Melody Burning Read online

  I’m dragged across the room by this prick, who is stronger than he looks.

  I go limp. What’s the use?

  “Melody, we’re going to give you a little sedative,” I hear him say.

  Mom nods.

  “That was probably the best session at Reynolds in history!”

  “When you wake up in the morning,” Mom says, “there will be a composer here, and tomorrow the three of us are going to start creating some music that people want to hear.”

  He takes my arm.

  “Don’t you dare touch me!”

  Then there is a pain in my shoulder and I jerk away, but it’s too late.

  Already the world is going. I can feel the covers coming up around me.

  I see the sunset out my window, red at the horizon, gold higher up.

  Then it is dark.

  CHAPTER 9

  Beresford had never felt anything like this before in his life.

  All day he had stayed in Melody’s apartment, forcing himself not to open her drawers or her closet, looking instead in the fridge at the things she ate and drank, the diet sodas, the cheese and roasted chicken, the cold cuts, the mint ice cream. He would take a taste and close his eyes and let the flavors fill his head and think, “She has tasted this taste; she knows this flavor.”

  Only when their maid had come in and cleaned had he hidden, and then just to go up his hatch and linger there, waiting for the vacuum cleaner to stop and the singing to fade away, which it did, as always, in a couple of hours.

  He had looked for his rose, but it was not there, so that meant she liked it and had it with her. Good.

  Usually, they were home late, so he wasn’t expecting the man who came when the sun was midway down the western sky. Still, it was easy to slip into the den and back up into the crawl space. He’d lain along one of the beams, listening. The man went into Melody’s room and searched it carefully. He could hear him turning pages, and he wondered if Melody kept a notebook. Why not? She could probably write and read and all that.

  When they came home, the man met them and there was yelling that made Beresford stuff his fist in his mouth so he wouldn’t shout out his own rage at whatever they were doing to her. They were breaking her heart and maybe even hurting her. He could hear the terror and the sorrow in her voice.

  Then the man put her to sleep. He’d heard that, too, had heard her scream and beg for him not to, and then her voice went low, and the man—a doctor—said she would sleep until morning.

  Beresford sweated out the minutes until the place was quiet. He was going to enter an occupied apartment again. He hadn’t been able to stop himself last night, and he couldn’t now.

  Slowly, carefully, he opened his hatch and looked down into the den closet. All was quiet. No light shone under the door. So he slipped down to the floor, then carefully slid the door open a crack.

  The den was full of shadows.

  Moving quickly and silently, he stepped out of the closet and crossed the room. There was light shining under this door, but none of the shadows revealed movement. Also, not a sound. Carefully, he grasped the doorknob and turned it.

  The hall was dimly lit by a lamp in the living room. Melody’s mom sat on the couch reading papers of some sort. She listened to soft music.

  Beresford needed to be with Melody.

  He slid silently along the wall to her door, then touched the doorknob as if it was a delicate blossom and gently turned it.

  He was in. The curtains were drawn. With three quick steps he crossed to her bedside. He could just see her in the darkness, her face glowing as if with an inner light.

  He bent closer, cupping his hands around her cheeks, not daring to touch her. He could feel her warmth and smell a faint perfume. She was so wonderful. Just so very wonderful. He drank her in with his eyes, touched the faint heat that lingered around her head, and longed for something he didn’t understand and couldn’t name but that made his whole body ache.

  Finally, he sat on the floor beside the bed. At once shaking with fear and thrilled beyond words, he leaned his head against the mattress. He could feel the faint tickle of her breath against his cheek.

  Hesitant, hardly daring, he slid his hand up until it just touched her arm.

  After a time, she sighed and shifted in the bed. When she stopped, he was already halfway across the room.

  Now she lay with a hand dangling off the edge of the bed. He crept back.

  Her face was now turned toward the wall. His heart hammering, his breath shallow and quick, he knelt beside the bed, bent forward, and kissed her cheek.

  Her skin smelled of flowers. His face close to hers, he imagined that he could send her his thoughts: “I love you with all my heart, Melody McGrath, and I give myself to you forever.”

  Her sleep continued on, undisturbed.

  He did not kiss her again, but he also did not leave.

  Sometime very late, he heard voices. It was the doctor and Melody’s mom.

  There was no time to do anything except slide under the bed. A bare second later, four feet entered the room.

  “See, she’s peaceful,” the doctor said. “It’s not the Nitrazepam anymore. It’s just natural sleep. She’ll wake up normally and feel a lot better.”

  “I don’t know if she hates me or what.”

  “Sixteen is very conflicted.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Beresford was furious. This man was supposed to be a doctor, and he sounded like one, but he shouldn’t be in the apartment this late with the patient’s mother. That was not right.

  “What am I gonna do with her?”

  “Make money, Hilda. You have two years before you lose control of her.”

  “I’ve got her album back on the charts. I’ve got her show sold out.”

  “And she’s ever so grateful.”

  “Hardly.”

  In reply, he chuckled. Then the feet came together and Beresford’s face burned, because he heard the sound of kissing.

  Finally he saw them walking out, her arm around his waist. When they were gone, he pulled himself out from under the bed—but as he did so, he heard something else.

  Listening, he froze. It was in the ceiling, a faint creaking.

  But there was a lot of wind tonight, so maybe it was the building. Nobody but him ever went in the crawl spaces.

  He resumed his vigil beside his sleeping beauty, wanting to protect her but not sure exactly how to go about it.

  As before, she breathed softly, her breath warm on his cheek when he leaned near her.

  He was just settling back down beside her bed when there was a sharp intake of breath. Before he could react, she shot up to a sitting position and her eyes opened wide. She was going to scream.

  He laid his mouth beside her ear and whispered, “Don’t scream, don’t scream, please, please, please.” In response there was a choked groan, then another. “Please, please, please . . .”

  Then, for the first time in the world, the girl he loved spoke to him. She said in whispered breath, “Who are you?”

  He raised his head and looked into the most perfect face he had ever known. His heart hammered and sweat came all over his shivering body, and he told her the truth. “I don’t remember.”

  A frown flickered in her eyes, then her lips opened slightly and her eyes glanced away. “W-what?”

  He thought she must be at the edge of total panic.

  “I guess I had a name a long time ago, but I forgot it because no one talks to me.”

  He had never in his life wanted to hug somebody as much as he wanted to hug Melody. Impulsively, he kissed the end of her nose.

  She smiled a little, but then wagged her finger in front of his face.

  “How do you get in my room?”

  “I live here.”

  “In my apartment? You live here?”

  He pointed to the ceiling. “In there. All over. I live in the Beresford.”

  She looked at him a long time, her e
yes rich with questions, her soft lips alternately touched with a smile, then trembling at the edge of fear.

  “You know you’re wearing a woman’s blouse.”

  It was a shirt he got out of the trash in an apartment, so he was not sure what this meant.

  “Yes,” he said carefully.

  “Are you a TV?”

  He was confused. Wasn’t it obvious that he was a person?

  “Do I look like a TV?”

  “No, except the blouse.”

  He looked down at himself. “It’s not a TV.” He felt it. “It’s cloth.”

  Surprise washed her face, sparkles came into her eyes.

  “What is going on here?”

  “Shh! Shh!”

  She got out of bed, swept across the room, and locked the door. “Man, I need coffee. Can you make coffee appear, magic boy?”

  “Yeah, but we better go to a vacationer.”

  Suddenly there was light! Instinct made him go for the closet, then terror swept through him like a rush of fire, because his hatch was not in there.

  She stood by the door with her hand on the light switch. She was looking at him now with frank, wide eyes. She came toward him.

  “Turn around,” she said.

  He turned slowly.

  Now her head was down, her cheeks flushing a soft pink.

  “You’re beautiful,” she said.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “You need to get out of here.”

  “I want to stay.”

  She smiled at him, which caused him to think again of the meaning of the word love. This was love. That was what he felt.

  “I want to stay because I love you.”

  She tossed her head and laughed a little in her throat, and the way that sounded made his body stir. He longed to hold her but knew from TV that if he did what he wanted, it would make her upset.

  He said, “Can we hold hands?”

  Silently, she came to him. She held out her hand. He took it. They stood face-to-face, hands clasped almost formally, and he thought there must be something else he should do, but he didn’t know what it was.

  “You kissed my cheek. That’s why I woke up. I dreamed you were a prince. Are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A beautiful boy with magical powers who wakes the sleeping beauty.”

  She raised her face to his and brushed her lips against his cheek.

  It was fire that tickled. He shuddered.

  Then she looked up at him, her eyes shining, her lips just parted. She took his chin, drew it down, and brought his lips to hers. An instant passed that was like eternity for him. But then she turned away.

  “You have to go.”

  “I want to live here now.”

  “You haven’t met my mother.”

  He did not say how well he knew her mother. He did not say how well he knew her life.

  “If she found you, she would have you arrested.”

  He’d seen that on TV. “I didn’t commit a crime.”

  “I’m still jailbait, you know. How old are you?”

  “I’m as old as you are.”

  “You’re sixteen?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “Can you count to ten?”

  “I can count to a hundred. I can read some stuff.”

  “Where do you go to school?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t. You really don’t.” She folded her arms and looked him up and down. “Do you live in an apartment? Where are your parents?”

  “Mom died. Luther killed Dad.”

  “Luther? Who is Luther?”

  “I don’t know. I just never forgot his name. He pushed Dad off the roof.”

  “My God. Did the cops come? Did they arrest this guy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This happened—when? Today?”

  He shook his head. It was so long ago now, it felt like it was at the bottom of a well. In the dark of the past. “I had to hide or Luther would get me, too. Luther would kill me.”

  “So you hid . . . where?”

  He dared not tell about his place, not even her.

  “In here.”

  “In my room? Luther killed your dad, and you hid here?”

  “Wait, wait, I’m trying to tell you. It happened when I was little.”

  “But—what? Where do you come from, then, a foster home?”

  “I come from here.”

  “I think you’d better leave now.”

  He didn’t want to. He really, really didn’t want to. “Please let me stay.”

  “If my mother found you in here—I don’t even want to think about it. Do you have any identification?”

  He threw his arms around her. “Don’t go on the roof like that again. Don’t ever!”

  She leaned against him for a moment with her full weight, and it felt so good that he said in his mind, “Never stop, never stop.” But then she did stop.

  He grabbed her hands. “Promise me.”

  “You can’t ask me that, because—you just can’t!”

  She turned away from him. He thought of the little birds that sometimes got into the crawl spaces of the upper floors. He tried to catch them, but he never could, and they died. They always died.

  She said, “You have to leave now.”

  “I can’t. I’m scared for you.”

  “Oh, Lord, now a lurker fan who lives in the walls. Where does it end?”

  “If you come back up on the roof, I’ll be there,” he said.

  “I have a balcony.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Her eyes widened and then sort of seemed to flash, and he decided that, whenever possible, he would be no more than ten feet away from her. He wanted to say “you have to live,” but it sounded selfish, so he said nothing.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and held her, and looked down into that perfect face. He knew there was a great sadness in her and realized that, at all costs, his primary mission was to save the woman he loved.

  Unable to speak, he turned from her and went quickly out the door, into the hall, and back to the den. In a moment he was up in the crawl space and racing off down the equipment chase and into the depths of the building.

  He did not see the light that followed him as he dropped down the chase, but it was there, and it carried his fate with it, a terrible fate that was thundering toward him with all the fury of an avalanche.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ohmygosh! Ohmygosh! Oh, he was beautiful, he was beautiful, he was gentle and amazing, and he lives in the walls. He lives in the walls!

  I—I—I think I should be furious—at him for breaking into my house, at this stupid building for its rotten security. I think I should sue their asses. I think somebody should call the cops and get this kid into foster care. I think the Luther thing should be followed up . . . and I think I really, really want to see him again.

  Where does he go, what does he do? Where did he go? He just suddenly walked out of the room, and I went out behind him and he was gone!

  Is he a ghost, a real ghost? No, because he kissed me. It was like how a little boy kisses you, all sloppy and hard. He was clumsy and his heart was beating like a motor, but he’s huge, way over six feet, and handsome, too, with hair that makes him look wild, and those big soulful eyes and rippling arm muscles. The way he held me, it was like he was some kind of master of dance. I just fell into his arms. He made me feel like a feather, an adored, beautiful feather. Then the kiss, and it was just darling—he had no idea what to do, he was just way out of his depth.

  And what’s with the blouse? What is that? He thought I was calling him an actual TV set, not a cross-dresser, because he must have no idea what that is.

  I am laughing so hard I have to hold my face in the pillow until I practically smother, but then I just roll around in bed imagining him in here with me. He is really strong, and I know why—because he climbs
around in this building like some kind of wonderful, beautiful phantom of the skyscraper.

  His hair is a huge, blond wave that frames his face and hangs down behind him. You can see on the sides where he cuts it, but not very well. What does he use, pinking shears?

  His face is an open window. His eyes are wide and blue-gray. He looks like everything surprises him. When I kissed him, he was so surprised that he almost collapsed.

  He’s rough but sweet, and the way he was forcing himself to hold back just thrilled me and made me feel more wanted than I’ve ever felt before—

  “Stop that preening and get dressed!”

  “Oh, Jesus! Mom, you scared me!”

  “You live for the mirror. It’s a sickness.”

  “You don’t want close-ups of my zits ending up online, do you?”

  She sighs. Her hair is in curlers; her face is so bare of makeup that her complexion looks as if she’s been drained by a vampire.

  “Feeling okay, Mom? Because you look really pale.”

  “I didn’t get much sleep.”

  “Worrying about me, of course. So, my fault,” I say sarcastically.

  “I’m glad you got some sleep, at least.”

  “I’ve been up since four. Your boyfriend’s dope didn’t work all that well, I guess.”

  “He’s a doctor, Melody.”

  “A doctor who I’d bet spent the night with his patient’s mother? I’d like to see his credentials.”

  I run to my bathroom and slam the door. I know I’m being hard on Mom, but she’s being hard on me, too. I mean, erasing my entire day of work at Reynolds? I’m expected to just forget it, I suppose, like some two-year-old who has about a thirty-second memory span.

  All I can think about is him. How did he end up in here? There was a murder and he hid, so he says. This Luther, he hid from him. Why did Luther kill his dad? Or is it all a fantasy? What if he actually does have an apartment, or is just a damn stalker who lives in the Valley and snuck in?

  No. He’s real. A wild child.