Prince from the Other Side

Chapter 9: The Real Deal

I splurged on a rideshare to the studio the next morning instead of changing the train schedules. I hugged my guitar against me as the car swerved through London traffic, trying to regulate my heartbeat and keep my breaths deep and regular. When the car slowed outside the studio, I still hadn't succeeded. I clamped my teeth together to keep them from chattering.

I could play tough in Sy's face, I was panicking. Adrenaline shook my nerves and rattled my thoughts loose. This was it. This was the chance I had come to the mortal plane to pursue. It just wasn't happening in nearly the way I'd been hoping.

Inside, there was an officious but cheerful crowd of studio assistants and executives who shepherded me into the practice room, took one look at my guitar, and instead handed me a Gibson J45—a gold standard of a guitar I'd never suspected that I'd ever hold in my hands. I was standing there, still marveling, when Sy rolled in, coffee in hand, followed by his doting entourage.

Sy was gracefully disheveled, his long dark hair pushed back and his dark eyes shadowed with weariness. What had he gotten up to last night? In black jeans and a class band t-shirt, he looked like a kid showing up late for class and deeply unbothered.

He raised a heavy dark brow when he saw me. “Punctual. Would you look at that."

His greeting was predictably sour, but I could tell he had been hoping I wouldn't turn up at all. That I would break my manager's promise and turn myself into the villain. I gave him a triumphant smile.

“I do my best," I said acidly. Opportunity be d*mned. I refused to suck up to this a**hole. I would rather die in obscurity.

“Well hopefully you also prepped," Sy sneered. I saw uncomfortable looks flying between the studio attendants and Sy's crew members. So he wasn't always like this…At least he was making a fool of himself too.

Set up was fast: this wasn't a recording session, so most of the preparation was checks on tuning and triple-confirming that Sy didn't want any water or coffee or whatever. I expected them to offer caviar next.

I didn't like the person Sy made me into: or rather, the person hating Sy made me into. I was tense, mean, and ungracious when Sy was involved. Was that just a symptom of our natural antipathy? Or some deeper failure in me? I should be stronger than this. But as I watched Sy settle onto his stool opposite me, nestling his guitar against his knee, I couldn't control the roil of anger in the pit of my stomach. How did I end up here? How had I failed to escape?

Sy's producer, a skinny Black man with a surgically-precise fade, tried to inject a bit of cheer into his voice, despite the palpable tension. “Start from the top—A duet cover of 'Bloody Blooms.'"

It was one of Sy's top-charting songs, a soft melodious number about two lovers reuniting as ghosts on a dark moor.

“Count us in," I said, playing calm. “I'll come in after the first verse. Give you the spotlight."

I smiled bitterly at him, showing him I was up to playing this game just as well as he was.

Sy closed his eyes, settling into the silent flow of the music as he thumped one, two, three, four times on the body of his guitar. I watched the rings on his hands flash as they jumped into movement, striking soft chords up and down with powerful strokes across the strings. The Unseelie magic roiled to life, raw and close. I steeled my stomach and tapped my foot to the beat, breathing with deliberate patience through the opening verse.

I waited until the precise moment, then strummed and opened my mouth to join him in song for the first chorus:

“Don't go on without me,

My heart is still rooted here

Where they planted us together

Pine boxes under heather

Twin grisly souvenirs

Bones and all, thee and me."

As our voices mingled in the melody, the magic struck without warning. It wasn't Seelie or Unseelie. It was something entirely new.

The glow of my magic mingled with the ripe, rotten sense of his and became…different. The sense of it was golden—golden like fresh autumn air, like the rich sense of decaying leaves in an October forest. I felt it coursing beautifully through me. I didn't have to think about the strum pattern or the lyrics.

The song was singing me, not the other way around, like a train on the tracks and momentum carrying me forward.

It was more powerful magic than I'd ever felt playing music. This magic was bigger than me, stronger than me. It was wonderful. It was beyond wonderful.

It was perfect.

And what was more, I sensed Sy on the other side of it: the full, rich magic of him, the sense of rot and rust, chaos and darkness. But in this moment of union and balance, all of that was beautiful, weighed in perfect measure with the bright clarity of my magic, the sunshine brilliance and vivid life of Seelie sorcery. Sy, in this instant, was perfect. Was needed. Was gorgeously present. All at once, I couldn't imagine singing without him ever again.

As the last note faded, as our voices flexed together into the final trembling syllable, I saw Sy's dark eyes flash open. The shock there was real. He was staring at me in utter shock.

I stared back at him, at a loss. I heard a sniffling from the assembled entourage. His manager had tears rolling down his face. The studio crew wasn't faring much better. One of them was blinking rapidly over bloodshot eyes, trying to hide the fact that he'd been bawling just a few moments before.

I'd never had that effect with my music. And by the look on Sy's face, this was a new experience for him as well.

“Jeez," whispered the manager. “That was…that was…I have zero notes on that. Absolutely zero…"

He trailed off and then, all at once, everyone in the practice room erupted in applause. Exuberant, honest applause.

After a long, stunned moment, Sy raised one hand for silence.

“I'd like to talk to my new costar," he said, without the sarcastic bite this time. “Privately."

The room emptied in an obedient rush, and before I had even regained my breath, I was facing Sy Dage. Alone.

There was a fresh softness in his dark eyes. A defensiveness had dropped away. I knew my chilly facade must have abandoned me too. His face was open, clear surprise and admiration as he looked at me.

“I…saw you through the music." When he said 'saw,' I understood: he'd sensed me as I'd sensed him. The balance. The beauty. I couldn't understand it. I'd almost puked last night, awash in his Unseelie energy. But together, joined…It was nothing short of miraculous. Thrilling. “What…What did you do?"

“I just sang," I said quietly. “Did you…You didn't do that?"

“No," he said. “I don't even know what 'that' was. Besides that it was…"

“Wonderful," I finished breathlessly.

“Hester," Sy murmured, hesitant for the first time. “I think…I think this is good. Beyond good. I think we found something new."

I stared at him, lost for words, but I knew my expression said it all. We'd discovered a new magic. A magic on the forbidden border of the Seelie and Unseelie. A magic neither of us had any control over…But one that I knew we could never give up.