There were no good circumstances under which that would have happened. But the burned bread was the only thing out of place. It was as if Sarah had just . . . left. As if something had lured her out, had wooed her from within the safety of our walls.
That was when I knew.
I had met someone, very recently, with a voice that could lure. He wouldn’t have even needed to be in the apartment, wouldn’t have even needed to know it was Sarah he was luring out—a song sung below an open window, and that would be enough.
I ran to Purple Reign.
“Trent’s sound-checking, but he said if someone like you showed up, to let her in,” the woman working security said.
Inside, I was greeted by a sight I never expected to see—Sarah, onstage, playing the drums. Playing the drums well. I was so shocked that it took me at least a verse and a chorus to register what else I was seeing. There was the púca, in his human form, playing bass. A redcap on keyboards. A trio of flower Fae singing backup. All the missing Fae here, in support of the gancanagh.
Once the shock had passed, I looked closer. Sarah’s hands were raw, blistered. So were the púca’s. The redcap’s hat was almost dry, as if he hadn’t refreshed it in weeks. He had been, I remembered now, the first to go missing. The flower Faes’ blossoms were wilted at the edges and their lips dry and chapped.
The gancanagh smiled as he led his kidnapped band into the next verse. There was no recognition on Sarah’s face. None. All of the Fae had the same expression: absolute, focused concentration. If Trent had used his voice to tell them that this was what he loved, what he wanted, they’d play until he told them to stop.
They’d play forever.
“I told you I’d have a full band. They haven’t been together that long, but I think they’ve got real potential. All of them just love what they’re doing,” he said.
“Care to join us? I think you’d be the perfect addition.” He started to sing then, something about desire for the spotlight, the perfect girl, a whole room in love. I felt it then—not a compulsion, not fully. But that edge of wanting, just beneath the skin. The beginning of the thought that here, up onstage, this was where I belonged. Where I had always wanted to be.
“Come on, everybody, give it up for our new guest vocalist!” Trent called out.
A tray of glasses shattered as the bartender dropped them so she could clap. The bouncers started screaming and stomping their feet. The coat-check guy climbed up on the counter and cheered. All the staff who had been going about their business a second ago were going wild to convince me to get onstage.
I looked again at Sarah’s hands, at the other Fae—stolen, hurt, exhausted. At Trent, and his smile—that smarmy, self-satisfied smile, as if all of life were his for the taking. With this band, it was. Somehow, he was stronger with them, using them to boost his own magic. In that moment, I wanted him dead.
“Come on now, sing with us. All we need is you and we’ll sound perfect.”
That itch of wanting to be there, on that stage, was stronger now, more compelling.
“Yeah, okay. Sure.” I stepped up and grabbed the mic.
“Remember, I want a love song.”
“Oh, I’ve got one for you.”
There are all sorts of songs about love. There are the songs that make you feel that champagne fizz of first attraction, songs that ride on the drum and bass beat of lust. Violin strings of longing and the mournful piano of endings and regret.
And then there are songs about love that kills. Murder ballads and choruses of women haunting hills in long black veils. And over the púca’s pop beat and the sweet harmonies of the flower Fae, that was what I sang.
What I wailed.
The cold and fog curled up through my throat like ghosts, and the blood iced in my veins. This time, this time I knew the power would work. My voice echoed in that dingy club as if it were an opera house. This was what it was to sing as a banshee.
I sang of love that consumes. That murders and unmakes. I sang an unraveling, aiming my voice at the very heart of him.
When I started, the gancanagh was singing too, trying to harmonize, but his voice grew weaker, hesitant, flat. One by one, the enchantments broke from the other Fae in his band, and their music went silent. Until the only sounds in the room were his voice and mine.
And then mine was the only one. I met his eyes, and I took a bow.
“What did you do?” he asked. Still not dead. His magic, however, was. I’d felt it on the stage, and heard it when he spoke. His voice was normal. No power to woo, or lure, or take away choices.
I helped Sarah out from behind the drums, down off the stage. She was shaking as she walked, but she turned and glared at him and whispered the worst curse I’d ever heard her say. Trent was in for an extended plague of ripping seams, unzipping zippers, and oversalted, undercooked food. Brownies can be ruthless.
“I did just what you wanted,” I said. “I sang you a love song.”
TEAM FAIRY
* * *
BY KAT HOWARD
Team Fairy. Of course I’m on Team Fairy. As if there was ever any doubt. I mean, can you imagine a robot singing a murder ballad? Well, perhaps you can, but that raises the question of whether you should, and let me assure you, if you want to have any pleasure at all in the listening, better to imagine a fairy. Even if her song will stop your heart. I’ve been fascinated with banshees since I first knew what they were, and to me, fairies are fun precisely because they are powerful. A woman whose power is in her voice, learning to use it? Oh yes. I’ll write that.
SOUND AND FURY
by Mary Robinette Kowal
The hum of the ship engines sent a vibration up through the soles of Jela Dedearian’s feet. It was always more pronounced near the engine room. By god, she was exhausted. All she wanted was to curl up with her cat and a good novel, but this shift was never going to end.
She rubbed her face with both hands and leaned against the wall of the shuttle bay for a moment. “All right, Okeke. Let’s check the restraints.”
Okeke nodded, her locs bobbing around her cheeks. “Checking giant robot now.”
“Diplomatic Personal Surrogate.”
Okeke snorted. “Yeah. That’s totally what I meant.”
“Obviously.” The captain would have their asses if she caught them talking shit about the mission, but goddamn it. . . . Even if Jela had agreed with the Consortium of Worlds’ expansion policy, Diplomat Foenicul made it damned hard to be respectful.
“Hey . . . Chief. I got this.” Okeke straightened from the restraint strap she was testing. “You can go on to bed.”
“Oh, believe me. I have zero doubts about you. It’s just that, bless her heart, Diplomat Foenicul has expressed that she will be more comfortable if the chief engineer is involved.” She widened her eyes and adopted a too-innocent expression. “Because clearly, I’m the only one on the whole ship who knows how to tie down a giant robot.”
“She’s not even in here.”
“But she will be.” Jela massaged the nagging ache in her forehead. “Believe me, the moment y’all deploy to the surface I have a date with my bed and my cat.”