The Gift (26 page)

Diana paused, waiting for August to reply. When he didn't, Diana continued. "But I have no doubt you can see how it could just as easily be used for evil with the wrong person in control, feeding him darkness, poisoning his gift into something cold and wicked. You had a vision of demons; that might not be far off, no? Let's face it, we've all heard of men, groups, teams inciting riots, riveting great audiences in the throes of violence and chaos? One need only consider history to know what the power of one great man can do to bring down masses of people."

"So what you're saying is we need save him from himself?"

"Not exactly," Diana corrected. "We need to save him from being led along the wrong path. If Anton gets his hands on him, on his power, we are in for a long haul of misery."

"But if it's not Anton then it will be someone else." August put a hand to his forehead, suddenly overwhelmed. "And then someone else after that, and after that."

"No, I don't believe that. Doren grows more aware, stronger every time. Just like the music on the CD, August."

August frowned. How had she known about that?

"Once Doren knew it was there, once he knew what they had done … well, they won't be able to do it again. His mind knows to watch for it. What it all comes down to, August, is that Doren has a choice to make, and he needs to make it with awareness and for all the right reasons."

"He needs to choose his path," August mumbled, more to himself than to Diana.

"Exactly. And to say it in a stronger way, he needs to forge his destiny. Will he use love to bring light to the world? Or will he fall to darkness and use his gift to destroy it? At this point the pivot could fall either way."

August stared into the night, the phone still at his ear. "Diana? I think he might be in serious danger."

"August honey, I know he's in danger."

"Diana," August chewed viciously on the inside of his cheek, "how do you know Doren?"

The line was quiet for a long time. "I'm sorry, August, that's not a conversation I can have with you right now."

Frustration got the better of him. "Damn it, Diana, stop holding out on me! I know you've known him since he was an infant. I know you've been there the whole way through. Why? How? Why did you follow him? Why would you look out for him like that? What are you hiding?"

"August, allow me to rephrase my answer then. That's not a conversation that I'm willing to have with you right now." The line went dead. August stared at his phone in shocked silence.

Doren's voice pulled August back. He stood in the doorway, sleepy and concerned. "Is everything all right? What's wrong?"

He looked into Doren's blue eyes. What color had Diana's been? Could he even remember? He looked at Doren's thick dark hair. Diana had been a brunette too, hadn't she? Had it been natural or bottle enhanced? Jesus and all that was holy, was it possible that Diana was Doren's mother? And if she was, why was she hiding it? Worse, why would she send her son to fight a battle that could quite possibly result in his demise? Surely a mother's love would run deeper than that? But if it didn't; if the very course of nature itself—the protection owed a child by its own mother—had failed them, then that meant the only one Doren really had was him.

August moved towards him and forehead to forehead pulled a deep breath of the scent of Doren's still sleep-warmed skin. "Nothing, babe," he said. "Everything is just fine."

"There will be no mistakes this time. I will forgive no shortfalls. I want that boy brought back here after the show and I want that damn assistant detained in any way that we need to. Does everyone understand their jobs? Does anyone need any further clarification?"

He looked from eye to eye at the cast of men and women in front of him: ushers, vendors, ticketers, and drivers alike. "Trust my words," he continued, "if anyone screws this up tonight they will pay dearly."

He stopped his pacing in front of Morana and looked at her directly. "And I mean everyone."

She raised an eyebrow at him but didn't speak a word. Good thing for her too. He was in no mood to play. Tonight, Doren, and all his power, would become his—one way or another. He would make sure of it. He was tense though. Extremely tense. For some odd reason he'd been having difficulty finding them the last few days. Just when he thought he had caught them, found their trains of thought, something had come in and opened wings above them, blocking them from him. Something, or someone, was protecting them. Had August learned a new trick? Another reader, perhaps? But where would Doren have found another reader? And at such a convenient time, no less. For that matter, how would Doren have known that's what he needed to block Anton out? Who had told him? Anton had seen no moment of revelation, read no sudden realization in either of them.

He shifted his stance to stare out the window and glare at unseen forces. There was more brewing that he knew and it drove him crazy that he couldn't figure out what it was. It wasn't just the improbable arrival of a reader either; he sensed a great gathering around Doren, and a mass of protection that was stronger than anything he'd come across before. The future kept shifting, kept resetting itself, as though someone had been watching it and changing it in ways so subtle that one didn't realize a change had been made until it was already too late.

"Anton," Morana stepped up behind him, trying to soothe him with a palm against tense shoulder muscles, "do not be so troubled. Perhaps you need a distraction? There is nothing you can do now until after the show. Come with me, let me help take your mind off it." Her hand snaked down his chest and fingertips wandered along his belt.

He slapped it away, not bothering to voice the growl in his mind. "I don't have time for your games, old woman. We have a job to do. Spend more time figuring out how we're going to accomplish it and less time thinking about your hole. You are supposed to be a powerful witch, not a common whore."

He saw the anger flash across Morana's face. He saw her fists clench with rage. Come on then, he thought, bring it. He didn't need her anymore anyway. Soon he would have Doren. And if he played his cards right, if Morana's plan actually worked this time, he would have August too. With their joint abilities, Morana became nothing more than a body to play with. And bodies were a dime a dozen.

"Why do you stand here still?" he hissed, all fear of Morana gone. "Get to the show. And bring me back that little prick."

He sat down and fingered a glass of wine as Morana stalked past him, chin in the air. "Oh, and Morana," he said, lifting the glass to the light, peering through the liquid for any impurity. "Be sure when you do he's docile and willing to assist. Otherwise, there is no need to bring him at all."

She smiled at him coldly, turning to close the double doors behind her, "As you wish …"

" … Master." She finished the sentence with the word hissed at the closed door. Who did that impudent child think he was? How dare he speak to her in such a fashion? He thought he was so smart, he thought he was so clever. Ha! She was no fool, no apprentice to be used and tossed away. She knew what Anton was thinking. He intended to replace her talents with August, perhaps even physically if she understood his game. The slut did love something new and different to play with, oh, he certainly did. Not that she could blame him. August was small and young. Strangely hard and soft at the same time, effeminate and yet enticingly male. Interesting and different. She would do the same if she were in Anton's position.

She smiled at the closed door. As a matter of fact, she decided, that was exactly what she intended to do.

The buzzing in Curtis' ears hadn't gone away all morning. His senses were running full tilt and he had no idea why. It had started when they'd all climbed out of bed and Doren decided to leave for ice. And the minute Curtis could no longer see Doren, the very second Doren had passed the threshold and began the trip down the hallway, Curtis' mind had shifted into red alert. It got so bad Curtis had to go and catch up with Doren down by the ice machine. For some reason it calmed the gnawing in his brain somewhat to know that Doren was within eyesight. More bizarre still, Curtis couldn't stop himself from keeping an eye on Doren the entire time Doren got ready; leaning against the bed to get the right angle on the mirror so that he could watch Doren's reflected image shower, towel off, shave, and dress. That was all kinds of fucked up. There he was watching some dude shower and dress for Christ's sake. But if his senses were telling him that he needed to watch out, then watching out was exactly what Curtis intended to do.

He picked up his drumsticks and began to tap lightly on the bed, mentally rehearsing the beat of the new song.

He took a tug on the tiny rolled paper between his fingers and inhaled deep. The last couple of days had been a nightmare. So much coming at him, so many voices at once, and it was like once he'd let them, he couldn't get them to stop. He shivered at the pressing tendrils of nothing—and yet so very much something—that kept trying to circle into the room.

"Fuck you," he whispered, pushing them away. "Get out of here!"

They retreated, once again weaving slowly out of his mind, not at all happy with his rude welcome.

"That's right, go on. Fuck off back into whatever hole you crawled out of."

He nodded, pleased at the toughness of his voice. He sounded convincing and powerful. Right? At least a little bit? His hands were shaking when he put the joint back up to his lips though. He closed his eyes as he sucked back what little comfort the smoke would offer. This new thing, this strong unrelenting thing that was haunting them, it scared him.

It scared the shit out of him.

Let everyone else panic; he was going to nap. He never did understand why performers got themselves so caught up with the act of "preparing" for a show. One either knew the stuff or one didn't, plain and simple. So Curtis could go ahead and drum on all the pillows he wanted and Cooper could smoke his brains out and Geoff could … where the hell was Geoff anyway? Regardless, they could all do what they wanted. It wasn't going to change anything. He was more than confident they knew what they were doing, that they were prepared. After all, you could look around as many corners as you needed to. You could think through every path, and walk through every possible outcome. But eventually the time came when you just had to do it. You just had to face what was waiting for you.

The need to smash something was almost overwhelming. But something inside him kept telling him to hold on to it, to not let it go. Hold it, Geoff, hold it; gather it, store it, keep it all in.

He felt like a kid on Halloween night: arms screaming from dragging around so much candy for so long, but still trudging on, knowing this was his one and only chance and it had to last him for the whole year. So he toughed it out—yanking and dragging, gathering and holding.

He stood on the rooftop of the hotel with his guitar and played it, sans electricity, to himself and the pigeons. He liked the new song. It was calming. Soothing.

So he played it again and again. All the while holding.

Gathering, storing, holding.

He couldn't help any of them with the tension. It was a primal instinct of nature: flight or fight. At least it looked like they were sticking around for the long haul, whatever the hell that was going to be. He, on the other hand, felt elated. Maybe a little nervous—after all this was going to the first really big live show—but he was pumped nonetheless. He couldn't wait to get on stage, couldn't wait to feel the thrill of the music that would come from that kind of a crowd. Up until then it had just been the small venues, the TV shows, and the radio spots. This was going to be real; this was what is was all about. And no matter what Anton might or might not have up his sleeve, he was going to enjoy it.

He only wished August didn't seem so stressed out. He should have been the one person who felt like they had nothing left to prove. Both Anton and Morana should have learned to respect August's abilities by now. If they were smart, if the wounds on Anton's face had healed into something other than jagged scars, they wouldn't be so careless or bold as to try hurting August again. Probably.

He searched August out, trying to hear what his mind was singing, but it was odd. While normally August's song was the loudest of them all, it now rested in quiet subjugation. And he had that damn contract out again, still rereading it, still hoping something was going to jump out that he might have missed. Doren shook his head. Anton was no idiot. There was no way something as simple as a legal loophole had been left in that contract. Certainly not to their favor anyway. "Auggie, stop," he reached for and gently secured the papers in August's hands. "Can't you relax for a little while? You're making me nervous just watching you."

"Sorry, Doren," August sighed and reached for the coffee cup beside him. "I don't mean to. It's just … what are we going to do after the show? How are we just going to get up and walk away? He'll never let us get away with it."

Doren took the coffee out of August's hand and took a sip of it before claiming it as his own. "Thank you," he grinned before letting his face fall into a more serious look when he was eyed with irritation. "Just stop thinking about it. If everything goes well tonight, if we're as good as I think we're going to be, we'll have studios begging us to jump ship. And every one of those desperate headhunters comes armed with their own armies of lawyers trained for just such an occasion."

August sighed and motioned for Doren to hand him back his cup. "I know. I just wanted to hear you say it, I guess."

Doren smiled and stood, taking the coffee with him. He walked to the bathroom, turning once he got to the door. He lifted his finger and cocked it, beckoning August to follow, lifting his eyebrows a couple of times. All he got in return was a clucked tongue and a turn of head back to the contract.