The Magic's in the Music (Magic Series Book 5) (5 page)

His mother was wearing the scarf Drew had given her. Tammy had apparently helped Senior pick out an emerald ring. Little Jesse had made her some pictures of a robot eating the world. Those were the only presents he could remember. Little gifts. Back when Senior had thrown huge parties for her, all the guests had brought symbolic gifts that represented the charitable donations they’d made for the occasion. Those days were gone.

Lan watched through a fog of alcohol as the family chatted quietly. There was subdued laughter—not like in the old days. Maybe his presence was depressing their fun. Or maybe it was the prospect of their mother cutting Senior’s chicken for him.

Lan drained his glass and reached for one of the wine bottles at his end of the table. Drew stared at Michael with eyes that said, ‘conjugal relations are in store.’
Jesus.
All this lovey-dovey shit was driving him crazy. “Any visions about me lately, Sister?” he called down to her.

Drew pulled her attention from her husband and cocked her head, eyeing him. “Yes,” she drawled. “A few.”

Greeeaaat.
“You’ll singe your eyeballs.” He tried to put as much sneer in his voice as the alcohol would allow. “I’m X-rated these days.” Not true. But they probably thought it was.

“I’m not getting any of that.”

He wouldn’t ask her what she saw for him. He knew his future. Morgan was going to kill him. And that was just fine. She was going to get all of them sooner or later. He was just making sure in his case it was sooner. At least he could have that much control of his destiny.

But the family had gone on alert. When your sister had visions of the future as her power, people paid attention. Once Drew had been almost crazy with visions cascading over her. But she’d been getting a handle on them lately, and that made her even scarier.

“What are you seeing for Lanyon, Drew?” their mother asked in a hushed voice. It cost her to ask that. She used to be very involved with the future. She’d read tarot cards, and she was good at it. Probably because Drew had proven they were descended from Merlin. The Merlin gene the Tremaines shared just might have given his mother a special gift for tarot. Since the attack, she’d quit throwing the cards at all.

Drew looked at her mother, a worried crease between her brows. “I see neon lights in green and gold. I see Lan silhouetted against the colors, surrounded by….flames. Palm trees. A pyramid. A starry night. I see something—I’m not sure what it is—maybe a garden. But it seems to be collapsing.”

“If I’m just a silhouette, how do you know it’s even me? You don’t. You don’t know when they happen or really anything about them, as per usual,” Lan scoffed. “Great power there, Drew. Oh, wait! A pyramid. Looks like I’m going to Egypt.” If the flames were from an explosion, maybe he was going to die in a big kablooey. That was how she got you. You couldn’t help speculating about what she said.

He saw Drew’s face fall. He knew she felt awful about her visions being hard to identify. Had he been cruel enough to stop her from making further revelations? But then she screwed up her courage. “I do know they’re about you. These days I get a sense of…of connection if the visions are about anyone I care about.”

“Big improvement.” He tossed back a glug of wine. He was way not drunk enough to endure a real discussion of his future.

“She’s seeing you in danger, dipshit,” Michael gritted out. “She’s trying to warn you.”

“I’ll be sure and stay away from neon lights and stars,” he sneered. “Oh, and pyramids.”

“Lanyon, dear, won’t you play something for us?” His mother effectively cut off their squabble. Wouldn’t do her any good. There was no way he was playing music. “Please. It’s been so long since I heard you play.”

Damn.
The look in his mother’s eyes was cheating. But then, she’d never been fair.

“Not a good idea.” He poured until his glass was full again.

“I brought your flute.”

He jerked his head toward Jane, who held up the offending instrument. He’d asked her to remove it from his room. That didn’t mean he wanted it dogging him to the dinner table.

Into the silence, his mother said, “Lanyon?”

Looking around the table, he saw they were all staring at him like he might get up and start throwing things. That was actually a possibility. But his mother had asked him. And he knew what he’d put her through this last year and a half. Maybe he owed her this.

He pushed up from the table. His chair scraping on the tiles made a screeching noise. He stalked over to where Jane held out the flute and snatched it from her hand. He could do this. He stood there, clutching the flute. He just had to get the anger under control.

There. He had it stuffed down far enough. Maybe. He stood right where he was. Those on the near side of the table craned around to watch him. He couldn’t face them, not and maintain his calm, so he shut his eyes.

He’d play her a lullaby. That was safe.

He lifted the flute to his lips.
You can do this.
The notes started simply, the tone of his flute pure and sweet. The melody spoke of comfort, of safety, myths that those were these days. But sometimes a lie was the greater gift. He couldn’t let his bitterness ruin things for his mother. Not tonight. The melody grew more complex, variations on the simple theme. He tried to keep his mind a clean slate. He tried to remember what innocence sounded like.

Minor keys started creeping in. That was still okay. Lots of lullabies conveyed a little
tristesse
, and his mother would recognize that for what it was—an apology of sorts. The notes began to cycle up, swirling in minor sevenths. Had he just crossed the line into blues? Notes followed notes with a layering of jazz. He was swept up with them. They slid into frantic staccato, thrumming, insistent. He tried to bring them back, but they spun out of control. He was losing it. He was more Bartok than Bach, and then even Bartok was left behind and the music swelled like an angry, flooded river. Just what he’d dreaded. In a moment the whole house would be enveloped in the red swirl of anger that lived in his heart these days.

He had to stop. If he couldn’t get back to sanity, he had to just rip the music out and let it die. He made a gigantic effort and jerked the flute from his lips.

The notes still hung, wild and angry echoes, in the air. He opened his eyes to see horrified expressions around the table. With a gurgling cry, he wrenched himself around and lurched to the front door, grabbing his backpack on the way. He tossed the flute across the foyer. It clattered across the tile as he jerked the great wood door open.

He slammed the door behind him. Edwards and Ernie started toward him from where they had been talking quietly under the portico.

“Don’t,” he said in a strangled voice. He stumbled up the driveway.

He had to get out of here, back to Hollywood. The music still boiled in his loins, its pressure unreleased. If he didn’t find a way to let it out, he’d end up at County in a locked ward. Maybe he’d end up there anyway. Unless Morgan got him first.

‡

Tris Tremaine stared
after his little brother, along with the rest of the family. The silence stretched around the table. His mother looked physically ill with worry. Why did Lan have to court danger by wandering around the city where Morgan could get him? And what was with that music? That kid had to get his shit together, fast.

To Tris’s amazement, it was Senior who finally spoke. “Not shure…I’ve ever sheen shomeone in so much…p-pain,” he said haltingly.

“Poor Lan,” Jane murmured.

Kemble looked as frustrated and angry with their brother as Tris felt. But no one wanted to bring up exactly why Lan was disintegrating right before their eyes.

Senior surprised him again. “I’m the reashon.”

“No, you’re not,” their mother said.

“Probably has something to do with the fact that Morgan and the Clan broke into the only place he thought was safe and nearly killed us all,” Tris offered gruffly.

“No.” His father’s voice was surprisingly strong. He’d been making progress in his physical and speech therapy sessions, but it was painfully slow. It had been more eighteen months since one of Morgan’s Clan had shot him in the head. “He thought he…could d-depend on me. T-to keep ush shafe.”

“Don’t take this on yourself, Senior,” Kemble muttered. “That boy needs his ass kicked. He’s courting disaster on purpose. Alcohol. Drugs, I’m sure. Running around where Morgan can find him whenever she wants.”

“He’s not a boy, Kemble.” Jane put her hand on her husband’s arm. “He’s twenty-five in another month.”

“Okay,” Kemble said. He sounded exasperated. “That man needs his ass kicked.”

Jane looked to Senior and then to Tris’s mother, helplessly. The scrape of Tammy’s chair grated across everyone’s nerves. Tris felt his wife start.

“I’m going to check on the horses,” Tammy murmured and slipped away.

Talk about disintegrating. The laughing little girl that had once been Tammy was gone as well. What was happening to the family? His mother was distant and sad because she couldn’t heal Senior. Morgan had taken her power somehow using the Wand Talisman. Senior was a shell of his former self. Kemble was trying a little too hard to lead in Senior’s place. At least Drew wasn’t half-catatonic all the time as her visions washed over her. But she was still fragile. He and Maggie worried about Jesse and Elizabeth constantly. How could they have brought another life into this kind of danger? The joy of family that Tris had finally discovered was slipping away.

“I think Lan is feeling a little like Tris must have felt.” Jane turned her soft eyes on him.

“Me?” Tris growled. “Was I ever such an arch ass-hat?”

Jane smiled. “We’ll have to ask Maggie about that.”

“I’m not goading that bull,” his tiny wife said. But he knew she’d goaded plenty of bulls in her time. It was all he could do to keep her from rodeoing even now. Good thing little Elizabeth had more influence on his wife than he did. Or maybe it was the Clan.

“I just meant that you were running away from something the year you took to the road on your Harley, Tris,” Jane said, apologizing as usual for being right. “I think Lan is running, too.”

Tris saw Kemble get a thoughtful look, and glance to Tris. That might be bad. Big brother was real good at coming up with assignments for people.

“I just hope he doesn’t run right off a cliff,” Tris muttered.

*

Lanyon had the
guy in the Nissan drop him off on the Boulevard east of the music scene, where the sidewalks were a little dirtier and every corner became a marketplace for all sorts of illegal activities. He hiked up the hill several blocks to his latest flophouse. He hadn’t been back here in several days, but the Harley Softail Nightrider Tris had given him was still chained to one of the metal posts that held up the sagging, second story balcony. He felt lightheaded with chaotic thoughts, ribbons of music and shards of guilt as he threw open the door. The avocado-green and gold bedspread assaulted his senses. It looked like vomit. He grabbed his leather duster. Once he’d played maybe he’d be able to get some rest.

He thrust his arm into the sleeve of his duster and pulled on the soft leather on. Grabbing his backpack, he made for the door. Fuck it. He’d take the bike tonight. Harder to get away without being seen, but he almost didn’t care about that anymore. He wouldn’t care about anything anymore. How many times had he resolved that? And yet he had tried to play the flute for his mother’s fucking birthday. What a chump.

He put the backpack in the saddlebag of his Harley and threw his leg over the seat. The chaos churning in his belly and his loins was shouting, ‘Club, now!’

He revved the bike’s engine. He needed a guitar, or keyboards, or bass in his hands immediately. Hell, he’d take an accordion at this point or a ukulele.

What if he saw her tonight?

That instant attraction he’d felt was
not
natural. And he knew what unnatural attraction might mean. His whole family consisted of shining examples. If he carried the Merlin gene, as they did, when he met someone else with the gene…

He’d be sucked into his family’s destiny. He’d never escape that pre-ordained fate that said he’d have a magic power, a love that would last a lifetime, and an obligation to use the power in a fruitless struggle with the forces of Morgan’s darkness. He’d have to, just to protect the one who was his soul mate. And he wouldn’t even have a choice about who it was. No control over the whole process whatsoever. For a while, he’d hoped the gene had passed him by. But when even Kemble proved to have the gene and had met his Destiny in Jane—at thirty-nine, no less—Lan knew he was doomed. Once destiny struck, he’d never be able to drift away into nothingness, letting the waters of his fate at Morgan’s hands close over his head.