ignored me. Ryder hadn’t lied—it wasn’t the most exciting process to watch. Even with the best music, hearing a riff or a strip of melody adjusted and re-adjusted became less than thrilling after the first dozen times.
Ryder, at least, seemed into it, closing his eyes as he crooned into the mic, dancing his fingers over the fret board of his guitar with the same boyish smile I’d seen that first night when he’d crashed the performance in the Catacomber. Seeing that enthusiasm again sent the same tickle of affection through me. And then a flash of heat, when he stepped closer to the window, his eyes seeking out mine.
I gave him a little wave, and the producer looked at me for the first time since I’d come in. Frowning.
I didn’t want to be responsible for distracting the star performer. And apparently I could use a little cool down. I slipped out to stretch my legs and wandered down the narrow hall that led to the two smaller studio areas. One of the studios was in use, the other vacant. I peeked inside the latter and was about to turn back when a glimmer of movement drew my gaze.
A thirty-something man dressed in janitor khakis emerged from one of the iso rooms, pushing a wide broom. But he wasn’t any janitor. His white-blond hair and pinkish skin exuded the same shimmer as the redhead who’d been staking out Ryder.
Glower.
It could have been the redhead in a different guise, but something about him—the frequency of the light that emanated from him, the tone of his movements—told me it wasn’t. So he might not be here with any particular target in mind, yet. I guessed this place made a good front for scoping out potential marks. In that uniform, it wouldn’t have been too hard to convince someone to give him access to the building.
I stepped into the live room, closing the door behind me. The Glower looked up at the click. “Just finishing up,” he said, but his voice cut off on the last syllable as he registered my expression. “Ah. Hello.”
“Do you want to just leave or are we going to have to make it a production?” I asked, folding my arms over my chest.
He gave his broom another push. “If you’re here playing guardian angel, you don’t have to worry. I’m not interested in whomever your charge is.”
“I don’t want you being ‘interested’ in anyone,” I said.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s a condition I can’t agree to.” He reached the corner and turned to look at me again. “Your kind really are unfair to mine, you should realize. Though I suppose I can understand it, circumstances being what they are. Who was it for you, who died while you watched and left you seeing ?”
My back stiffened. Of course the Glowers knew how it worked: that their final act of feeding changed something in the minds and eyes of anyone who witnessed it. It hadn’t occurred to me they gave the process much thought beyond trying to ensure there were no witnesses, though.
When I didn’t answer, he went on. “That doesn’t make the best first impression. But there’s so much more to it than that. A symbiotic relationship. An exchange of energies. We give them what they want most.”
“Obsession?” I said. “Addiction? Depression? Sorry, I’m not buying.”
He shook his head. “Inspiration. Genius. Joy. The best work of their careers.”
I’d heard that line before. It always made me think of those last few months I’d had with my dad. Of the absences and the unexpected rages and the pained distance even when he was in the same room. My throat closed up.
“You give a few hours of inspiration and then drain away all the joy it brings them for yourselves,” I said. “You leave them with nothing. A few hours for weeks of misery—you call that fair? Spare me.”
“And yet so many are glad to accept our price.” He peered at me, gray eyes shining like coins under water. “Are you simply afraid that your loved one would have made the same choice even knowing the
Ryder, at least, seemed into it, closing his eyes as he crooned into the mic, dancing his fingers over the fret board of his guitar with the same boyish smile I’d seen that first night when he’d crashed the performance in the Catacomber. Seeing that enthusiasm again sent the same tickle of affection through me. And then a flash of heat, when he stepped closer to the window, his eyes seeking out mine.
I gave him a little wave, and the producer looked at me for the first time since I’d come in. Frowning.
I didn’t want to be responsible for distracting the star performer. And apparently I could use a little cool down. I slipped out to stretch my legs and wandered down the narrow hall that led to the two smaller studio areas. One of the studios was in use, the other vacant. I peeked inside the latter and was about to turn back when a glimmer of movement drew my gaze.
A thirty-something man dressed in janitor khakis emerged from one of the iso rooms, pushing a wide broom. But he wasn’t any janitor. His white-blond hair and pinkish skin exuded the same shimmer as the redhead who’d been staking out Ryder.
Glower.
It could have been the redhead in a different guise, but something about him—the frequency of the light that emanated from him, the tone of his movements—told me it wasn’t. So he might not be here with any particular target in mind, yet. I guessed this place made a good front for scoping out potential marks. In that uniform, it wouldn’t have been too hard to convince someone to give him access to the building.
I stepped into the live room, closing the door behind me. The Glower looked up at the click. “Just finishing up,” he said, but his voice cut off on the last syllable as he registered my expression. “Ah. Hello.”
“Do you want to just leave or are we going to have to make it a production?” I asked, folding my arms over my chest.
He gave his broom another push. “If you’re here playing guardian angel, you don’t have to worry. I’m not interested in whomever your charge is.”
“I don’t want you being ‘interested’ in anyone,” I said.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s a condition I can’t agree to.” He reached the corner and turned to look at me again. “Your kind really are unfair to mine, you should realize. Though I suppose I can understand it, circumstances being what they are. Who was it for you, who died while you watched and left you seeing ?”
My back stiffened. Of course the Glowers knew how it worked: that their final act of feeding changed something in the minds and eyes of anyone who witnessed it. It hadn’t occurred to me they gave the process much thought beyond trying to ensure there were no witnesses, though.
When I didn’t answer, he went on. “That doesn’t make the best first impression. But there’s so much more to it than that. A symbiotic relationship. An exchange of energies. We give them what they want most.”
“Obsession?” I said. “Addiction? Depression? Sorry, I’m not buying.”
He shook his head. “Inspiration. Genius. Joy. The best work of their careers.”
I’d heard that line before. It always made me think of those last few months I’d had with my dad. Of the absences and the unexpected rages and the pained distance even when he was in the same room. My throat closed up.
“You give a few hours of inspiration and then drain away all the joy it brings them for yourselves,” I said. “You leave them with nothing. A few hours for weeks of misery—you call that fair? Spare me.”
“And yet so many are glad to accept our price.” He peered at me, gray eyes shining like coins under water. “Are you simply afraid that your loved one would have made the same choice even knowing the
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