Power Trio

Albany was a faulty start. Boston was better, but Thekla was still in a funk. She was down at the Providence show, too, and the hotel was a shithole. Not that Kell minded, but Evan and Thekla clung together on the opposite twin, catastrophizing about bedbugs and sleeping on top of the sheets.

And then Thekla got her back properly blown out in Connecticut, and New Haven is a fucking riot. Kell finds it hilarious how much Thekla’s brightened up after getting Evan to dom her, but you can’t argue with the results. The goblin basks in the spotlight again, howling like a wolf on Fossil Fuel, shaking her ass all over the stage on Vampire Facial, shredding like a demon on Thunder Thighs. Kell snatches a glimpse of Anise, watching from the wings, banging her head and mouthing along.

They’ve seen Conna’s act four times now, but Kell still finds herself drawn to the audience after she clears the stage. Legendary’s star is rising, of that she’s sure. They’re going to be the best fucking band in New Laytham. But Shrike is already there, at the height of their powers.

Their bassist is a hired gun, this runt of a gnoll named Tooth. It feels like every time she runs into him, he’s on the phone with his wife. He’s not on Evan’s level. The drummer, Olaf, is a bald dwarf with a drooping Cossack mustache. He’s friendly and talented, but he’s jazz trained and has this habit of explaining drums to Kell, even though she’s also a fuckin’ drummer. Sofia is a bona fide rockstar, with this massive mop of teased hair that flows around her like fog as she crunches out these genius open-stringed drone lines. Kell’s pretty sure she’s got some sort of alternate tuning; Sion would know more.

And then there’s Conna. Conna is the reason Shrike gets its buzz. She doesn’t play an instrument; she is an instrument.

The bubbly, scattered harpy is transcendent on stage, her wings spread and scintillating under the lights, her voice pitch perfect and as piercing as a laser. Conna has a singing voice that can stop you in your tracks, the kind that gets you asking the bartender who’s that band on the playlist.

Before she saw Shrike, Kell was always skeptical about lead singers who didn’t play anything. Spotlight hogs, she thought. Conna converted her. She’d call no one a better singer than her girlfriend, obviously, but Thekla has a very specific, smoky cadence. It fits Legendary like a glove, but she learned how to sing in the shower, not at a conservatory.

Conna’s a trained chameleon, and everything she does ensnares your heart. On their breakneck opener she’s dipping the microphone stand and rasping like a vengeful wraith. When they go groovy, she locks in, spitting her syllables like a drum machine and belting like a disco diva. Their big single is this libidinous groove where she drops her voice (and her feathery ass) low, purring into the mic like it’s a lover’s ear. She punctuates her technical skill with these wild swerves: animal shrieks, amplified breath, long talky sections, a passage of honest-to-god Mongolian throat singing. It’s riveting.

Kell claps and screams with the rest of the audience, and thinks of the day that Legendary will be the headliner.

* * *

Driving down to Jersey, they get the other security guy in the van, Carlos the human. He’s built like a tank, so intimidating until he talks; the guy has a disarmingly nasal voice and a cute little lisp. He’s a good sport, goofing with Kell and showing her pictures of him and his adorable niece at a Vanessa Fields show, both of them in pink crop tops and tiaras.

They stop at a middle-of-nowhere sandwich spot in the boot-end of CT to get some grub and use the bathroom. Thekla goes off to field an angry call from her mother about some faux pas Dalma apparently did. The teenagers at the counter stare at the fairfolk like they’ve stepped out of a flying saucer.

The tour shuffles between Evan and Carlos as the human face of the operation. Evan is a thin white dude with a hipster beard and a self-effacing smile. Carlos is 6 foot 4, around 300 pounds, and has a dotted line tattoo along his neck and the words CUT HERE printed on his clavicle. Both guys have their advantages. This is an Evan job.

“Yo, Tarik,” Kell calls, as Carlos’ orc partner hops out of the bus. She gestures to the deer-in-the-headlights teen at the sandwich window and switches to orcish. “Shivering cubs.”

Tarik chuckles. “Fear in them.”

“First time seeing an orc in the wild, I bet.”

“Aye.”

“I seek my human. You seen him? He must requisition, keep ‘em from freaking out.”

“He stands by the gas station, pretty sure.” Tarik jerks a thumb that way. “He addresses the elf.”

“My elf? Sion?”

“Aye.”

“Thanks, dude. Strength and victory.”

“Victory and strength.” Tarik heads for the john.

Kell jogs over to the gas station. Evan and Sion are in conference over the elf’s tattered notebook. Sion has that dinged-up acoustic again and is playing a weaving, haphazard riff, full of big interval jumps and chromatic descents.

“I can see it as a solo section.” Evan rubs his mustache. “It’s not a one-to-one fit, but I guess that’s not the goal.”

“I won’t be playing it this way at our shows, you understand.” Sion quiets his strings. “I’m retired from accidental incantation. Thekla would go catatonic and you’d have to do that mouth-to-mouth thing again. Not that I suppose you haven’t had practice.” He unslings the guitar and sees her approach. “Ah, here’s Kellax.”

“Hey, team,” Kell says. “What’s the action over here?”

Evan hesitates, looks at Sion. The elf nods. “Go ahead, Evan H. I expect no secrets within your triangle.”

“Sion’s working on something,” Evan admits. “He wants to put it in Field Fire. He wants to turn the song into a spell.”

Kell’s not sure how to react. This is what they’re committed to doing, and Evan’s been trying to connect with Sion for a while and get him back into the fold. But Thekla has only just snapped out of her spiral, and getting Evan to dom her, while remarkable, was more a quick fix to take her mind off it than an actual solution to the problem.

And there’s a slow realization dawning on her. Something she doesn’t want to admit in front of Sion.

She settles on a “Huh.”

“Nothing I intend to use, you understand.” Sion closes his notebook. “Not until we’re safely back in New Laytham and away from all this small-town...” He scrapes his chelsea boot against the asphalt, dislodges a dirty convenience store napkin. “…Charm.”

“No, I get it. I’m just… we gotta be careful around Thek. That’s all.” Kell rests a hand on the back of Evan’s neck. “I’m stealing him real quick. What do you want from the sandwich counter?”

“Whatever is closest to a steak, thank you,” Sion says. “Sans any of that pallid substance these hardworking yokels consider mayo.”

“How much have you and Sion been talking about that magic stuff, anyway?” Kell walks with Evan back toward the sandwich spot.

“It’s most of what he wants to talk about. The guy is driven.”

“Can I tell you something, Evan?” Kell looks furtively around. “Something I don’t know how to break to Thekla?”

“Always.”

“I’m kind of excited about whatever this next spell is going to be.”

“Okay, I’m actually very glad you told me that,” Evan says. “Because I am too.”

“Like, I don’t know, man.” Kell chews her lip. “The idea of being some kind of punk rock wizard… is kind of sick.”

“It’s sick, right? Like, it’s terrifying, don’t get me wrong. But if it’s real, it’s real. Someone needs to bring it back. Why not us?”

“Earth’s first rock and roll wizards.” There’s a giddy weightlessness in her ribcage. “Why not? I mean, if we do this right, man. Talk about PR.”

Evan glances at Thekla as they approach the sandwich spot. “You think we can get her into this? Ultimately?”

“She didn’t date humans, and I got her into you, didn’t I?”

He smirks. “You’re taking all the credit for that?”

“Sure am.” She takes his hand. “Lemme think about this, yeah? It’s scary. But so was being a throuple, before it got fucking dope.”

“Lead on, baby.” Evan squeezes her palm. “You know what you want?”

“I want to be the most famous band in the world,” Kell says, and there’s a certainty in her chest that she really means it.

“I meant for sandwiches.”

“Ah. Meatball sub.”

* * *

New York City is New Laytham but bigger, louder, and a lot more human. They arrive at the venue, a big converted warehouse at the east end of Bushwick, and the smoothness of the operation delights Anise. One of the tech crew, a snakebite-sporting emo chick, asks Legendary if they want to use the fog machine.

That’s a unanimous yes.

And okay—they’re not the ones who brought the crowd here. But as they tarry near the scaffolded stage on one end of this vast warehouse, people come in, and keep coming.

Kell finds Anise taking to a middle-aged human dude, dressed all in black, lounging on a pile of pallets. “Girl, this is crazy,” she says. “How big’s the crowd we’re expecting tonight?”

Anise looks to the human. “What’s the gate, Aaron?”

“We get a lot of walkups,” Aaron says. “Extrapolating from presale, I think we’re looking at… eighteen hundred or so?”

Kell leads Anise a few steps away. “Jesus fucking Christ, An. Is this what we were expecting?”

“Shrike’s seriously big here, hon. The Fairfolk scene is getting its hooks into NYC.”

“We’re a scene?”

“In Brooklyn, everything’s a scene. And Shrike’s a vanguard.” She extends a fist. “Play this right and you’re gonna be another.”

Kell bumps Anise’s fist, feeling lightheaded.

Talking about it is one thing. Dreaming about it, even. But actually doing it, performing for a four-digit crowd, is different. As she climbs the stairs behind the scaffold, Kell needs to take a second, plant her feet, catch a breath.

“Hey.” Evan’s behind her. She feels his touch, light but sure, on her lower back. “Kell.”

“Yeah?” Her chest is tight. It’s not bad, what she’s feeling. It’s just huge. Overwhelming.

“Best rhythm section in New Laytham.”

She lowers her head and grounds herself, tries to flow the nerves out through their connection into the concrete floor. “That’s right,” she says, and steps out onto the stage.

The attention of one thousand people turns to her, nails her momentarily to the spot before she slips behind the drums. The applause that greets Legendary as its members take their places, speculative as it is, fills the chamber, echoes off the walls.

“Brooklyn.” Thekla’s voice over the mic booms like the word of God. “We are Legendary.” She looks back at Kell and her eyes are twin burning stars.

“I love you all,” she whispers.

Kell is moving as if in a dream as she clacks her drumsticks together. One, two, three, four.