Prelude (The Rhapsody Quartet) (6 page)

“I… they… they heard me sing.”

She shrugged, biting into another strawberry, “Is that all?”

I stared at her incredulously. “You told me they’d be doomed, Stacie!”

“Yeah, well…” Clearly she wasn’t going to lose any sleep over the drastic mistake I’d made.

“Is it just not as bad as I think?” I asked, pressing her.

“Who knows? Honestly, the situation is what it is. As far as I know,
time
control is impossible.
Damage
control is what we should be more focused on. I thought it would be worse than this. Two people we can handle. Two people go missing, go insane, fall ill… unfortunate, but explainable.”

My stomach dropped at the ideas Stacie suggested. It felt dirty, like a mobster killing someone for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The guilt I felt seared at me like a branding iron. I’d developed a stitch in my side— possibly from anxiety, possibly from the walk. I fell hard onto the chaise next to Stacie, sinking into the cushions. It was more plush than it appeared.

She turned to me with wide eyes, “You really are bothered about this, aren’t you?”

I nodded stiffly.

Stacie let out a low whistle. She brought her gaze to the maid standing at the door and jerked her head to the side in a ‘get lost’ motion. The woman bowed her head and left the room immediately.

Stacie’s warm hand caressed my hair gently. I never would have expected a gesture so comforting from her until this moment. I brought my eyes up to her.

She was still pretty, still perfect, but with genuine worry etched on her features. Her brows were knit close together, and her normally generously full lips had been pursed to a small line.

It almost was enough to make me want to smile, this amount of transformation from her. As soon as I felt my mouth twitch, my mind echoed back Susan and Rick’s madness. The way they both needed the song was chilling.

When I was a kid, only six or seven, a police officer came to our school to talk about drug and alcohol prevention. Back then, the way he described addiction made me think of a frenzied need: something that would break you, something that would ruin you. You’d kill for it. You’d steal for it. You’d do anything to get the fix.

It wasn’t until I was older, had a bit more life experience, that I’d decided addiction usually seeps up like a slow fog. You do something a few times, and eventually it becomes an itch you need to scratch. I’d been shuttled around enough to know the signs. Sometimes, it was a housewife who needed her caffeine to make it through the day. Sometimes, it was the husband who cracked open six beers every night. Sometimes it was wine, or prescription pills.

It was never as frantic as I imagined. It was always subtle. None of my observations suggested the frenzied insanity I’d pictured as a child. Until tonight, that is.

“Where are they?” Stacie asked.

I exhaled a breath. I didn’t know I’d been holding it. “Asleep, home… I ordered them to sleep.”

“Interesting. It worked?”

I nodded, “Susan didn’t even wake up when I was bandaging her.”

“Bandaging her?!”

With that question I had to explain. I told Stacie everything: the song, the elation on their faces, the responses that had repulsed me. Stacie listened, perhaps a bit too eagerly at the gritty details, stopping me when she had a question.

When it was all over, she looked thoughtful, cupping her chin with one hand. She said, “Huh, so that’s what happens, then?”

“That’s what happens,” I responded numbly.

She stood up, “I guess I’d say… we need to go back there.”

“What?!” It felt like my heart stopped. Going back to face my foster family was the last thing I wanted to do. I was hoping Stacie would have a magic fairy-godmother SWAT team to take care of it. Something for emergencies.

“Look,” she said, “spells, enchantments, whatever, it’s generally pretty specific. Casters can be interchanged, but you should break spells within your own race— that’s the most effective. You’re the last siren, ergo, you should be the one to break it. Or at least try.”

I shook my head, “I think I’d just make it worse. My song is what they want most, and I
won’t
sing again.”

“Who’s asking you to sing to them?” Stacie said, “Not me. The fact is, you’ve already done some damage control. They’re not sobbing or hurting themselves anymore, are they?”

“No,” I admitted, “but that’s different… they’re sleeping.”

“How is that any different? The plan will be simple. Tell them to forget what they heard before— in fact, tell them to forget about you in general. My father and I can take care of the rest of the town! No one will even bring it up to them.”

“I live at their house,” I said, confused.

“Not anymore. You can stay here!” Stacie giggled. Her expression became a bit more subdued. “At least, for now. It will be up to the council, of course…” She bit her lip, “but all the more reason to stay here for the time being.”

She opened a large closet near the entry. She selected a few things, threw her robe off, and pulled on the outfit. It was slouchy and comfortable, but somehow Stacie still looked like the queen of fashion.

Pulling a blue pea coat from behind the door, she walked to an ornate-looking cupboard in one corner of the room. She threw the fancy doors open. Inside was a small bottle of something covered by a silk handkerchief. Stacie pulled the cloth off and gripped the bottle tightly in one hand.

“All set,” she said. She’d already found her keys inside her designer handbag. She gripped them fiercely, “Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The experience of erasing myself from my foster parents’ memories was methodical.

First we ignored the two, rounding up all the things that were mine, all of the photos of me (only four, including one that I almost forgot Susan had clipped to her organizer), and all paperwork that bore my name on it. Stacie promised me that replacements would be made and planted in Susan’s filing cabinet, as if they’d never left. They’d only be missing tonight.

We had to make a total of five trips to Stacie’s car. Most of the loads were clothing that no longer fit me that we shoved into large plastic bags marked for charity. I only kept two formerly baggy sweatshirts and three pairs of shoes. I’d never decorated my room, so that spared us time and effort. The most personal items I brought back were my meager book collection and, of course, my new inheritance.

The dulcimer was in its case, slung over my shoulder— it had been since I’d first played it. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but during the aftermath of my song, my fingers had been cleverly placing it in the case and hauling it behind me. It’d somehow become a natural extension of me. I had no conscious idea I felt that way until I was panicking while packing the room. I was certain I’d lost the instrument. It wasn’t until Stacie pointed at it and gave me a ‘duh’ sort of look that I realized it’d been with me all along.

The rest of my inheritance I bundled together. I tucked the ring inside the music box with the letter from my birth parents— who were really sirens, I was now sure.

During the last trip inside, I stooped down to my foster parents who were still slumbering on my bedroom carpet.

“
Forget
,” I said, being sure to enunciate the word carefully. “Forget Sarah Mills. Forget you ever had a teenage foster child. Forget this night. You both sat down and watched reruns on television. Forget the song.” This sentence elicited a response, the first sign that my compulsion was having any effect. Susan whimpered at the suggestion, while Rick made a sound like I’d punched him in the gut. “
Forget the song
,” I said again with emphasis.

Was this going to be enough? Could it be? I didn’t feel the magic the way I did when I was singing, but both were eager enough to follow instructions before.

“In thirty seconds, you’ll wake up. You will not remember me, or the song. You will continue your life as normal.” I sighed, feeling drained. I was certain this was for the best, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. This was just another example of me taking away their freedom of will. I only hoped I hadn’t destroyed them.

I watched their chests rise and fall softly for a few seconds before Stacie whispered, “Come on.”

I followed numbly behind her, hoping that I’d successfully erased myself from the truest family I’d ever known.

We stood at the door. Our plan was to knock, then evaluate if it’d worked. If it had, we’d know when Susan or Rick answered. Stacie pulled out her phone, pausing for a long moment before she nodded. “Should be waking up now.”

My nerves ignited, and my stomach churned. I felt dizzy and light-headed, like I might faint. Did it work?

Stacie pressed on the doorbell, and I could hear it chiming within faintly. Susan cracked the door open with wide and suspicious eyes.

“Hello!” Stacie said cheerfully, “We’re here on a fund raising effort—”

Susan shook her head, her eyes hollow. “No,” she whispered. “No. No…” She turned to me, taking me in from head to toe. Not a flicker of recognition crossed her features. “You don’t have it,” she said bitterly.

“We don’t have what?” Stacie asked her carefully.

“The song! The song, the singing! The song!” she muttered rapidly, slamming the door in our faces.

Stacie’s brows furrowed. She turned to me, shaking her head sadly. “It didn’t work.”

That was obvious. Still…“It worked a little,” I said, feeling my heart sink. I had successfully made her forget
me
, but not the song. I slumped against the siding on the house. It was wet, and left a muddy smear against my jacket. “But not enough.”

“Maybe they just need some time. Let’s go in and check on them.” Stacie pried the door open, “Come on.”

Susan sat on the edge of the couch, Rick beside her. They didn’t bother looking up when we entered, though we were breaking into their home. They stared off into space, eyes blank, focused toward the television. It was turned off.

“Are you two okay?” Stacie asked them.

Rick turned his head to her, slowly, mouth slacked. “There is nothing.”

Susan gripped a chunk of hair, yanking it out with a sharp jerk. She stared at it as it fluttered to the ground. “There is nothing,” she repeated.

“What do you mean?!” I asked, practically in tears, “There’s nothing?”

Susan’s eyes met mine, but her expression seemed to look through me. “There is no feeling in this world,” she said. “Only the singing. Only the song, and that is gone now.”

Rick flicked a thumb against his lighter, hovering his palm over the flame. His skin sizzled, making the room smell like burning flesh. I gagged.

“What are you doing?!” I demanded, batting it away from him. The lighter clattered to the floor.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said hollowly. “There is nothing.”

I’d ruined them. Permanently, maybe. I had
ruined
them. I had broken their minds apart.

“Just sleep!” I yelled. I balled my hands into tight fists and pressed them against my eyes. I heard my foster parents slump down, falling against the leather couch cushions.

Stacie circled her arms around me, pulling me into a hug. It was surreal, standing here with my tormentor, taking comfort from her. After a few minutes, she released me, rubbing my shoulders. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get out of here.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Communication

I felt sick as I slid into Stacie’s car.

“You didn’t know what would happen,” she said gently.

I shook my head, crying silently. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and stared out the window. I’d had enough warning— enough that I shouldn’t have risked it, shouldn’t have risked
them
.

“What will happen to them?” I whispered.

“If you wake them up, they’ll probably have to be institutionalized,” she said seriously, staring straight down the road.

If
I wake them… was she suggesting that I kill them off? I wiped the tears away from my eyes, my heart heavy. It felt like someone was sitting on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I’d ruined their lives anyway. Maybe death would be a mercy.

“If you don’t wake them, they’ll be in the hospital, in a coma,” she said, pursing her lips tightly together. “Which might not be a bad idea, truthfully.”

“Leaving them in a coma?” I squeaked, my voice cracking.

She rounded the corner into her driveway, putting the car into park. “Yes. It will buy time until you decide… until you decide what to do.”

There was nothing ambiguous in her inflections. The time would allow me to get comfortable with murdering them. I doubted I would live that long.

Stacie held up the bottle she’d retrieved from her cabinet earlier, “For now, we’ll see what my father has to say about it.”

“Your father?” I felt confused, regretful, distraught. I wanted the night to be over, for all this to have been a nightmare.

“When I pulled off the handkerchief, it alerted my father that I wanted to speak with him.” She clicked her seatbelt, sliding out of the convertible, and I followed her into her mansion.

“How is that possible?” I asked, “What’s inside?”

“Sea water,” she answered with a shrug, “gathered a few years ago from the beach in our back yard.”

“Just ocean water?” I asked incredulously, “So the bottle is special?”

“No, the water is special. It has one other ingredient, but it’s 99.99% plain old saline.” She kicked her shoes off and sunk down onto the chaise, gesturing for me to have a seat as well. I curled into one of the plush chairs dotting the edges of the room.

“What’s the other ingredient?”

“A single scale from my father’s eye.”

I wrinkled my nose, “Your father’s eyes have scales?”

She laughed, “It sounds icky, but it’s really not. My eyes have scales too, but they’re small. You know how the iris has varied pigmentation? It’s just one of those tiny slivers of color that we’re talking about here. We shed them normally. It was just a matter of my father collecting one. It links him to this bottle, when necessary.”