and that required a certain amount of respect. But she still needed to let me in.

I pressed harder upon the doorway.

“ ‘If music be the food of love,’ ” I quoted at it. An inside joke between us, but as far as passwords went, it wasn’t bad.

“Please.”

The door wavered, abruptly disappearing. Off balance, I tumbled in, unsurprised to feel the breeze of
it closing behind me. Trapped then, though I wasn’t worried about it at the moment.

I found myself standing in front of a stage. A quick glance about revealed I was in an auditorium, but not one I recognized. It was empty. Hollow. Quiet except for the warped hum coming from center stage.

Melanie stood there, playing stiffly, as though she were merely a rag doll or a puppet, her limbs clearly controlled by some other force. It didn’t even look like her . . . instead of her usual bohemian chic, she was dressed in a long-sleeved silk button-down, a wool pencil skirt, and sensible shoes. Her normal unruly red riot of curls was pulled austerely away from her face.

And the music was . . . wrong. A deranged version of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” out of tune and weak.

Her eyes cracked open at me as I approached the stage, but with a glazed focus. “I’m broken.” She laughed harshly. “The music’s broken in me and I can’t ever fix it.”

“Well, you’re going to have to. We need your help, but you’re going to have to tell us where to find you first.”

“You’re dead. What right do you have to tell me anything?”

I hesitated.
Fuck it.

“I’m your goddamned best friend, Mel. That’s who I am.” I climbed the steps, unsure of where this newfound cockiness had come from, but I wasn’t going to question it. “And the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

She stared at me, the tattered violin lowering as she turned to really look at me. “Prove it.”

I cocked a brow at her. “Shall I dance
Swan Lake
for you? Or do I lay it all out and do ‘Thriller’?”

Her mouth twisted. “You’re just a projection of my imagination.”

“No. I’m DreamWalking . . . and let me tell you, it’s not exactly pleasant. I could have done without ever knowing Ion got a blow job from Elizabeth in the front seat of your van, you know. Assuming that was actually her,” I amended.

I gently stroked her arm, frowning when I saw the bloodstains on her wrist. “What the hell is this?”

Buttons popped off the hems as I shoved her sleeves up to her elbow, my mouth dropping when I saw the crisscrossed marks decorating the pale flesh of her inner arm. “Did you fucking try to kill yourself? Did someone do this to you?”

A humorless laugh escaped her. “I used to cut myself a lot. When I was younger. A child prodigy, taught to perform on the stage at her mother’s command for the amusement of others. Never allowed to play with other children. Never allowed public school. Or TV. Or the radio.” Her emerald eyes met mine, their emptiness chilling as she thrust her wrist at me. “This . . . this I could control.”

“Jesus, Mel. I had no idea.”

“No one did. That was the point.” She snorted, an inelegant, hateful sound. “I always wore long sleeves to all my concerts. My secret revenge against all of them.”

Her chin trembled and she pushed it out at me in defiance, a tendril of her hair escaping the tightly wrapped bun. The seconds ticked by until I lost track. We could have been standing there for a few moments—or forever.

“You were lucky,” she sobbed suddenly. “Your mother never forced you into dancing . . . it was something you loved. I never had a choice.”

I cupped her cheek and pulled her into my arms. “You have a choice now,” I murmured.

“Do I?” She dropped the violin so that it shattered at our feet, the wood splintering in a horrendous caterwaul. “I’ve trapped myself, it seems.” She hugged me tightly, her whole body shaking with great, wracking waves of grief.

So much sadness that I’d never known about. Melanie had always seemed to have it all . . . but this secret pain was unlike anything I’d ever seen in her before.

Caged bird, indeed.

Nobu had had the truth of it and my respect for the sin-eater went up several notches.

She pulled away from me, her mouth a tight line. “If you’re not dead, what happened to you?”

“Well . . . I did die, Mel,” I said softly. “Maurice killed me, but . . . I got lucky, I guess. Phin brought me back. But the time difference . . .”

She nodded, biting hard on the inside of her cheek.

“Mel . . . where are you? Eildon Tree is dying and we need you. We need the Wild Magic to save it.”

Her face paled. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ve been asleep for so long.”

“A spell?”

“No. I went . . . home after you died. I don’t know why. Maybe I just wanted to try to make peace with my family.”

I decided not to tell her the way her mother had reacted on the phone when I’d called. Judging by the way her upper lip curled, she obviously had a pretty good suspicion. “I had some kind of breakdown. They hospitalized
me. I assume that’s where I am now . . . but I can’t wake up.”

I frowned, something dawning on me. “Your violin.”

“They took it from me . . . I guess. Or didn’t bring it to the hospital with me.” She stared down at the broken bow.

“We have it, Mel.” I gripped her hand. “Nobu found it. Tell us where you are and I’ll bring it to you. I’ll haul ass via car or CrossRoads to find you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I know I was at the local hospital, but I think they moved me to some sort of psych ward.” She flushed. “I went a little crazy at one point, but I just wanted my violin. Think they were too afraid to give it to me. Thought I might break it or hurt myself with it.”

“Then you’re going to have to wake up, Mel. You’re going to have to find a way to get a phone call out to us. Or hell, if you can figure out where you are, I can meet you here tomorrow night. Something. Anything.” My voice took on a twinge of desperation.