The studio was too quiet. Ricky checked the shabby rooms one by one, but it was clear the band wasn’t around. Everything was set up for rehearsal, though. If he hadn’t known them better, Ricky would’ve thought they stepped out for a pizza.
He brushed his fingers across a cymbal and frowned at the drums, amps and electrical cords. There was never any telling what a group of demons might do next. He should try to track them down before they committed some act of mayhem.
Ricky started toward the door, but the red and gold gleam of Kalila’s new Stratocaster caught his eye. He hesitated. One didn’t handle someone else’s instruments. He picked it up anyway. It had been a few years since he held a guitar and its weight felt unfamiliar, but after a foolish glance over his shoulder as if someone were watching, he strapped it on and picked out a few notes.
The metal strings vibrated under his fingertips, a soft, shy sound that stirred Ricky’s long-fallow ambitions of being something more than a promoter. He wasn’t without ability, but he understood his limits; he lacked the spark of real talent.
He picked out a chord, then a simple melody from a favorite song, fumbling the progression. Well, his abilities had always been more toward keyboards and vocals. The guitar and all its sex appeal had never come naturally to him.
Still…he tried the progression again. Maybe if he worked at it, practiced…
“Thinking of joining the band?”
Ricky looked up in embarrassment.
“No auditions today.” Kalila made a small gesture and the guitar pulled itself from Ricky’s grasp and returned to its stand.
“I’m sorry.”
Kalila watched him, a glint of laughter in her amber eyes. “You could play with us sometime, if you like.”
“I’d be wasting your time.”
“Time means nothing to immortals. But as you wish.” She motioned him toward the door and turned out the light. “Go home. No rehearsal tonight.”
Ricky walked out of the room, grateful for the reprieve. She should’ve been angry, but one could never predict what a djinn would do. He was waiting for the elevator when he heard footsteps.
“You forgot something.” Kalila came up to him and set a battered case at his feet. “It’s one I don’t play any more. Someone ought to get some use out of it.”
Before Ricky could speak, she vanished in a curl of blue smoke. The elevator dinged and the doors cranked open. Ricky picked up the guitar case. “Thanks,” he told the empty air.
Maelstrom Extra: Six-String Dreams
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
reviews (Comments): 5
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Maelstrom
Maelstrom Extra: Photo Shoot
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
reviews (Comments): 9
Posted by
Maelstrom
“This,” Vic said as he paced the floor, “Is what comes of your ridiculous policy of making us be on time for everything.”
Ricky pulled out his BlackBerry. “Stop that. She’ll be here any minute.”
“I hope so.” Nevin conjured a chair and sat down with a heavy sigh. “This is an ugly place. It’s making me very depressed.”
Ricky glanced at the brick walls, sooty and stained with graffiti. High windows let in yellow shafts of light through their broken panes. A photo shoot in an old factory wasn’t an original idea, but the photographer had sold him on it by assuring him the play of light and shadow at this time of day would be incredible. She was right.
“Well, I just want to get on with it,” Kalila said, kicking a coil of filthy rope. She stepped back and gestured for it to unwind itself, and laughed as it snaked toward the rafters.
“Will you stop that?” Ricky said.
The rope fell back upon itself in a cloud of dust and Kalila turned on him. “Why so cranky? I’m only trying to have a little fun.”
“Can’t you do something normal and human for entertainment?”
“I find those two terms mutually exclusive.” She conjured a Rolling Stone magazine and sat down beside Nevin to wait.
Ricky checked the time on his BlackBerry. Fifteen minutes late. No call, no text. The young woman had seemed reliable; an ambitious, up-and-coming sort, eager to make a name for herself. She didn’t strike him as the sort to bail on them.
He heard footsteps and looked up, but it was only Lazaro lumbering in from a dark hallway at the other end of the abandoned warehouse floor.
“This place sucks,” Lazaro announced.
“Let me see if I can reach her.” Ricky tried to call the photographer but didn’t get an answer. “We’ll wait ten more minutes, and if she still doesn’t show, we’ll leave. Tell Bo, would you?”
Lazaro muttered and stalked back into the darkness.
Ricky accepted a chair from Kalila and sat down. Ten minutes became fifteen. Then twenty. The others looked at him expectantly.
“Fine.” Ricky stood up. “Bo! Lazaro! Come on, we’re leaving.”
Lazaro emerged from the shadows, alone.
“Where’s Bo? Tell him we’re going back to the studio.”
“I don’t know where he is. I’m not some demon’s keeper,” Lazaro said. He brushed past him, heading toward the door.
His mind bursting with a sudden suspicion, Ricky followed the others outside where a car with remarkably steamy windows was parked in the weed-choked lot. He had been wondering if he should call the photographer again, but now there was no need. Ricky put the BlackBerry away. “Let’s go back inside, guys,” he told the others. “I have a feeling we’ll be able to get started soon, and the photographer will be in a very happy mood.”
Ricky pulled out his BlackBerry. “Stop that. She’ll be here any minute.”
“I hope so.” Nevin conjured a chair and sat down with a heavy sigh. “This is an ugly place. It’s making me very depressed.”
Ricky glanced at the brick walls, sooty and stained with graffiti. High windows let in yellow shafts of light through their broken panes. A photo shoot in an old factory wasn’t an original idea, but the photographer had sold him on it by assuring him the play of light and shadow at this time of day would be incredible. She was right.
“Well, I just want to get on with it,” Kalila said, kicking a coil of filthy rope. She stepped back and gestured for it to unwind itself, and laughed as it snaked toward the rafters.
“Will you stop that?” Ricky said.
The rope fell back upon itself in a cloud of dust and Kalila turned on him. “Why so cranky? I’m only trying to have a little fun.”
“Can’t you do something normal and human for entertainment?”
“I find those two terms mutually exclusive.” She conjured a Rolling Stone magazine and sat down beside Nevin to wait.
Ricky checked the time on his BlackBerry. Fifteen minutes late. No call, no text. The young woman had seemed reliable; an ambitious, up-and-coming sort, eager to make a name for herself. She didn’t strike him as the sort to bail on them.
He heard footsteps and looked up, but it was only Lazaro lumbering in from a dark hallway at the other end of the abandoned warehouse floor.
“This place sucks,” Lazaro announced.
“Let me see if I can reach her.” Ricky tried to call the photographer but didn’t get an answer. “We’ll wait ten more minutes, and if she still doesn’t show, we’ll leave. Tell Bo, would you?”
Lazaro muttered and stalked back into the darkness.
Ricky accepted a chair from Kalila and sat down. Ten minutes became fifteen. Then twenty. The others looked at him expectantly.
“Fine.” Ricky stood up. “Bo! Lazaro! Come on, we’re leaving.”
Lazaro emerged from the shadows, alone.
“Where’s Bo? Tell him we’re going back to the studio.”
“I don’t know where he is. I’m not some demon’s keeper,” Lazaro said. He brushed past him, heading toward the door.
His mind bursting with a sudden suspicion, Ricky followed the others outside where a car with remarkably steamy windows was parked in the weed-choked lot. He had been wondering if he should call the photographer again, but now there was no need. Ricky put the BlackBerry away. “Let’s go back inside, guys,” he told the others. “I have a feeling we’ll be able to get started soon, and the photographer will be in a very happy mood.”
Maelstrom Extra: The Missing Bottle
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
reviews (Comments): 7
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Maelstrom
Ricky took the bottle off the cluttered shelf and held it to the light.
“That’ll never do,” Nevin said.
“Why not?” He started to rub off the dust so he could get a better look at the antique silver, but thought better of it. Indiscriminately rubbing lamps and bottles was how he ended up managing a paranormal rock band in the first place. “I’m sure it’s pretty underneath the tarnish.”
“But it’s not strong enough to survive a high-velocity auto accident,” Nevin pointed out. “You know how afraid she is of crashes.”
Ricky put the bottle back on the shelf. For an immortal, Kalila was picky. “This one looks stronger.” He reached for a wrought-iron bottle with decorative inlaid bands of greening copper. “A little polish will fix this right up.”
Nevin shook his head. “Too similar to the one she bought at a market in Vienna in 1832. She became trapped and languished in it for fifteen years. It will bring back bad memories.”
“Fine.” He stepped back and looked at the shelf again. Most of the bottles were glass, ceramic, or of some other breakable material, and the sturdier ones were, for the most part, unattractive. A replacement for Kalila’s missing travel bottle had to be superlative. It had to be strong, roomy, and, if Ricky was any judge of the djinn’s tastes, gaudy. If it didn’t dazzle to blind the beholder and eclipse the sun, she wasn’t interested.
“Are you sure you can’t track her bottle somehow? Or conjure a new one? What’s the point of you being a fairy if you can’t do things like that?” Ricky said.
Nevin gave him a baleful look. “Just because immortals have different abilities doesn’t mean we aren’t subject to rules of our own.” He returned to pondering their choices. “A magically conjured bottle wouldn't suit. Trust me.”
Ricky took out his BlackBerry. “There are five more antique shops within a three block radius.”
“Oh, good.” Nevin brightened. “Perhaps we’ll find something before tonight’s gig, after all.”
“I hope so,” Ricky said, pocketing the BlackBerry and heading toward the door. “Because when she finds out we lost her travel bottle, she’s going to be pissed.”
“Another djinn temper tantrum,” Nevin sighed.
“Yes,” Ricky said, remembering the last one with a shudder. “We’ll find something before tonight. Even if I have to figure out how to make one myself.”
“That’ll never do,” Nevin said.
“Why not?” He started to rub off the dust so he could get a better look at the antique silver, but thought better of it. Indiscriminately rubbing lamps and bottles was how he ended up managing a paranormal rock band in the first place. “I’m sure it’s pretty underneath the tarnish.”
“But it’s not strong enough to survive a high-velocity auto accident,” Nevin pointed out. “You know how afraid she is of crashes.”
Ricky put the bottle back on the shelf. For an immortal, Kalila was picky. “This one looks stronger.” He reached for a wrought-iron bottle with decorative inlaid bands of greening copper. “A little polish will fix this right up.”
Nevin shook his head. “Too similar to the one she bought at a market in Vienna in 1832. She became trapped and languished in it for fifteen years. It will bring back bad memories.”
“Fine.” He stepped back and looked at the shelf again. Most of the bottles were glass, ceramic, or of some other breakable material, and the sturdier ones were, for the most part, unattractive. A replacement for Kalila’s missing travel bottle had to be superlative. It had to be strong, roomy, and, if Ricky was any judge of the djinn’s tastes, gaudy. If it didn’t dazzle to blind the beholder and eclipse the sun, she wasn’t interested.
“Are you sure you can’t track her bottle somehow? Or conjure a new one? What’s the point of you being a fairy if you can’t do things like that?” Ricky said.
Nevin gave him a baleful look. “Just because immortals have different abilities doesn’t mean we aren’t subject to rules of our own.” He returned to pondering their choices. “A magically conjured bottle wouldn't suit. Trust me.”
Ricky took out his BlackBerry. “There are five more antique shops within a three block radius.”
“Oh, good.” Nevin brightened. “Perhaps we’ll find something before tonight’s gig, after all.”
“I hope so,” Ricky said, pocketing the BlackBerry and heading toward the door. “Because when she finds out we lost her travel bottle, she’s going to be pissed.”
“Another djinn temper tantrum,” Nevin sighed.
“Yes,” Ricky said, remembering the last one with a shudder. “We’ll find something before tonight. Even if I have to figure out how to make one myself.”
