American Quest (30 page)

Bruce gave him a suspicious look but his eyes were smiling. “You got your cell on you?”

Still backstriding, Forte waved his phone in the air.

Bruce shook his head and Forte didn’t wait around to see what might come next. He figured Bruce was a big meaty-muscle guy. He could handle stuff on his own without a scrappy rocker for a while.

“Come on, babe,” he said, pulling Shannon along with him.

Shannon laughed.

Bourbon Street was tilting! People were cackling and swaying, carrying plastic cups filled with something other than soda pop, and it wasn’t even dark yet. Shannon looked kitty-cool in her sleeveless tee and denim skirt.

They strode hand in hand, heads going back and forth at the gaggle like they were watching a tennis match. He didn’t know whether to sniff out some tunes or troll for chow. Some old guy was playing horn on the sidewalk and Forte chucked a fiver into his case.

Shannon eyed him. “Are you sure that guy’s okay? He looked a little unusual.”

Forte groaned. “Oh no, not you too, babe. Ease up! We’re in New Orleans. Everything’s unusual.”

She gave him a dazzle. “I’m just trying to look for signs.”

An electric strum sounded from a dark doorway across the street, and that internal dowser of his went wild.

He crooked a finger. “You’re right. I hear a sign right now. We’d better go check it out.”

Shannon rolled her eyes and allowed him to drag her into a skeevedout bar. The crowing guitar filled his head and got his blood pumping. The bar wasn’t much but the place was good and packed. Forte knew the tunes were what brought them in. He led Shannon to the front where the dude onstage was letting it fly.

Aside from the lead guitar, they had a bass player and some drums,
plus a guy on keyboard. But those others were sitting back and letting the lead guitar do his solo thing. And rightly so.

Shannon rose up on her tiptoes and called into his ear. “Charlie, I don’t know about this.”

He swung an arm around her and gave a squeeze.

The dude onstage was shredding through riffs like he owned them. The base song was preordained and intact, but Forte could tell that he was ad-libbing a good chunk of it, too. He cranked the chords just a taste so they went from a C major to a B minor, and it threw a whole new feel down the side. Forte’d seen a lot of cats try to make something like that happen in an improv, but very few pulled it off.

Not this guy. He knew how to use his instrument.

The guitarist was rubber band thin and his hair curled low over his ears, making his already-broad nose look broader. When he concentrated, his chin dimpled up into his lips. He wound the tune to an in-yourface finish and Forte pounded palms. Shannon got into it, too, giving her little whoop and bounce that was always so dastardly cute.

Forte put two fingers to his mouth and sailed out a whistle. It caught the guitar player’s attention because he looked him straight in the eye.

The guy bent down and lifted his chin at him. “Hey pal, you a player?”

Forte gave an easy shrug. “Sure, I can swing an axe.”

But the guy shook his head. “No you can’t.”

Forte snorted with a narrow-eyed laugh. “Matter of fact, pal, I beg to differ.”

The guy straightened back up again and got on the mic. “This dude down here says he’s a player. But what he don’t know is no one can throw down with me.”

Forte laughed, shaking his head. Straight up, if doves had carried the invite on the end of a satin ribbon and dropped it in his lap, he couldn’t be more raring to go. He leaped up onstage and the crowd responded with “woos” and “whoas.”

Shannon whooped and bounced.

The guitarist nodded with a smirk. He grabbed the mic. “I think this little pissant wants to get slapped.”

Forte wrinkled his brow. He’d been messed with before, but this
guy had some serious attitude. So much for southern hospitality. But then again, the way Mr. Mouth talked, he didn’t sound much like a southerner.

Mouth handed Forte a Stratocaster, and Forte slipped the strap over his back like it was a Superman cape. Mouthy self-righteous guitar players or not, it felt good to be back onstage.

Mouth dipped his wild curls in rhythmic nods to the drummer and the drummer caught it and hooked the rest of the band with a healthy twelve-bar blues progression. It wasn’t Forte’s usual rock and it might have intimidated some, but the twelve-bar and Forte were old friends in a “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” kind of pattern. He’d had lots of practice with those kinds of jams special just for Shannie’s mom. This was just a blues spin, that’s all.

But the other player threw down like he thought he’d just pulled out the light saber of blues playing, and tickled the strings with the same smirk he’d used to introduce Forte. Prick.

He finished and gave a nod to Forte. Forte nodded back and took it on down. No big frickin’ deal.

Back to you, curlylocks.

The guy didn’t blink, but did another one, this time down-in-thegutter and a little self-indulgent for Forte’s taste. But fine. Forte let him wallow around in it, then did a little wallowing of his own and threw in a new riff for good measure.

A curl formed at the other guy’s lip. The poor bastard was taking this way too serious. But the weird part was Forte could tell he hadn’t even really let loose yet. Why was he getting all pissy if he wasn’t even shooting off his best ammo?

The two volleyed back and forth, adding a new sting or a righteous blaze each time. Forte ignored the cranked-out vibe coming from the other guy, and just enjoyed. He felt like he’d gone days without water and finally hopped in a lake. Bruce’s quest seemed the right thing to do, but a guy’s got to get his fix every now and then.

There went the chin. The other guy got that look of concentration with the dimpled chin up into the lips, and Forte knew he was about to launch it. Fine. Forte wanted him to know he’d be ready.

His turn came around again and he had to cavort a little. He let his fingers do the talking.

Backa-bow zippy-wow-wow inchanaga muthahfuckah!!!

The crowd really dug that one, and curly-top really hated it. His mouth cinched up so that his lips completely disappeared. He placed his fingers high on the neck and cranked out some serious vibes. Face-off or not, Forte was impressed. The tone was so intense that it came across to Forte almost like an electric charge. He was still dazzled when his turn came again.

He played the riff back and felt like he did it some justice, but he didn’t add anything else.

And when curly took his turn again, that weird electric charge once more seized Forte at the fingertips, this time much more intense. He suddenly had trouble moving his hands properly. His fingers could move up and down the frets, but that weird charge paralyzed his hand so he couldn’t let go of the neck. He was able to return the riff, but it felt like doing so caused the blood to dry up in his veins.

He looked at Shannon.

She was clapping, rocking out. She had no idea.

Forte took a hard look at his opponent. Slowly, sickeningly, he realized what was happening. This guy wasn’t just a straight guitar player.

He was on the quest attack.

It was Forte’s turn again. He played through it as best he could, and though he executed okay, he contributed nothing interesting. He was afraid to. Still, even playing it safe, he once again felt his blood turn to sludge.

Suddenly Forte felt incredibly stupid. He’d made sure they broke away from the others, and now here he was, pinned onstage, freakishly magnetized to a guitar, with his life or soul or something getting sucked out of him by this musical vampire.

And where does this go? Was he going to die right there onstage if he kept it up? And what would happen to his soul if he went down at the hands of the Pravus? Something bad, really bad was about to happen, and the only woman he’d ever loved was standing a few feet away, watching.

The curly-haired demon scorched through the next riff, spidering chords in a way that Forte had never even attempted before.

Back to Forte, and he barely kept up. Hands still spelled by the guitar. But somehow, though the style was new to him, he managed.

The band had long since quit backing them up and were just sitting there watching like alley cats at a cockfight, tails twitching.

Back to the other. Forte stole a look at Shannon, and he could see that she knew something was up. Her face looked worried. When he met her eyes, she raised her hand and beckoned him.
Let’s get out of here
.

He blinked at her, helpless, feet unable to leave the stage and hands still pronged to the instrument.

The killing sound of that guitar was tearing it up, throwing down some wild progressions Forte could barely follow, let alone play back. The guy flicked his eyes at Forte for just a moment, then all concentration went back to the guitar. But in that momentary look, though the chin was still up, he imparted a sneer that said the challenge was over. Forte was as good as gone. Now he was just playing it out.

Forte felt a sudden sense of outrage. No way was he going to roll over and let this guy sap him. He had no idea what kind of musical ability he was up against, though considering his opponent was the Pravus homeboy of some thousand-year-old Macul, he was probably in trouble. Any more tricks and Forte would fall hopelessly behind.

Screw that.

He reached down deep and tapped into the early days, when he gleaned every shred of energy from his heroes. Hendrix, Satriani, Van Halen, Gibbons. Even Ottmar Liebert and Steve Morse. And while we’re at it, what the hell—freakin’ Glen Campbell! He conjured all their energy and then amped it with his own.

Forte took his part again before the other one even finished. Chomped that vainglorious little lick in one big hefty bite. The searing electricity rippled through his wrists and up his arms, and he ignored it. The crowd went insane. He jammed down, and the sweat was flying from him in that spotlight like sparks from an exploding transformer.

Back to you, pal!

Forte wasn’t about to let some mouthy, curly-haired, big-nosed Pravus suck out his life and soul. Damned if he’d go down like this.

Well, maybe not damned. Better not think in terms of
damned
.

Ain’t no way he was going down like this, that’s all.

His opponent curled his rubber-band body around his guitar and worked back a mirror of what Forte had just done. Forte smiled. Now
this cat had to keep up with him, not the other way around. Even better yet, Forte noticed a strange muscle popping in the guy’s forearms. It looked like he was getting back some of that sucking electrical charge, only Forte-style.

He wrapped it up and once again Forte skewered the final riff before he’d even finished, screaming in with a single Howitzer note. That crazy energy lassoed around him and wanted to choke him down, but Forte fought it, brought it home, and used it to whip back at the other player. He charged it all in, breathing flames through his guitar and injecting his signature arpeggios into machine-gun fire.

He got so lost in his own atomic meltdown, he was only barely aware of the writhing, twitching jerks wracking his opponent’s body. He kept firing away, unshackling himself from twelve-bar blues and totally shattering the architecture altogether, taking on shit he’d only dreamed about, and yet absolutely, blazingly nailing it.

His mind raced with the dim awareness that he should really, really remember what he was doing so he could write it all down later.

The Pravus roared. Forte looked up but kept it coming. He saw the other guy’s eyes roll back in his head, his body spasming.

And then he collapsed. Forte’s arms suddenly whipped back that fiendish electrical charge and seemed to pulse it into the other guy.

Forte felt exhilarated, terrified, triumphant. That dude was gone, but he kept it flying at him anyway, afraid to stop. But it was over; the whole mad, horrible, impromptu gig was wrapped. Time to bounce.

Forte tore off the Stratocaster and leaped offstage while the crowd frenzied in appreciation, having no idea what had actually just happened.

He grabbed Shannon and ran.

Enervata knew Gloria wondered at not being recognized on the street. By the furtive look she gave to a passerby, he presumed she saw someone she knew—someone that did not look her way. They had even
passed several policemen on their stroll.

He had wrapped her in a mask of anonymity so that no one would recognize her. But her face showed that she believed her precious Bruce had omitted filing a report with the local authorities. Enervata could see her hope rotting.

The city receded into a rummy, windblown mist. The dampness caused Gloria’s hair to bend into acanthus curls about her face, and she brought her wrap over her shoulders with a shiver. He offered her his arm.