Hidden Blade Chapter 1

Erik

It began with a song. Well, a voice and a song. And a look. A combo that practically knocked me off my creaky wooden chair in the cafe, which is hard to do because after fifteen years in the music business, I’d heard a lot of amazing voices and a lot of good songs. But this kid. Jesus.

He came out on the little stage and sat down sideways on a stool, not making eye contact with the audience. Some guy— a friend or a roadie about his age with a mass of dreadlocks and jeans draped with chains— set up a modest amp and plugged him in while the kid fiddled with his Ibanez, tuning strings that sounded just fine to me. Then his friend set the mic in front of him, gave him a thump on the shoulder, and left the stage.

The kid glanced at the audience once, eyes so blown wide and dark I couldn’t make out their color even though I was sitting close. His long hair lifted around his face, and when he swept the clinging strands back impatiently, they crackled with static. Without an intro, or even his name, he played the first chord, picked his way through an intricate run of notes, opened his mouth, and sang.

And fuck, he had the tone and the range. He could growl like Jeff Becerra and then soar clean and pure, soft like an angel, or sharp as a knife. He never faced the crowd again. Sat sideways, stared offstage at a wall like the flat paint was his hope of salvation, and sang about pain and transcendence. He didn’t even let one song end before segueing into the next, leaving the rest of us confused about whether to applaud or hold fire and wait.

After his third song, before the last note had faded, he unslung his guitar and stood. We were on our feet by then, shouting and stomping, even some devil horns hitting the air in this modest cafe that held maybe fifty people. He waved behind his back as he hurried off the stage, ducked around the little curtain on the side, and disappeared.

To my left, my drummer said, “Who the fuck was that and why the fuck are you letting him get away?”

Both fucking good questions. I leaped to my feet and pushed my way through the crowd to the curtain. I wasn’t the only one shoving in that direction. Half the audience seemed to want a word or an autograph, or a hard fuck, probably, because his lost-boy look would appeal to a lot of folks. But as one of the night’s performers, I had a right to head backstage, so the bouncers let me past.

There wasn’t much to the back of this place— a couple of narrow halls and storage rooms, the bathrooms, a kitchen off to my left that was off-limits. (And the chef was six-three and had a big knife. No one messed with him.) The Black dude who’d played roadie pushed past me as I hesitated, eyeing the empty hallways.

I grabbed his sleeve. “Hey, that singer. Who is he? Where can I find him?”

Dude shook off my grip, thick brows coming together in a hard glare. “You don’t. He’s gone.”

“Look, I have a band.” I dug in my pocket for one of our cards. “Hellsbane. You may have heard of us. We played an hour ago.”

He took the card, glanced at the logo. “Nope.” Didn’t even do me the courtesy of handing it back, just dropped it. “Now if you get your fat ass out of the fucking way, I have an amp to clear off the stage.”

“Hey.” I squatted, picked up the card, and held it out again. If there was any chance of getting that voice for my band, I had no pride. “Look, just give him that. Tell him I’d love to play with him or record with him. Anything he wants to try out. I think our sound and his would work awesome together.”

“He doesn’t play with anyone.” But the guy stuck the card in his pocket, which was a step up from the floor.

“I’ll help you clear the stage,” I offered. If singer-guy was gone, this dude was my best shot at making contact. “I can coil cables with the best of ’em.”

“I still won’t give you his name. But hell, yeah, you want to carry a fucking fifty-pound Mesa for me, I won’t say no.”

Anyone who’s played the circuit of clubs and bars has schlepped their share of amps and speakers. I followed him back onto the stage and picked up the amp while he grabbed the mic, stand, pedal and cables. He led me out through the halls to the parking area where our bandmobile sat rusting on her wheels. He had a boxy blue Volvo that, unlike our girl, had no logo on her that I could see.

“This is me.” He unlocked the back and I eased the amplifier inside, then stepped away so he could stow the rest of his gear. When he had everything settled, he turned and gave me a wry look. “Still not saying anything. But thanks, dude.” He walked around to the driver’s side, swung up in the SUV, and tapped the horn. I jumped farther back, and he reversed away from the wall, wriggled through a turn in the tight space, and pulled away down the alley without— as far as I could tell— so much as a backward glance.

The cafe’s back door had locked on closing, so I had to walk all the way around and go in the front. Jase, my drummer, had saved my chair and when I dropped back on the seat, he said, “So? Who is he? You get any traction?”

I shook my head. “Not even a name. He was gone like a vampire when the sun rises, before I even got back there.”

Jase thwapped my shoulder. “Erik, you fuckup, what the fuck? What were you doing, sticking your thumb up your ass? Did you hear him?”

I elbowed him back, equally hard. “Yeah. So did everyone else. Getting back there was like crossing a mosh pit.”

“Well, shit.” Jase slumped in his chair and stuck out his long legs, tripping up some blond in a short skirt and Docs. He immediately jumped up to grab her arm and switched on the charm. “Jesus, sorry, gorgeous. That’s not usually how I get girls to fall for me.”

She pulled free but didn’t flounce away in the face of his thousand-watt smile. “Oh yeah? What usually does work then?”

“His wit and sparkling personality,” I said, because I’d seen this game play out a thousand times before.

“And my drumming.” He tapped a quick roll on the tabletop.

“You’re a drummer?”

He pushed up his T-shirt sleeve. “I didn’t get biceps like these from lifting weights.”

“And I’m out.” I stood and jingled the van keys. “I’m driving Matilda home with our shit. See you tomorrow.”

“Sure. See ya.” His attention was already fixed on the cute barely-legal blond who had to be fifteen years younger than us, but who was returning his smile with interest.

I didn’t bother to fight my way through to the back halls again. The next act was setting up, four guys and a big drum kit, and they wouldn’t appreciate me in the way. As I wove between tables and chairs to the front door, a couple of people called my name and said shit like “Great set!” and “Sounded awesome.” I waved but didn’t go over to shoot the breeze the way I usually would with fans. Not sure why I wanted to hustle around back, like that kid with the Ibanez might magically appear again. But I did. And he didn’t. Because no fucking kidding.

Matilda started up with a cough and a cloud of smoke that reminded me I’d skipped on her repairs longer than I should’ve. Something about fuel injectors. I patted her dashboard and promised her a spa day as soon as my next paycheck cleared. She tended to sway on tight turns, so I went slow rounding the corner. Everything was tied down real good in the back, from my Fender to Jase’s kit to Brandy’s bass and the amps and speakers and all, but no sense taking chances. Then the road was clear and I hit the gas.

Dark had fallen a long time back, and home was still an hour away. Nothing unusual in driving even several hours roundtrip to make twenty bucks apiece playing one short set. Hell, we traveled that far for the free exposure sometimes. Still sucked dead rats, when I had to get up and head to work in the AM. At least Jase might get laid out of it. He often did, which was why he drove his own car instead of riding Matilda with me.

I wondered about that singer as I drove home on autopilot— whether he lived near the venue or also traveled an insane distance to play his three songs to the wall. Where he was from and why I’d never heard of him and whether there was any chance I’d ever get to talk to him. Our band desperately needed a lead singer better than me. That kid was it. Best I’d heard in fifteen years.

Which didn’t explain why, as I pushed Matilda at her top speed through the darkness, the thing that stuck in my mind was the long, slim column of his neck and the high cheekbones, the shape of his mouth, and the way his wide eyes had met mine, just once, before he began to sing…