A Symphony of Thanks: A Fight Song Holiday Special

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers! I want to start doing some holiday specials featuring characters from different works of mine, and we're starting today. I hope you enjoy!

 A Symphony of Thanks

People say city streets are chaotic, and they're right. But the busiest street has nothing on my family's kitchen on Thanksgiving morning.

By all rights, no one should have room to move in here. Every inch is packed with people; the oven and the counters and the table are all full of food, already prepared or being prepared or ready to be prepared. But somehow, everyone manages, weaving through like dancers on a crowded stage. No one's rehearsed this, but everyone somehow is where they need to be when they need to be there.
Me, I mostly stay where I am: up to the elbows in flower, mixing or kneading or cutting a steady stream of bread products: buttermilk biscuits, sweet potato biscuits, drop biscuits, and about a million dinner rolls. You'd think we were feeding the whole town with the list Mom gave me, but I'm not complaining. I'd rather knead than mash potatoes and risk catching the blame if they aren't exactly buttery enough. And from here, I can enjoy the music of the morning.

Even without my special gift, I don't think I could miss the way all the noise and movement of the kitchen blends into a song. The thump of kneading dough and the constant pat-pat of feet and the snick-chop of knives through vegetables and the chatter of voices form the rhythm and melody of a particular kind of music. And the songs that only I hear, one and two and three-note hums and melodies, each attached to something or someone in the kitchen, fill out the song's harmony.

The sound of the knife stops, and Uhjin calls out, "Vegetables are all cut and in the pan! What now?"
Mom doesn't even look up from the stuffing she's mixing up. "There's oil and spices already mixed up in a bowl by Callie. Coat the vegetables and then put them in the oven. Thank you!"

Uhjin obeys. It's thanks to her that I made it down here. Between classes and my secret life as the superhero Songbird, I've had to cut back on work hours and wasn't sure if I'd have the cash for a bus ticket home. But Uhjin hadn't wanted to make the drive back to her home in California, and my family didn't mind having an extra person for the holiday, so she'd traded a seat in her car for a Thanksgiving somewhere other than our apartment. It's a good thing she's not the sort to keep track of favors, or I'd owe her for a lot by now.

The rest of the family — two sets of grandparents, five aunts (not including the three staying with us and already in the kitchen), an equal number of uncles, and too many cousins — arrive just as I slip my second-to-last pan of rolls into the oven. They trail an assortment of other people who I think might be attached to my cousins and the youngest aunt in some fashion, or who might just be people from church who heard about our feast and talked Mom into inviting them over. Either is possible. Mom greets them, directs the adults to wherever the food they've brought needs to be, and sends the kids to set the various tables crammed into the dining room, living room, and sunroom.

The movement that is dinner preparation climaxes with Dad's entrance into the kitchen, bearing in oven-mitted hands a turkey wrapped in foil. He's been in and out, checking on the birds in his new smoker, since yesterday afternoon. The lack of sleep shows around his eyes, but he's smiling anyway as he proclaims, "The turkeys are done! Just let me get the other one."

Mom wipes her hands on a dishtowel. "Just in time. Callie, Uhjin, start taking all this out to the buffet. Jen —" this is to one of my aunts — "Help them."

But Uhjin and I aren't waiting for help. We each grab a pan and a basket of biscuits or rolls and hurry out to the dining room. The buffet stand, normally a repository for neatly arranged miscellanea, has been cleared for the occasion, and a fold-out plastic table is set up next to it. Both are already well-stocked with food brought by the family, but I've been practicing this ever since I was twelve and Mom handed the responsibility over to me. With Uhjin, Jen, and a few helpful cousins to carry the food out to me, I find each thing its place, layering similar dishes so when one runs out, the one behind it can easily take its place, putting the kid favorites near the front, and ensuring that Gramma's pecan pie is the least accessible dessert on the table so I can be sure of getting a big slice.

With everything set and ready, there's a confused interlude as people find seats and younger cousins argue about who gets to sit at the adult tables and who's stuck at the kids' table. I roll my eyes at them. Uhjin and I, my younger sister, and the cousins closest to me in age have already staked out the lower end of the adult table for our own, guaranteeing prime conversation and space for games later.

This second movement of the symphony of Thanksgiving officially begins with Grampa's prayer of thanks. We all dutifully stand, heads bowed and hands clasped on the backs of chairs, and then wait longer as the younger cousins get the first pick of food. And then we're released to move through the line and heap our plates with smoked turkey, mashed potatoes, Gramma's trademark cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, stuffing, sweet potato casserole, and more. Every dish on the buffet has its own melody that blends the notes of its ingredients, and to me, a loaded plate sounds like a whole orchestra — admittedly, one playing six or seven different tunes at once.

Between bites, my cousins and I trade news of college and jobs and clubs and friendships. Liz and I tease each other, like we always do, over our respective romantic relationships — the variety of boys at her college all competing for her attention and the fact that I have yet to have a successful date. She and Uhjin hit it off immediately, unsurprisingly.

As we move from dinner to dessert and I steal Gramma's pie to share out among my set, Grampa taps his fork on his glass to call for our attention. "I think we all know what happens now, but I'll remind y'all in case anyone's forgotten. It's time for us all to take a break from enjoying this delicious meal and remember what we're all thankful for. Meri —" he smiles at Gramma, who's seated beside him — "would you like to start?"

Gramma raises her glass. "Thanks be to God for my family and another year to enjoy them!"

Those closest to her cheer, and the next person speaks, and the next and the next. All of them mention normal things: family, faith, friendships, a new job, a new home. Then it comes to Mom. "I'm thankful that we could all be here together for the holiday, and I'm thankful that Callie is still safe and didn't get mixed up in all the hullabaloo up at her college this summer."

I squirm in my seat. I might not have told Mom and Dad much about my work to track down Welsh, but they'd run articles about the trial all the way down here. With the way Mom fussed over just that, it was probably better that she didn't know that I'd been the one to bring Welsh to justice — or that I was still out on the streets in the guise of Songbird.

Thankfully, no one else mentioned anything about me or the trial as the thanks-giving moved down the table. Eventually, it made its way around to me. I grinned at Uhjin, already knowing what I was going to say. "I'm thankful for my wonderful, patient roommate who got me down here and for all the new friends I've made since last spring." In particular, for Jonathan and Starlight, without whom I literally would have died, but no one needed to know that.

The meal drew to a close and the song of the holiday transitioned to a quieter sonata. The cousins and Uhjin and I abandoned the table, stuffed full of good food, to enjoy Uno and Codenames and whatever other card games we could find all the cards for. Relatives napped on couches or cleared the table and packed up leftovers or chatted over the now-clean table while the younger cousins ran wild, burning off all the energy they'd gained from the meal. This was my favorite part of any holiday, the quiet melody of peaceful togetherness.

But every symphony ends. Aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins trickled gradually out, headed home to sleep and prepare for the start of the Christmas season tomorrow. Liz was one of the last to leave, squeezing in one last game of Dirty Uno with Uhjin and I before her parents finally threatened to make her walk home. So, she hugged us both and then departed, muttering about how she should've driven herself.

And then it was just Uhjin and my parents and siblings and I, and the three aunts who were staying with us. Uhjin and I retreated to my room; her to read and me to practice. The sky had darkened; the chaos of the morning calmed to quietness; the symphony reduced to a few quiet melodies. But while it lasted, the symphony of the holiday had itself been something to be thankful for.

Fight Song Chapter 22

Guys, it's over. Last week, Callie finally faced down Welsh once and for all. And this week? This is the very last chapter of Fight Song. And I'd just like to say thank you all for reading my novella, for commenting, and for generally being awesome. Also, thanks for the girls over at the Teenage Superhero Society for letting me borrow their characters throughout the novella. I really enjoyed getting back into the world of Foundry City for a bit. 

Anyway. Enjoy the last chapter. As always, if you have any comments, questions, critiques, or suggestions on the chapter or the whole story, I'd love to hear them. Thanks again for sticking with Callie and me all this time!

Chapter 22: Four Weeks Later

I met Jonathan at the Starbucks down the street from the courthouse an hour before I needed to be inside. I’d become increasingly familiar with this area over the last week since Welsh’s trial began. Usually, of course, I came here as Songbird, talking about my investigation or my confrontation with Welsh. But today I was just Callie, one of my own star witnesses, one of only three people to see Welsh’s murders in person and live to tell the tale.

Starbucks was crammed full, but Jonathan sat at a table by the door, easy to spot. He stood and held out a tall green cup as I approached. “Don’t sit down.”

“Hello to you too, Jonathan.” I took the cup and sipped the rich, dark liquid. Jonathan had gotten me his fancy Kenyan coffee again, this time with caramel and cinnamon and no cream. I think I might be addicted. “Why am I not sitting?”

“Because you’re going to be sitting for at least four hours after this, and this place is crowded.” Jonathan dodged around me and headed for the door. “There’s a park down the street; we’ll go there.”
He had two very valid points, so I followed him out and down the busy street. All the same, his being right didn’t stop me from giving him a teasing grin. “You’ve gotten bossy since you became a big-shot reporter, you know that?”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “I’m not that big-shot. Not like Mr. Keller.”

“Uh-huh. And whose name is under half the headlines on the Herald’s front page for the last several weeks?” I nudged him with my elbow. “Mr. Big-Shot Reporter Jonathan Davis, covering the arrival of a new superhero in town and, what did you call it? ‘The biggest crime and trial that Foundry City’s seen in decades,’ wasn’t it?”

“Well, it helps that the new superhero in question gives me precedence every time she talks to reporters. Almost like she’s trying to use her time in the spotlight to give my career a boost too.” Jonathan grinned back. “And being an eyewitness to most of the investigation and the final battle doesn’t hurt either.”

“I bet.” We reached the park, a small area of grass and trees with a playground off to one side. I lowered my voice slightly, though the heat meant most people were avoiding the outdoors.

“Starlight’s still annoyed that I involved you, by the way. The other night, when I went out— I don’t know if she actually came looking for me or if she just ran into me, but she definitely told me off.” I paused, recalling her exact words. “She said that if I wanted to ‘collaborate with the press,’ that was my business and my risk to take, but endangering civilians was the last thing any good super should be doing. Not exactly in those words, but you get the idea.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his own coffee. “And you told her?”

“That you figured out who I was on your own, had helped me through the entire investigation, and would keep the secrets I asked you to keep. Also, that you knew the risks and wouldn’t have stayed away from the confrontation even if I tried to make you.” I sighed. “She let it go after that, thank goodness.”

“She’s probably glad to have another person on patrol, whatever she thinks of the company you keep.” Jonathan adjusted the strap of his satchel. “By the way, do your parents know about . . . all this?”

“They know what I told them, so basically what’s in the papers. They don’t know about Songbird. And they aren’t going to. They worry enough as it is.” A pair of teens on bikes passed us, and we stepped aside to let them by. “And if they found out . . . they’d try to make me stop. And I don’t want to deal with that. Not now that I’ve finally found the courage to do what I was meant to do.”

“Ah. Probably safer for them that way too.” Jonathan fell silent, and we walked and sipped our drinks until we reached the edge of the park. There we stopped, shaded by trees on either side of the path.
“So.” I finally broke the silence. “How are you doing? Personally, I mean, not with the papers?”
“I’m fine.” Jonathan shrugged. “Keeping busy. Trying to figure out what I’ll do after I no longer have all this to consume my life. What about you? Are you feeling ok still?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Not dead yet.” The first couple days, I’d felt so exhausted that I struggled to summon even a zombie-like amount of energy, and I’d been seriously terrified that Welsh had killed me after all. But a third day had passed, and a fourth, and my energy returned, so I figured I’d probably escaped. “I still have nightmares sometimes. Not as bad as the first week, but occasionally. I came so close to just giving up . . . it scared me.”

“But you didn’t give up,” Jonathan says. “You kept fighting. That’s the important part.”

“Right. Thank God for that.” I mean it. The more I think about it, the more sure I am that the fact that I could sing amidst the Death Song was an outright miracle.

We started walking again, headed towards the courthouse. I took another drink of coffee before asking, “What do you think will happen to Welsh?”

“My guess would be the death penalty. With our evidence; your, Ana, and Uhjin’s testimonies; and what the court’s telepath found . . . there’s no denying that he’s guilty.” Jonathan shook his head. “At the very least, he’ll face life with no bail. All Welsh’s money and power can’t erase how many lives he’s taken.”

“No.” I expected to feel glad to Jonathan’s prediction that Welsh will die for his crimes, but instead, it’s just . . . satisfaction. I can’t be glad that the Death Song will play again, even for one who wielded it so cruelly. But I’m satisfied that I’ve done what I’ve set out to do and that he won’t be able to kill another man.

Jonathan nudged me, and I realized I’d zoned out. “Hey, Callie?”

I looked over at him. “Yeah?”

“Now that this is over . . .” Jonathan made a vague gesture in the general direction of the courthouse. “Will Songbird stick around?”

“Yes.” I smiled, glancing not towards the courthouse but towards my apartment and the streets I’ve taken to patrolling between here and there. “This is who she is. I know that now. Her songs were always meant to be fight songs— and I wouldn’t change that. Not for anything."

Fight Song Chapter 21

Hello, everyone! Last time on Fight Song, Callie's faceoff against Welsh finally began. It continues— and ends— this week. But who will come out the winner? Read on to find out! As always, comments, critiques, questions, and suggestions are more than welcome.

Chapter 21: Ending

            The man, shocked, lost his grip on Jonathan, who tumbled to the side. No one but me seemed to notice; they were all, even Welsh, fixated on Starlight as she leapt from the motel roof and slid down sheer air to the ground. I stood and glanced at her. “What took you so long?”

            “You seemed to have it under control.” Starlight surveyed the scene. “Are we finishing this?”

            “We are.” With that, I tucked my violin beneath my chin once more and started to play and hum at once— controlled fire and indiscriminate air together. The four men nearest me gasped for breath; the one who wanted Jonathan’s camera, who’s just pulled a knife, yelled as his blade and glove abruptly heat up and then burst into flames.

            Two of the four dropped to the ground unconscious; the other two were nearly there. Starlight turned the red-hot blade of the camera-lover into vapor. “Deal with Welsh. I’ll handle these.”

            “Thanks!” I walked forward, closing the distance between myself and Welsh, switching songs. Now my violin wove air and heat, and I hummed asphalt. I tugged at Welsh’s breath, softened the ground beneath him, heated his suit jacket until it smoked— not quite burning, not yet. I needed to provoke him, needed to put him on the offensive.  If this went wrong, I’d die— maybe not for nothing, but dead is dead. But if I didn’t take the risk, I had no chance to win.

            Welsh’s hands tightened into fists, and he spoke, his voice full of power even when he was half-gasping. “Stop.” And I did, freezing mid-note. Welsh took a moment to catch his breath and then beckoned. “Come.”

            Again, I obeyed. Out of instinct, I fought the command, but my legs walked forward all the same. Just as well that Welsh gave me no choice to back out or lose my resolve.

            I stopped directly in front of him. He pointed downwards. “Drop the violin.”

            I cringed at that more than I had at walking to my probable death, but my hands moved of their own accord, letting violin and bow fall to the ground. I winced again when Welsh stepped on the neck of the violin, snapping it in two. “You—!”

            “Quiet,” Welsh snapped. My mouth shut at once. “Kneel.”

            I dropped to my knees, unable to do otherwise. Welsh shoved my hood back and grabbed the back of my neck. “Your gift is strong, little songbird. You fought well. But now your fight is done. You lose.”

            And then the pain began.

            Ana spoke of excruciating, soul-sucking pain. But even that description fell short of the reality. I could not move. I could not think. I could not even breathe, let alone sing.

              And why would I want to? I was a fool to try to fight. A fool to think I could win. Welsh was right; my fight was over. The Death Song filled my ears, blocking out all other melodies. For the first time, I realized that there was a certain beauty in the midst of the corruption, even with the twisted anti-notes: the beauty of destruction, of endings, of the wild, reckless storm and the crunch of dry, brown leaves underfoot.

            I wanted to let go. To lose myself in those not-notes and understand how they could form beauty from horror, knowing that the pain would stop. That everything would stop. The long nights. The uncertainty. The weariness. The doubts. The loneliness that I know will only grow with the path I’ve chosen. It will all stop.

            But then, faintly, I heard something beyond the Death Song. I heard Jonathan, starting to yell my name and then correcting himself to “Songbird!” midway through. I heard Starlight, ordering me to pull myself together. And in my memory, I heard Uhjin telling me not to die; I heard Ana telling me to finish this, to end the killings.

            I couldn’t let go. Couldn’t give up. That had never been an option. I had fought too long and made too many promises for that. Even if I failed in the end, I had to try.

            “God help me,” I whispered, or thought I whispered. I couldn’t tell. I struggled to remember the anti–Death Song; to pull back from the song enough to hear the whole— a whole that was corrupted, no matter what beauty it might hide. “God, help.”

            I clenched my hands into fists, dug my nails into my palms so hard I felt them through my gloves. For a moment, the anti-notes of the Death Song merged enough that I could match it with what I had heard before. I seized that, recalled what I had practiced again and again, and forced the first notes past my lips. My voice cracked; I took a breath and tried again, singing one note, then another. I paused again; adjusted to match note to note and beat to beat. Started again.

            My performance would’ve earned me an F from any of my music professors, but I heard the Death Song waver ever so slightly with every note I sang. I felt its grip loosen enough that I could breathe, and I continued to sing. If nothing else, my song pushed me out of the center of the anti-song and allowed me to hear it as I had before: the jarring, mind-rending not-notes twisted together in a mockery of true music.

            Now I could fight. I adjusted again and heard the Death Song stutter and jar and skip. It became weaker, not fading altogether, but taking longer and longer to recover after each break. I’ve won this. Thank God, I’ve won this.

            Welsh’s grip on my neck tightened; his voice rose above the battling melodies. “What are you doing? Stop! Stop!”

            His voice froze my throat and my tongue, and the Death Song surged, filling my ears and mind again. But I felt sudden wetness above me, and Welsh’s control of me wavered and vanished, and my song burst from my lips again, stronger than before. The Death Song wavered, skipped, cracked, starting to fade.

            Then I heard the sirens and felt Welsh pull his hand away as quick as if he’d been burned. With his power no longer feeding it, the Death Song splintered, broke, and was silent. I looked up, breathing deep now that I no longer had to sing, and saw Welsh turn to run.

            But two police cards, lights flashing like Fourth of July, pulled up at the end of the side street. Another two covered the far end of the alley. Blue-uniformed officers climbed out of the cars, guns held ready. One called through a megaphone: “Stay where you are, and put your hands up!”

            Welsh stopped and raised his hands to chest level. “Officers, I’m glad you’re here. This young woman has wrongly accused me of multiple crimes and attempted to murder me; I barely managed to defend myself.”

            “Actually, officers—” Jonathan stood up from where he’d taken cover behind a trash can and held up his iPhone. “My name is Jonathan Davis, reporter for the Herald. I believe you’ll find that Mr. Welsh is not in the least the victim. I recorded the whole fight, and—”

            “Stop.” Welsh hissed out the word.

            Jonathan froze midway to the officers, the phone still in his hand. Welsh turned to the officer who seemed to be in charge. “Officer, this reporter has been hounding my offices for weeks, searching for a scandal. He is not to be relied upon.”

            “I don’t plan to rely on him, only his footage, Mr. Welsh. And now I suggest you keep your mouth shut; the effects of your tongue are unfortunately incriminating.” The officer turned to Jonathan. “Jonathan Davis, you say? I read your article on the immigration protests a couple weeks back. Well done. I’ll take that phone now; you’ll get it back once we’re done with the footage.” He took Jonathan’s phone and then looked past Welsh to Starlight. “Starlight, ma’am, I received a call saying that you and another superhero were fighting this man and several others. Is that true?”

            Starlight stood in the center of a group of unconscious, injured, and otherwise restrained men, arms crossed and not even breathing hard. “That is accurate, officer. However, I suggest you speak to my associate.” She nodded in my direction. “This is her business; I’m just lending a hand.”

Her associate? Who . . . Oh. Me. I stood; swayed; nearly fell back down. “Oh—” I stumbled a few steps to the right until I could balance myself with a hand on a convenient lamppost. Great. So much for looking capable and in-control. “Right. Yes. Um.” Focus, Callie. “Right. Officers, for some time now, I have been tracking down a murderer— a serial killer, in fact—and all evidence points to this man.” I pointed to Welsh. “I confronted him, offering him a chance to turn himself in and hope for a lighter sentence. He refused and attacked me and my—” Can’t say partner; Jonathan’s not a super, so I borrow Starlight’s word— “my other associate, Mr. Davis, who had been assisting me in my investigation. He then attempted to kill me using the same power he did for his other victims, and he would have succeeded had I not found a way to fight that power using my own.”

I indicated Jonathan. “As he said, he has footage of the whole thing on his phone, and the first part of my interaction with Welsh, including the part where Welsh ordered his men to assault J— Mr. Davis, was also recorded on another camera. The memory card for that is in the pockets of one of Welsh’s men. Aaaaand there should be a third camera somewhere around here, but Mr. Davis could tell you better than I could where.”

The officer raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite a few cameras, Miss . . .?”

“Songbird. And, yes, that would be the point— so that if I died, there would be some record of how and why.” Despite my best efforts, I found myself leaning more and more on the lamppost to keep from falling over. “And I’ll be happy to give you a more complete statement once Welsh is in custody, but as I’m pretty sure I mentioned, I very nearly died a moment ago, and I think I need a place to sit down maybe.” I paused. “And coffee. Definitely coffee.”

Fight Song Chapter 20

Hello, everyone! Happy Independence Day to all my fellow American readers! Last time on Fight Song, Callie put the final pieces of her plan in place and gained an unxpected ally. This time, well, let's just say that the exciting part has officially begun! Enjoy! As always, any comments, critiques, questions, or suggestions are welcome.

Chapter 20: Confrontation

            With my confrontation with Welsh less than two days away, I found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything else. My fellow worship band members commented the next morning on how distracted I seemed, and at work on Monday, I ended up stocking a whole display with the wrong yarn because I was so busy planning for that night. Welsh hadn’t responded to the email, but surely he would show up, wouldn’t he? Surely he couldn’t risk ignoring it altogether, not when I’d shown him that I had evidence against him. And he couldn’t afford to go to the authorities himself either, not when that might mean they’d decide to look into the activities I claimed to know about. He had to come meet me, if only— in his mind— so he could silence me for good.

            But what if he didn’t?

            The thought nagged at me no matter how much I tried to convince myself that it would never happen. I could take what Jonathan and I had found to the police, yes. Maybe it, along with my and Uhjin and Ana’s testimonies, would be enough after all. But I still feared it wouldn’t be, not without something to arouse their suspicion in the first place.

            Monday afternoon arrived at last. Uhjin was the first to move into position, leaving just after dinner. She gave me an annoyed look as she slung her overnight bag over her shoulder. “Are you sure I have to leave this early? I’ll be waiting for hours; it’ll be so boring.”

            “The hotel has WiFi. And you’re the one who wanted to help. If you get in any later, Welsh might notice and get suspicious. And yes, it does have to be you in the motel room; you’re the only one with a car that has out-of-state plates.” I opened the door for her. “Remember, your job is to take video and call the police, and that’s it.”

            “I know. I’m not stupid.” Uhjin sighed. “Be careful, ok? Don’t die; I don’t have time to break in a new roommate.”

            “I’ll do my best.” I managed to grin. “See you later.”

            “See you.” She headed out and down the stairs to the parking lot. I breathed a sigh of relief. Masquerading as a student on a summer road trip, she should be safe from Welsh’s notice. And during the fight, she’d be in a motel room with a window overlooking our meeting place, at least if all went to plan. There’d be next to no chance that she’d be connected with us. She’d run next to no risk, and, from a more pragmatic view, if anything went wrong, she’d have it on film so perhaps my death would still result in Welsh’s conviction.

            With Uhjin gone, I was left alone to wait for the right time to leave the apartment. I practiced my songs and tried to catch an hour or two of sleep before the long night that was coming. At nine o’clock, Jonathan texted to let me know that he and his cameras were in position. I didn’t envy him; his was arguably the riskiest and least comfortable part of the plan. He’d be waiting for another two hours in whatever hiding spot he’d chosen, and if Welsh showed up early and discovered him before I arrived, well, he’d have no way to defend himself. I prayed he wouldn’t be discovered.

            I gave up on trying to sleep and turned solely to practice. I ran through all the songs I thought I’d need— concrete, air, light, fire, steel, my best approximation of the Anti–Death Song, then checked and double-checked that my violin was tuned and that all the strings were in good condition. They were and I returned to practicing, making sure I could either play or sing every song on my list for the night.

            At ten o’clock, I grabbed my stuff and headed out the door. I stopped on the way to change clothes in a bus station restroom and made it to the alley with twenty minutes to spare. I didn’t see Jonathan when I arrived, but I also didn’t see signs of some kind of struggle. And surely Uhjin would’ve let me know if anything had happened?

            I found a spot of my own in the shadows to sit and wait and drink the coffee I’d brought— instant, almost black with just a hint of cinnamon, as strong as I can make it. I’d told Welsh eleven, but who knew if he’d show up then? Maybe he’d come early or late, just to try to throw me off guard.

            Sure enough, at six past eleven, a grey Jaguar rolled into the motel lot and parked at the near edge. Welsh climbed out of the passenger seat, crossed the strip of grass separating the lot and the alley, and glanced around, his gaze lingering a moment longer on the spot where I sat.

            I stood, leaving my thermos behind, and stepped out into the light of a streetlamp. I had to resist the urge to adjust my mask, even though I’d just checked it. I needed to appear in control. “Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Welsh.” I’d aimed for cool, calm formality, something that would let him know he wasn’t in charge of this meeting, but make him think he could be.

            Welsh looked me up and down, his eyebrow raised slightly. “I wasn’t aware that supers blackmailed people.”

            “This isn’t a blackmail attempt. This is an offer of mercy.” I looked him dead in the eye. “I know what you’ve done. You know I know it. And so I’m making an offer: confess your crimes. Turn yourself in. Maybe you’ll get a lighter sentence. Otherwise, I’ll drag you to the police myself and make sure you get the punishment you deserve.”

            “Will you?” Welsh laughed. “I don’t think so. If you had enough evidence to take me to court, we wouldn’t be standing here now. And, in the case that you do and you’re simply an idiot . . .” He gestured. Three men climbed out of the Jaguar; another three appeared from the shadows at the far end of the alley. “I came prepared.”

            I unhooked my bow from my violin strap and raised my instrument to my chin. “So you intend to fight.”

            “No, I intend to make sure you and your friend don’t leave this place alive. And if I can use your power to strengthen myself, even better.” Welsh pointed to the side, around the back of the stores next to the motel. “There’s someone in there. Get him.”

            Two men started towards the spot. No! How does he . . . No time to wonder. I set my bow to the strings, and the air song spilled from my violin to draw the air from the men’s lungs. But before I’d finished three notes, the other four men drew pistols; took aim. I changed the intent of my song just in time, and the bullets smacked into a wall of brick-solid air.

            Shouts drew my attention back to the first two men— and Jonathan. I glanced back; the two men dragged him, struggling, from the shadows. He got in a lucky kick and one man doubled over, but the other took the opportunity to knock his head into the wall. I winced, but there wasn’t much I could do— not until I dealt with those pistols.

            As one man pulled Jonathan over to Welsh, I began humming the air song I was using for the barrier. At the same time, I slowly transitioned the melody on my violin to a different tune— sharper, more solid. I’d tried this once before, but then I hadn’t had the right instrument. Now, with my violin, I had a chance.

            Welsh glanced down scornfully at Jonathan. “Poor backup you’ve brought, super. He can’t even— wait.” He scowled. “I know you. You’re that reporter that kept nosing around my offices.”

            Jonathan smiled crookedly. “Guilty as charged. Er, I’d rather you not kill me, though. My family’s expecting me to call tomorrow. My mother’s birthday and all.”

            That’s right. Keep him busy. I continued to play and hum, focusing on the pistols Welsh’s men carried. Keep them all occupied a little longer. 

            “I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that. You made your choice already. But, I wonder . . .” He looked to the man whom Jonathan had hit. “There will be a camera somewhere near where you found him. Find it.”

            Done. I abruptly stopped both my playing and humming and lunged towards the man. “Stop! You can’t—”

            All four of the men with pistols shot at once. I dropped to the ground. And four pistol barrels, sealed shut by my song, blew apart.

            Shards of metal and pieces of pistol exploded into the air. One man fell back clutching his eye; another stumbled forward, a half-dozen pieces of metal in his leg. A third dropped his gun, at least one wrist clearly broken from the force of the explosion. Not one of them, apparently, had noticed what I’d done to their weapons.

            The man sent for the camera had escaped damage; he ducked out of Jonathan’s hiding spot with the fancy DSLR in his hands. “Found it.”

            “Get the card, leave the camera,” Welsh ordered, apparently unfazed by the fact that I’d just taken half his men out of commission. “Then get the girl.”

            “Yes, sir.” The man popped the memory card out expertly, then, with a regretful look, set the camera down. “Don’t suppose I could keep the camera? I could use a backup.”

            “Do what you want.” Welsh turned to the man holding Jonathan. “Kill him.”

            The man nodded. He pulled out a pistol and checked it, only to find that it, too, had been sealed shut by my song. With a frustrated growl, he shoved it back into its holster and drew a switchblade instead. Jonathan struggled in the man’s grasp. “C— Songbird?”

            Darn it darn it darn it please God no. I pushed myself up and started singing air, all too aware that it probably wouldn’t take effect in time. Then, three things happened at the same time. The man slashed his blade at Jonathan’s throat. Jonathan managed to jerk slightly to the right. And, at the last possible second, the knife turned to liquid and dripped to the street.

            Starlight had officially arrived.

Fight Song Chapter 19

Last time on Fight Song, Callie hit the streets again— this time masked, costumed, and with a new name: Songbird. This week, she finds what she's been looking for— and, unsurprisingly, trouble along with it. Once again, our guest character appears by permission of her creator. Also, many thanks to that creator for helping me sort out certain aspects of this scene. 

As always, comments, critiques, questions, and suggestions are welcome. I apologize for the fact that I haven't been responding to comments as much as I normally would. Blogger's stopped notifying me of new comments, and I'm still trying to figure out how to fix the issue. Thanks for your patience in the meantime.

Chapter 19: Song and Star

            That night found me on the streets again, mask in place and violin in hand. I plucked a quiet song as I walked, forcing just enough light to go around me to hopefully render me almost invisible. In the shifting shadows of the street, it seemed to mostly work. A few people peered uncertainly in my direction, but the majority didn’t notice me at all. The pair of violent drunks who I chased away from a scared-looking young woman certainly didn’t, nor did the would-be car thieves whose tools became suddenly hot in response to my song— they remained unaware until I changed my tune and suddenly appeared, too close for comfort and already attacking.

            Yet midnight came and went, and my chances of finding Starlight seemed slimmer and slimmer. Finally, weariness overpowered my hopes, and I turned towards home, still picking out my illusion melody. After playing it for hours on end, I was starting to wonder if its advantages were really worth the tedium.

            Then, just as I was approaching the overpass near the park, a scream ripped through the night from under the bridge. I immediately dashed down the slope towards the sound. What’s going on? My sneakers skidded on the slope of grass and rocks, but I caught my balance just in time and made the rest of the descent more carefully.

            At the bottom, I found the source of the scream: a girl surrounded by a group of four men. One had her pinned against an overpass pillar, one hand on her chest and the other at her waist, while the others cheered him on. I scowled. Beasts. Then I raised my violin, let my illusion disappear, and played a staccato burst of notes.

            Light blazed in front of the eyes of the four men, blinding them. The man pinning the girl stumbled back, and the girl slumped to the ground and tried to make herself small. I took two steps towards them and switched to another melody, softening the concrete beneath their feet.

            But they recovered faster than I expected and rushed at me before their feet could sink. I backed away, changing tunes mid note. Flames leapt to life on two men’s jackets, singing their hair and ears. Both yelled and dropped to the ground to try to put out the flames. The third man was nearly on me before I could stop him— but my bow in his eye sent him stumbling back, and a few hummed notes of air brought him to the ground.

            I turned to face the fourth man and had to duck under a punch. I backed away two steps and set my violin bow to the strings again, softening the concrete beneath his feet and beneath the two who’d just managed to extinguish their flaming jackets. The two on the ground sank and were trapped again before they could react. But the fourth man nimbly leapt onto the asphalt and pulled a shining knife. “I heard about your trick, birdie. You won’t get me that way.”

            I didn’t bother to respond, instead humming heat into his weapon. He grinned and held up his gloved hand. “Heard about that one too. Nice try.” Then he lunged for me, swiping up with the red-glowing blade.

            Darn it darn it darn it— I dodged away again and nearly tripped over the two men stuck in the concrete. Darn it! Three notes produced another burst of light before the man’s eyes, not as strong as the last but enough that I could put more distance between him and me. Then I switched my song again, returning to the melody of fire.

            Flames licked along his jacket, but he didn’t drop, just shrugged it off. It fell to the ground and lay there, slowly burning. “You got lucky so far, birdie. But how about you stop poking your nose where you aren’t wanted before you get hurt?”

            “How about no?” I switched songs again, this time to air. “How about you surrender?”

            The man’s eyes widened as he fought to draw breath. He didn’t answer, just lunged at me, slashing wildly with his knife. My song screeched into discord as I jumped back, narrowly avoiding the blade. Nopenopenope— I recovered, but he’d gotten a good breath and came at me again.

            Gotta deal with the knife first. A few notes of light created another brilliant flash to blind him and give me a chance to put distance between us again. I shifted to the sharply ordered song of steel, combined with the rhythm of time, to blunt and wear down the knife blade until it was too dull to cut anything but the softest butter.

            By the time I finished, my opponent had recovered. He circled to the side, more wary now than before. “What makes you think you’re so special, birdie? So much better than the rest of us, that you get to meddle in our business? Do your fancy powers give you the right to tell us what to do?”

            “No. But you’re hurting someone, and I’m not about to stand around and let you.” I played another rapid string of notes— air again, pulled faster than before. At the same time, I hummed the song for asphalt, softening it just enough to put him off-balance.

            He took two steps towards me, gasping, then stumbled and fell headlong, out cold. I sighed in relief and lowered my violin. Then a click from behind me threw all my senses back into high alert. I whirled around to see the man whose eye I’d gotten with my bow. He was back on his feet now, a gun in his hands and aimed towards me. Oh no—

            He pulled the trigger before I could move, but in almost the same moment, I heard the melody of his gun and bullets shift sharply. Both vanished, their only trace an expanding cloud of slightly darker than normal vapor. The man’s eyes widened, and he tried to run, only to hit a wall of solid air.

            I looked over my shoulder, and there she was. Starlight, cape and all, stood on the hillside above me. She nodded cordially to me. “Songbird.”

            I’d wonder how she knows my name, but, well, this is Starlight. I nodded back. “Starlight. Thanks. He caught me off guard.”

            “You’re welcome.” Starlight flicked her fingers. One pair of handcuffs appeared around the man’s wrists; another, slightly larger, connected his ankle to the arm of one of the men trapped in concrete. “You seemed to be handling the situation well.”

            “Definitely better than the last time you ran into me trying to fight off four men, yes.” Did she know that Songbird and Ava are the same person? She must. But I didn’t want to run the risk that she’d missed that. “Did you call the police yet?”

            “I did.” Starlight’s gaze flicked over my beaten opponents. “What were these ones doing?”

            “Tormenting some girl. She’s . . .” I glanced around. No sign of the girl. “Run off, I guess. Smart of her.” I looked back up at Starlight. “Can I talk to you quick?”

            Starlight’s eyebrows rose slightly behind her mask, but she beckoned for me to join her. I started up the hillside, but once I reached her, she turned and headed for the top. Once we were up by the bridge, she faced me once again. “Yes?”

            “I . . .” I hesitated, suddenly awkward. “I just, well . . .” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the USB drive. “I need your help again. With something else. It shouldn’t be much trouble for you this time, though. You already know about Welsh— the man I’m trying to stop. I’m going to confront him— soon. And, well, this is all the information about what he’s done and what I’ve found out and what I’m planning to do, and I was hoping you’d take it and keep it safe?” I offered her the USB in an open palm. “Just in case I fail? Please?”

            Starlight took the USB drive and tucked it into a belt pouch. “I’ll take it back to my base. Thank you for trusting me with it.” She paused, gave me an inscrutable look. “Do you need help in this confrontation of yours?”

            “I—” I blinked. “Are you . . . offering?”

            “I am. Assuming you haven’t told this person that you’re coming alone?” Starlight’s tone suggested that doing so would be a completely idiotic idea. I tend to agree. “I’m certain that he won’t.”

            I shook my head hastily. “No, I didn’t.” And I didn’t tell him to either— that actually was stupid. But Starlight seems to think that it wouldn’t really matter, and she’s probably right. And she has a point. Jonathan and Uhjin both have more or less vital roles to play, but they won’t be much use in a fight— not unless one of them is secretly a black belt or an expert marksman or something like that. “If you’re really willing, I’d love backup. Thank you. But Welsh is mine.”

            Naturally.” Starlight rested her hand on the pouch where she put my USB drive. “Are the time and place noted somewhere on here?”

            “Yes. But I can just tell you too, save you the trouble of searching— there’s a lot on there. I told him to meet me near the Carren Road Motel 6 at eleven o’clock Monday night.” I fiddled with my bow, turning it over and over in my hands. “You’re sure you’re willing to help?”

            “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” Starlight’s gaze drifted towards the street below. “The police seem to be arriving to pick up your criminals.”

            I glanced down. A black car was just turning onto the street beneath the overpass. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I should go talk to them. Thanks again— really, thanks.”

            “You’re welcome.” Starlight nodded once more. “I’ll see you on Monday. Good luck.”

            “Thanks.” I was starting to feel like a broken record, but what else could I say? With a nod that I hoped looked mature and professional, I turned and headed back down the slope. That’s it. Everything’s ready. Better than ready; I had Starlight on my team! Now all I had to do was confront Welsh . . . and survive.

---

Bonus fun thing: anyone want to know for sure what Songbird looks like? Wonder no more!

Fight Song Chapter 18

Hey'a, everyone! Ready for another chapter of Fight Song? Last week, Callie, Jonathan, and Uhjin made plans to finally confront Welsh. This week, they continue working on those plans and Callie hits the streets again— but this time, she's got a mask. As always, comments, questions, critiques, and suggestions are welcome! Thanks for reading!

Chapter 18: Songbird

The next week was a rush of activity. I spent several evenings scouting the city for a location where I could tell Welsh to meet me, somewhere public, but not too public, where Uhjin and Jonathan could have relatively safe hiding spots. Eventually, I settled on a small side street between one of the city’s sketchier motels and a line of stores and businesses, half of which had boards over the windows. It seemed as good as anywhere— better than most, since the motel advertised free WiFi.

That piece of my plan now in place, I loaded several CDs and one USB drive with copies of the information Jonathan and I had collected— testimonies, records, camera feeds, everything— along with a letter I’d typed up myself, explaining my plan. I handed off one CD to Uhjin, instructing her to make her own copies and give them to whoever she chose. Another I sent to my grandfather back home with a handwritten copy of the letter— he’d like that, I knew— and instructions for what to do with the CD if anything happened to me. I included other letters with that one too, notes to the rest of my family. Hopefully, they’d never see those letters, but only God knew for sure.

I dropped off the third CD in my pastor’s office Tuesday evening after work, along with a request for prayer and instructions not to look at the CD unless something happened to me in the next two weeks. I spent the next two days half-expecting an email from him up asking if I was all right, what was going on, all that, but nothing appeared. Either he’d lost my message— not exactly unheard of— or he trusted that I knew what I was doing. Who knew which.

Yet even with information in the hands of two people who I trusted to act as best they could, along with whoever Uhjin and Jonathan passed their copies onto, I wasn’t satisfied. I needed others: people who wouldn’t be immediately connected with me, and people who’d be better positioned to act if necessary.

So, Wednesday, at the end of lunch break at the craft store, I pulled Rebecca aside— of all my coworkers at either business, she was the one I trusted most. Granted, there wouldn’t be much she could do herself with the information, but no one, Welsh included, would expect her to have it. Why would they? And maybe, just maybe, she’d be clever enough to figure out where to take what I gave her if worst came to worst.

Of course, I didn’t say any of that, just asked: “Can you keep this for me?” and handed her the stiff cardboard envelope containing the CD. “Just for a couple weeks? And don’t open it unless something happens to me? I can’t really tell you why right now, but there’s a note in there that will explain it all.”

Rebecca took the CD with one hand, but grasped my arm with the other, searching my face with her big green eyes. “Yes, but— are you ok, Callie? Is something wrong? Are you in trouble of some kind?”

“I’m fine. Not in any trouble. Don’t worry. It’s just . . .” I searched for the words to make sense of what was going on without giving everything away. “I have something that I need to do, and I’m concerned that things will go wrong. And if they do, someone needs to know what happened to me. Ok?”

“Ok.” To my surprise, Rebecca wrapped me up in a hug, squeezing me tight as if she were my sister. “If you ever need help, any help at all, you can tell me, ok? I know that you like to keep things to yourself and that you have other friends than just me, but if I can do anything, just let me know. Really. And, whatever you’re doing, be careful, please? I’d miss you if you were gone.”

I tentatively returned the hug with a brief squeeze back. “I’ll be careful.” Well, sort of. I had a plan; that counted as being careful, right? “And thank you. But for now, the best help you can give me is to keep that CD safe.”

“I will.” Rebecca didn’t let go until after I did. “And I’ll pray for you, if that’s ok?”
“That’d be nice. Really nice.” I took a step back. “Well— thanks. Really, thank you. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. Don’t forget, if you need anything, just ask.” Holding the CD tight, Rebecca headed towards the staff lockers, probably to put it away.

I waved and set off back to work. Three copies down. Just one left. But that last would be the hardest one of all— and there was one thing I had left to do before I could deliver it.

When I wasn’t at work or sorting out plans with Jonathan over phone and text or handing important information to people for safekeeping or trying to practice the anti­–Death Song as best I could without the actual Death Song to compare it to, I scoured one thrift shop after another in search of— well, I wasn’t really sure what. All I knew was that Starlight had been right and that I’d made my choice. But even I knew: it would take more than a mask to keep my identity safe.

Eventually, after searching what seemed like every thrift shop and clearance rack in the city, raiding both my and Uhjin’s closets, and borrowing a sewing machine off a friend at the craft shop, I managed to pull something together. I picked dark, fitted jeans as a base, paired with black high-top sneakers— I’d considered other options, but I needed something practical, durable, and easily replaceable if I was going to do this long term. Of course, the red-violet top I paired them with, long-sleeved and vaguely Asian-looking, didn’t quite fit that bill, but it was comfortable and added a little excitement to the outfit. Over the top, I wore a sort of short jacket-cape thing that I’d made from a longer jacket. It wasn’t as dramatic as a full cape like Starlight’s, but it had a hood and, trimmed with fabric the same red-violet as my shirt, it looked quite nice. Anyway, unlike Starlight, I couldn’t turn a cape immaterial if it got caught on something.

I finished up the outfit with thin fingerless gloves that I dyed blue using Kool-Aid and, of course, a mask covered in the fabric I’d used for trim. Looking at myself in the mirror with the whole ensemble on, I couldn’t say that I looked a whole lot like the supers I’d seen on TV. But I didn’t exactly look like me either, and that was all that mattered. Now all I had to do was test it.

Hitting the streets in search of trouble again the night after I handed off Rebecca’s CD felt oddly good. It wasn’t the yes, this is what I’m meant to do and everything makes sense here type of good that I felt when I was onstage with my violin, but more of a reckless satisfaction, as if, after hesitating to act for so long, my soul exalted at finally having made a decision, whether or not it was the right one. As I walked down the darkened streets, violin bouncing at my side, I had to resist the urge to sing every song I heard just to announce to the world that I’d made my decision and here I was.

Thankfully, I ran into trouble— not literally— before the desire grew too strong. The pair of muggers who I spotted in an alleyway didn’t even realize I was behind them until it was too late and my song pulled the air from their lungs. They both spun around, allowing the man they were attacking to pull away.

As soon as they were facing me, I switched songs. The pair seemed to regain their courage as soon as they could breathe again, and they showed it by spitting a curse and a threat my way as they started towards me. But their next steps put their feet in three inches of suddenly-soft asphalt. I grinned, shifting the song again, and the asphalt hardened around their feet, leaving them stuck in place.
They cursed at me, but I ignored them, instead calling to their victim: “You all right?”

“Yeah.” He picked up his cell phone and wallet from the ground where the muggers had dropped them. “Who are you?”

I hesitated a moment. A name was the one thing I hadn’t settled on. But he was waiting for an answer, and I had to say something. “Songbird. I’m Songbird.” Before he could ask more, I added, “I suggest you call the police and let them know these two are here, then head home. Have a nice evening, sir.” With that, I hurried away, wishing I had some way to make my departures a little more subtle. Maybe if I could figure out some kind of illusion . . .

I continued through the streets more calmly, having expended some of my excited energy. But save for the mugging I’d already run into, the night seemed unusually quiet. It was as if every rogue and reprobate except for those two had unanimously decided to take the evening off. Finally, I gave up and headed home— but only for the night. The next evening and the evening after, I set out once again. But those nights, trouble wasn’t the only thing I was looking for.

No. I needed Starlight.

For two nights, I searched, roaming the streets for hours after dark. Neither night was as quiet as that first, though there were still hours with no excitement at all. But though I found trouble enough, there was no sign of Starlight. I hoped that she’d hear of me somehow; that she’d learn that another super, masked and costumed, had appeared in her territory and that she would come investigate. But she didn’t appear.

On the third day, I couldn’t wait any longer. So, on my way home from work, I detoured by the library and commandeered a computer that didn’t require a library card. Setting up a fake email account only took a couple minutes, but that just left me more time to type and erase and type again and then stare at the blinking cursor as I tried to think of the right words. How did one challenge a supervillain–serial killer without sounding like one was trying to blackmail him anyway?

Finally, after multiple false starts, I had something that seemed safe enough. Still, I paused before hitting Send and reread the message.

Mr. Welsh,
Though you may believe otherwise, your activities have not gone unnoticed. You have killed and killed again and thought that you could escape justice, but you cannot. Proof has been gathered against you; one small piece of it is attached to this message. All of this will be released to the authorities unless you meet me personally in the street beside the Motel 6 on Carren Lane at 11:00 Monday night. 

Satisfied with the text, I double-checked that the grainy still—inexpertly cut from one of the security videos and transferred from the USB drive I still carried— was attached. Yes, there it was. And the email address was correct too; Jonathan had found it and said that it was Welsh’s personal account. How Jonathan knew that, I had no clue, but I hoped he was right.

I hit Send and watched the message disappear. That’s that. No turning back now, even if I wanted to. Then again, I think I hit the point of no return a long time ago.

Fight Song Chapter 17

Hey'a, everyone! After a two-week hiatus, Fight Song is back— with good news: I've finished editing the novella! Now all that remains is to post it all on here. Last time, Callie and Jonathan tested Callie's theory that she could interfere with the Death Song, or at least with Welsh's version, by singing its opposite. This week, Callie and her friends make plans and enjoy food. Because food is important.

As always, comments, critiques, suggestions, and questions are welcome. I'd love to hear what you think! Thanks for reading!

Chapter 17: Challenging Plans

Baskin and Robins was so crowded that the line stretched out the door, despite the fact that the sky had turned from blue to indigo and the streetlights would turn on any minute. Jonathan seemed ready to brave the crowds anyway until I convinced him to instead hit up the corner store for a pint of rocky road, along with bowls and spoons to eat it with. We headed to the park and found ourselves a bench, then divvied up the ice cream.

While we ate, Jonathan gave me another piece of good news: he finally found someone who had video of one of Welsh’s attacks. “It’s not good footage—” he shrugged and scooped up another spoonful of ice cream— “but it’ll work. It’s from a small hotel in Ohio, not the one you worked at, but probably a similar situation. An older couple owns it, and they seemed more confused than anything about why I wanted a copy of their security camera feeds from a particular date. Then I told them that I was a reporter tracking down a murderer who had slipped past the cops, and . . .” He shrugged. “I guess they’re mystery fans, because they said they’d send it over.”

“Thank God.” I meant it too. “At least now we have two videos besides whatever we take ourselves. When they send it, can you forward it to me, please? Like, as soon as you get it?”

“Of course.” Jonathan started to take another spoonful of ice cream, then paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why the rush? Are you . . . Callie, how soon are you planning to confront Welsh?”

“Um . . . Soon?” I shrugged, hoping that my nervousness didn’t show in my smile. “I just don’t want to wait longer than I have to, you know? Now that I know my plan will work, and now that we have video to back up our claim, I just don’t see a point in putting it off. And I’m worried that if I do hold off, I’ll chicken out.”

“I can’t imagine you chickening out of anything, Callie.” Jonathan contemplated his ice cream for a few minutes before adding, “Are you sure that acting this soon is wise?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It won’t be this soon by the time I actually compile everything and convince Welsh to actually face me and all that. And . . . I guess I’m just wondering, is it wise to wait at this point? I know what I’m doing about as well as I ever will.”

“What are you doing, then?” Jonathan set down his ice cream on the bench between us and leaned forward. “I know about once you’re facing Welsh. But before then?”

“You’re going to send me the video feed you got and copies of any other information that I don’t already have. That’s the first thing. And I’m going to compile everything we know along with a letter of some kind explaining what happened to me and what I’m going to do, and I’m going to give copies of that to people who I trust, just in case.” I paused. “You should probably do that too. And after that, I’ll contact Welsh somehow— that’s the one thing I haven’t figured out how to do, especially without giving him a way to trace me— and send him a still from one of the video feeds and a warning that if he doesn’t meet me at a particular place and time, I’ll release everything to the police.”

“Maybe we should do that anyway. Try one last time.” Jonathan rested one arm on the back of the bench, watching me. “Maybe the video feeds will be enough.”

“Maybe.” But I didn’t think so, and my voice said as much. “If you want to, you can try. I still don’t think they’d believe us, though. Anyway, once I contact him, and he responds, it’s just a matter of meeting him and getting video of him trying to kill me.”

“That sounds terribly safe.” Jonathan’s tone was drier than Death Valley itself. “Just so you know, I’m calling the police as soon as it looks like Welsh is going to make a move. It’ll take them time to get wherever we are, and I don’t want you to have to deal with him longer than you need to.”

“Call away. I don’t want to have to deal with him longer than I need to either.” I paused, staring off into the treetops as I thought. “We should probably try to have more than one camera going. I have a little point and shoot that can be controlled by remote, and it’s got pretty good battery life. We can set that up somewhere and hope it doesn’t turn itself off by the time Welsh gets here. Your fancy camera takes video too, right?”

Jonathan gave me a mock-offended look. “My camera is a Canon 5D Mark III. Until the Mark IV came out last year, it was one of the best cameras on the market, and it honestly might still be. Its predecessor was used to shoot parts of The Avengers, among other things. Yes, it takes video too.”

“Oh, give me a break. I know instruments, not cameras.” I shoved his shoulder lightly. “Anyway, that’s good. Any chance that your best-camera-on-the-market will automatically upload your video to some kind of non-local device?”

Jonathan hesitated, then shook his head. “Er, no. The developers haven’t gotten to that yet. My phone takes decent video too, and that does automatically upload, but only if you have a WiFi connection.”
“I guess that’s better than nothing.” I wouldn’t count on WiFi, though. While I didn’t know where I’d tell Welsh to meet me, I doubted it would offer an internet connection. “We’ll just work with what we have.”

Jonathan and I stayed long enough to finish our ice cream, then I headed home. As I walked, I texted Uhjin to let her know I needed to talk to her tonight or tomorrow. She texted back within a few minutes: K. Tomorrow. Not ideal, but at least that would give me time to think about what I’d say and how much to reveal.

And that’s exactly what I did— all night. My thoughts kept me awake late into the night, late enough to hear Uhjin sneak in well past midnight and stumble into her bed. I finally dropped off, only to wake to my alarm what seemed like mere moments later. I groaned and rolled out of bed. Darn it, why’s worship band practice got to be so early?

By the time Uhjin and I headed home after church that afternoon, though, I knew what to say. And once we sat down to our lunch of sandwiches and apples and peanut butter, I couldn’t wait any longer. “I tested my theory of how to counter Welsh’s ability. It works.”

Uhjin looked up from her sandwich so quickly that her fancy hairdo nearly fell over. “What? Really? So does that mean you’re going to make a move soon? Did you and Jonathan make up yesterday?”
“Yes to all three. Jonathan was able to get ahold of a second video source besides yours, so we’ll have both of those and then what we capture.” Once again, I explained the plan I’d outlined to Jonathan, though Uhjin already knew some of it. “And there’s one last thing you should probably know.”

Jonathan already knows, after all. And if I’m going to take the step I plan to take, I want Uhjin in on it too. I can trust her, I know. Uhjin knows how to keep secrets. “See, I . . . How do I say this .  . . I’m not exactly normal. Maybe it’s better to just show you.” I sang a brief series of notes. The water in my glass flowed upwards in a twisting column, started to burst out in a fountain, and just as quickly backtracked the way it had come.

Uhjin whooped— and I mean actually whooped, fist-pump and all. “I knew it!”

“What?” I groaned. “You too? Who’s next, Rebecca revealing that she knows all?”

“You don’t live with Rebecca, silly.” Uhjin wrinkled her nose at me. “You live with me. Even if I’m not here that much. Anyway, I did make it to most of your concerts and recitals and stuff last year, and there was that one— the lights kept being weird, and they were always the weirdest during your solo bits.”

“Yeah . . .” I winced, remembering that concert. The songs our instructor had chosen had all been dangerous ones for me, so full of power that I could barely keep it under control. “Do you think anyone else realized based on that?”

“Probably not.” Uhjin shrugged. “I knew something was up, but I only noticed because the lights in the dorm room also did weird stuff when you were practicing for the concert. And then I started looking, and I started seeing other stuff, and then you kept staying out late with your violin once we moved to the apartment, and every now and then you’d come back all beat up like you did the other night, and . . . yeah. I guess I didn’t actually know it, but I guessed. So you’re an actual legit superhero? Really?”

“I have powers. I’m not an ‘actual legit superhero’ . . . not yet, anyway. Maybe soon.” Definitely soon. But I don’t feel quite ready to say  that out loud. One step at a time. “You know you can’t tell anyone else, right?”

“Duh. That’s basically the first rule of being a superhero’s . . . what am I?” Uhjin made a face. “Oh. Ew. I’m probably basically your Jarvis or Alfred or whatever, since mostly I’ve just fed you and patched you up and listened to you plan.”

“You’re my friend is what you are. Anyway, do I look like Batman or Tony Stark or anyone like that? If we’re going to make comparisons to fictional superhero companions, you’re more of . . . um . . .” I paused, realizing that I couldn’t think of a good comparison that didn’t involve romantic connotations, the death of the companion, or both. “You’re beyond compare. Let’s go with that.”

“Oh, fine.” Uhjin pouted a moment, then bounced back up with a wicked grin. “Oooooh. Wait. You’re a superhero. Jonathan’s a reporter. Does that mean he’s your Lois Lane?”

“What the— Oh, shut up!” I flopped back in my chair and smacked my forehead with my palm. “Jonathan is my friend. Like you. Nothing else. Anyway, I’m not even remotely like Superman, and aside from the newspaper bit, he is nothing like Lois Lane.”

“I’m just saying.” Uhjin shrugged, completely unapologetic. “Anyway. So how do I fit in with your plan?”

“You . . . uh . . .” I grabbed a slice of apple and scooped up some peanut butter with it. “I figured you’d probably stay here? Where you won’t be in danger?”

“Jonathan’s going to be there, isn’t he?” Uhjin’s mischievous look suddenly hardened into determination. “I have as big a stake in this as he does. Maybe bigger.”

“Jonathan’s been helping me with the search longer than you have, though,” I pointed out, taking a bite of apple. “And he’s only there because he has a camera and I need someone to call the police when necessary.”

“I have a camera too. And a phone. And a camera on my phone.” Uhjin crossed her arms. “Welsh killed my sister, and because of that, not only did I lose my closest friend, I spent years wondering if I was crazy. I want to help you take him down.”

  “Yes, but . . .” I hesitated. “It’ll be dangerous. And you do realize that I’m not going to kill him, right? The point is to get proof and put him in custody.”

“I know. I know.” Uhjin waved her hand as if dismissing my contradiction. “And I know it’s dangerous, but I’m not scared. Or, I’m more mad than scared. If Jonathan can risk it, so can I.” She paused, leaned forward, taking on a pleading look. “Please, Callie. I don’t have to be right up there, but let me be nearby, helping you somehow. One more person to take video and call the police can’t hurt, right? Jonathan will probably be close to the action; what if something happens to him? You need a backup.”

She made a good argument, enough that my determination wavered. “Well, yes, but . . . I . . . I’ll see what I can do, ok? I still need to figure out where to tell Welsh to meet me; if there’s a location near there where you can see safely, you can come.”

“Yes!” Uhjin sat back, fist clenched in satisfaction. “You won’t regret this, Callie. Wait and see.”

“I hope not.” I smiled weakly, sending up a silent prayer. Please, God, protect Uhjin. Protect Jonathan. Don’t let me regret bringing them. And, please, protect me too.

Fight Song Chapter 16

Last time on Fight Song, Callie and Jonathan talked through their differences and Callie learned that Jonathan doesn't get paid to be unobservant. This week, the two test Callie's theory that she can stop Welsh's power by singing its opposite song. As always, questions, comments, and critiques are welcome. Enjoy!

Chapter 16: The Anti–Death Song

Jonathan texted me the next evening: Julián had agreed that we could try our plan next weekend. I found myself counting down the passing days before then as eagerly as if I were waiting for Christmas. If this worked . . . Well, it wouldn’t solve all my problems, but it would solve one of the major ones.

Midway through the week, Uhjin texted me while I was on lunch break: Uncle sent security feed video! I checked; Welsh is in there. 

I sent up a silent prayer of thanks when I saw the message; Jonathan and I had yet to find anyone else who’d give us access to useful camera feeds. I texted back: Thanks! Will transfer to my comp tonight. Make copies. The last thing we needed was to lose our best piece of evidence because of a careless deletion, or, worse, a hacker.

Saturday arrived at last with the type of heat and humidity that I’d expect from mid-August, not May. The day had barely cooled at all by the time Jonathan and I met outside Julián and Ana’s apartment building that evening. We trekked up the metal stairs to the third floor and down concrete walkways to their door. Jonathan paused before knocking. “Ready, C— Ava?”

I nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

Jonathan knocked. A moment later, Julián answered. “You are early.”

“Sorry.” I glanced at my watch. He was right; in our eagerness to test our idea, we had gotten here ahead of schedule. “Do you want us to come back?”

“No. If you can do what you say, we should not wait.” Julián stepped aside so we could enter. “She is worse than last time.”

“Thanks for the warning.” I walked inside and approached the couch. “Mrs. Reyes?” I circled the couch and had to hide my shock.

Julián hadn’t been exaggerating. Ana is so thin she seems to be merely skin draped over bones; her eyes are dark and hollow and haunting. Her face glistens with sweat; her breath comes in gasps— yet she had managed to sit, propped by pillows, and she attempted to smile at me. “Julián said . . . you think you can help?”

Is her condition confirmation of my theory or just the natural effect of having been under Welsh’s power for any length of time, no continued drain required? I don’t know, but I hope it’s the former, that my theory is right, that I can save her. “I think so, yes. Did he explain what Jonathan told him about what I’m going to try?”

“Yes.” Ana leaned back against the couch cushions, her eyes sliding shut. “Go on . . . if you wish to try . . . try now. Before I am . . . all the way gone.”

“Right.” I knelt by the couch. “Can I hold your hand? It might help.”

Ana nodded as if that small motion exhausted her. I grasped her bony hand, so light and fragile that I couldn’t help feeling like I’d break it if I wasn’t careful. Then I shut my eyes and listened.

At first, I couldn’t hear anything, nothing but Ana’s gasps and the traffic outside and all the normal songs of an apartment in the city. I listened closer, tuning out the natural noises so I could focus in on the songs of power. There was the chiming tune of the water in the glass on the bedside table; there, the hums of plastic and metal and wood; there, the complicated melody of the woven fabric of the couch, and all around, the ever-shifting song of the air. No Death Song. For the first time in my life, my heart fell because of its absence. Had I only imagined it last time? Was I wrong after all?
I focused in, listened more closely. The high-pitched hum of the lights, a sound I normally blocked out for fear of losing my sanity to it, grated over my ears. I winced, but still listened, praying desperately. Please . . .

Then, like a rasping whisper, like the slight shuffle in autumn leaves when you’re walking home long past dark and your brain turns every sound into warning of monsters and serial killers, I heard it. It lay beneath all the other music, barely perceptible, but poisonous, corrupting every song it latched onto. As I recalled, it was not quite like the normal Death Song. Its beat was slower; its not-notes more orderly. I could work with this.

I listened for several minutes, forcing myself to pay attention so I could piece together the song’s reverse. I started with the basic rhythm— not so hard to figure out; that wouldn’t change between the original and its antithesis. Then I moved to the notes themselves— far more difficult. I couldn’t work in bars; I had to take it one note at a time. Finally, I thought I had the song correct, or, at least, I could hear an anti-note and figure out its real self quickly. Then and only then did I take a deep breath, open my mouth, and start to sing.

Nothing happened. The Death Song still scraped across my senses. Ana still labored for each breath. My voice faltered. Was I wrong? Can Welsh’s power not be stopped after all?

I have the song wrong. That’s it. That must be it. I wasn’t sure if I was acting out of desperation or determination, but I worked my way through the song, adjusting one note, then another and another until— yes! The not-melody of the Death Song faltered, the anti-notes off-pitch as if played by an amateurish child. But the song didn’t stop, not yet.

I adjusted another note, then paused for breath. What else can I try? Maybe my timing is off . . . I started again, careful to match each note to its antithesis, each chord to its opposite, without missing a single beat.

And this time, it worked.

The Death Song faltered again, skipping and repeating like a scratched CD. The melody splintered into greater discord, anti-notes screeching and distorting. Oddly enough, the distortion made them sound more normal, not less. Then, finally, it stopped altogether.

I sat back and released Ana’s stiff hand— why so stiff? Please, please, no— and opened my eyes. Ana still slumped on the couch, wide-eyed and gasping, but her gasps didn’t sound like those of someone choking or unable to breathe. They sounded like what I’d expect from someone who’s been drowning and just found their way back to the air. “You ok?”

She nodded. “I . . . I am. I think.” She sounded stronger; winded, yes, but not weak. “Your song . . . it hurt. But it was good pain.”

Jonathan and Julián were both staring wide-eyed. I wondered what they’d seen while I’d been focused on the Death Song. Jonathan offered a hand to help me up. “Well. I guess it worked.” He said it like he didn’t know what else to say, like he wasn’t quite sure if what he’d seen was real or not. “Good work.”

I took his hand and pulled myself to a standing position. “Thanks. And—” I turned my attention back to Ana and Julián— “Thanks for letting us test our theory.”

“No, we should thank you. You have given us hope.” Julián rested his hand on Ana’s shoulder, looking down at her tenderly. “Hope where we thought we had none.”

I shrugged, glancing down, not sure how to respond. “I . . . You’re welcome? Mrs. Reyes, I hope you keep getting better.”

“I think I will.” Ana nodded. “You will stop Welsh with this?”

I nodded. “I hope to, yes.”

“Good. Remember to remember me when you face him.” She smiled a slow, satisfied smile. “Good luck to you, Ava. Though I do not think you will need it.”

“I hope not.” I hooked my fingers in my pockets, not sure what to do with my hands. “Well, we should get going. Thanks again.”

With a few more polite thanks and well-wishes on both sides, Jonathan and I departed. We headed back to the street in silence. Once there, I glanced at him. “What did you see while I was singing?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know if I saw anything.” Jonathan shook his head like he was clearing his head of sleep. “Your song was . . . I don’t know. I don’t have good words for it, and I’m a writer. I thought I was going to go crazy from hearing it, but at the same time, I wanted to keep listening. It messed with my head. I thought I saw things— lights, mostly; some kind of weird shadowy thing once— but they’d be gone a minute later.”

“Weird.” I’d barely even considered what it would be like for someone to hear the anti-Death Song, especially someone who normally didn’t hear the songs at all. “Well, maybe it’ll confuse Welsh the same way. At least we know that I can keep him from killing me long enough to get what we need.”

“True.” Jonathan nodded, straightening, apparently more confident now that we’d moved back to a topic he was comfortable with. “I’d say that calls for a celebration.”

“Maybe.” I wrinkled my nose. “I’m running low on coffee money, though. No more trips to the café for a while. And it’s too hot for coffee anyway.”

“Who said anything about coffee? I was talking about ice cream— my treat, as long as you don’t order the biggest thing on the menu.” Jonathan grinned at me. “What do you say?”

I laughed. “Well, if you put it that way, who am I to turn down ice cream? Let’s go.”

Fight Song Chapter 15

Last time on Fight Song, Callie attempted to make plans and got mildly distracted by life and loneliness. This week, she and Jonathan meet up for the first time since their argument to actually talk through ideas and hopefully work things out. As always, comments of any kind are welcome!

Chapter 15: Possibilities

I arrived early to the café again that Saturday afternoon, coming straight from work without even bothering to change out of my red polo uniform. And, like last time, I found no sign of Jonathan. Lannis was working the counter, and she greeted me with a tired smile as I approached. “Meeting your reporter friend again?”

“Yeah.” I dug out my wallet. “One coffee, please. Black, with cinnamon. And . . .” I thought a moment. “And when my friend comes in, put his order on my card.” Hopefully that would get our meeting off to the right start. If it worked, it would be worth drinking an extra mug of instant coffee instead of the good stuff.

“Will do.” Lannis tapped in my order and waited for me to stick my debit card in the chip reader. “I hope whatever you’re doing goes well.”

“So do I.” I pulled my card back out and replaced it in my wallet, along with my receipt. Five minutes later, I was sitting in a corner booth, coffee in hand.

Another ten minutes passed before Jonathan walked in and approached the counter. I watched him give his order to Lannis, saw surprise cross his face, probably when Lannis told him he didn’t have to pay. He waited by the counter as she got his drink— cold brew again— and then walked over with his coffee in hand. He slid into the seat across from me. “Hey. Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.” I curled my fingers around my cup. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine. Busy.” Jonathan shrugged, trying and failing to look casual. “You?”

“Same. Fine. Busy.” Darn it, why did this have to be so awkward. I couldn’t look at him, so instead I stirred my coffee with the little stirrer I’d picked up and watched the dark liquid swirl. “Look, I’m sorry about how I acted last time. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”

“You’re forgiven. I wasn’t exactly behaving like a gentleman.” Jonathan took a sip of his coffee. “So. You want to lure Welsh into a confrontation, then video how he attacks. And somehow you think you can keep him from killing you in the process.”

I nodded. “That’s basically it, yes.”

“But how?” Jonathan gestured towards the window. “You know what happened to Ana and to Welsh’s other victims. You’ve seen it yourself. And you claim that you can neutralize his life-draining thing, but I don’t see how that’s possible, even with your power—”

He stopped short, going even whiter than he normally was. “Er . . . sorry . . .”

I stared at him, trying to process— had he really just said what I thought he’d said? Oh, no, no, no . . . “What did you just say?”

“Well, uh,” Jonathan sighed. “Look, I didn’t say anything about it, because you were obviously trying to keep it secret, but I’ve known for a while that you have some kind of superpower. No offense, but you aren’t exactly subtle, and besides, I’m a reporter. It’s my job to notice things.”

Oh, great. First Uhjin, now this. I thought I was doing well at keeping secrets, but apparently not. What’s next? Rebecca revealing that she knows everything too? Granted, Jonathan knowing already would make my plan easier to explain, but I still tried to stall a few extra minutes. “If you’re so certain I have powers, what do you think they are?”

“Some kind of elemental control, I’m guessing. You can obviously do stuff with air, based on what happened during the holdup here—” Jonathan waved his hand to indicate the café in general— “and if you were the one who stopped the mugger in the subway, then you’ve got some kind of earth or stone manipulation. And it could be just those two, but it would make sense for you to have some kind of control of fire and water too, basically a Master-of-Elements type of thing, like in that TV show.”

That comment stopped my mind spinning long enough for me to give Jonathan a hard look. “You think I’m the real-life equivalent of the Avatar? Really?”

“I said it was a guess,” Jonathan replied, defensively. “I could be wrong. But you can’t deny you have some kind of power that lets you control at least the two.”

He was right; I couldn’t deny that much. Not honestly, anyway. “You’re not going to tell anyone.”

“Of course not. I haven’t told anyone this far, have I?” Jonathan shook his head. “I made a promise, on my honor as a journalist. And when I make promises, I keep them.”

He has a point. And this will be easier if he knows the truth. Not like I wasn’t thinking of telling him anyway at one point. So, I sighed and let myself slump. “Fine. Yes. I have powers. But I’m not the real-world Avatar. It’s not that simple. It’s . . . it’s music. That’s my power. Everything in the world has a song— the wood that makes the tabletop, the glass in the window, the coffee in your cup. Most people can’t hear the songs. I can. And when I play or sing one of those songs, I can manipulate the thing it connects to.”

Jonathan nodded slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He seemed so attentive, I was surprised— and relieved!— that he didn’t have a notebook and pen in his hands to write down my every word. “So you’re thinking that you can wait until Welsh has you under his power and then use your songs to fight back. But we don’t know how much time you’d have to do that once Welsh starts draining your life . . .”

“Which is why that wasn’t my plan. I hope to neutralize his power, not just fight him off.”

“Then how . . .” Jonathan’s expression darkened. “Callie, can your songs . . . Do people have a song too?”

“Yes— no—” I tangled my words, trying to answer both the question asked out loud and the question implied. “They do, but . . . It’s forbidden. Sort of. I promised myself I wouldn’t use it after I figured out what it could do. It’s not right, taking someone’s will like that. And, anyway, I already tried it on Welsh. I shouldn’t have. But I ran into him, and I . . . I wasn’t desperate. But he was killing someone else, and I wanted . . . I wanted him to face me and feel as helpless as his victims did. And I wanted to make him tell the truth, to hear it from his own mouth. So I used it. I don’t even know if I would’ve heard the truth, or if the song would’ve made him tell me what I wanted to hear . . . I didn’t get that far. Remember how Ana said Welsh had a silvered tongue or whatever? She wasn’t joking. And that power of his was a lot stronger than my song.”

“Oh.” For once, Jonathan didn’t seem to know what to say. “So . . . but . . . I guess you survived? How?”

“Someone else showed up. A super. Don’t ask which one. I had never seen her before, and I haven’t seen her since. She got me away before Welsh could even start.” And thank God for that. Without Audrey’s help, I wouldn’t be here right now. “That’s all beside the point, though. The people’s song won’t help us, and I never should’ve used it anyway. But what might help—” I paused— “This will sound weird, but what might help is the Death Song.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “That sounds . . . ominous. So, you can control . . .”

“No!” I shook my head hastily. “No, definitely not. The Death Song . . . it’s not even a song. It’s sort of the opposite of a song, but not just noise either. It’s like someone turned the melody and the notes and everything inside out and backwards. I don’t know how to explain it other than that. I hear it any time someone nearby is dying. That’s how I knew Welsh was killing Lacey three years ago. But the Death Song sounds different in different situations, and when he kills someone, it’s . . . more ordered, I guess. Less chaotic. Just a little bit, but I think that if I heard it, I could figure out its inverse. And if I can do that, then I might be able to stop him from using his power.”

“You think.” Jonathan rubbed his temples and then took a long drink of coffee. “If you can figure out the inverse, and if it works, and you still have the time constraint. Those are all big ifs. And if you’re wrong, Callie, you’re still dead. You won’t get a second chance.”

“I know. You think I don’t know that?” I slumped. “I can’t think of another way to get evidence, though, not without someone definitely dying. And . . . and if I’m going to do this, if I’m going to be a hero and not just a girl with a couple fancy tricks up her sleeve, that means risk, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes. You’re right. But it shouldn’t mean unnecessary risk. If you’re going to try this, we need to find a way to test it.” Jonathan seemed to have resigned himself to the fact that I was doing this whether he liked it or not. “You’re sure this wouldn’t work on deaths not caused by Welsh?”

“Positive. If it would, do you think I’d be sitting here right now? I’d have the power to stop death in my voice. I’d be off, I don’t know, sneaking into hospitals to cure dying cancer patients or something.” I let out a short laugh. “Nothing can be that easy, even with powers.”

“So in order to test it, we’d have to find Welsh killing someone. So we’re back to either following him around or else trying to predict where he’d strike next that wouldn’t be you.” Jonathan took another swig of coffee. “And neither of us has the time or resources for that, especially not since he only seems to kill in the city when he’s desperate or provoked.”

“Yeah. And I’ve definitely provoked him, but I don’t think he’d come for me himself unless I made him really mad.” More than I don’t think he would. I know he wouldn’t. He’d just hire thugs to try to kidnap me and take me to him. “You know, the Batman movies made this whole bringing-criminals-to-justice thing look so easy.”

“That’s because Batman makes plenty of ethically questionable choices along the way.” Jonathan shook his head. “Why does the Death Song change, I wonder? Maybe something to do with the transfer of life energy, since it’s directed to someone else? If that’s the case . . . does the victims’ energy continue to drain to Welsh the last three days after he kills them? You’ve spent more time around one of his victims than I have. Is the song the same?”

I thought back to Lacey and Ana, to what I’ve heard. “Yes. It’s a lot fainter, almost not there at all. But it’s the same song, and it keeps going all three days. But, then, I wonder . . .” I’d started to stare off into the distance; now I pulled my attention back to Jonathan. “Could you ask Julián and Ana if we could come see them again?”

“Probably. Why?” Jonathan pulled out his phone, whether to create a reminder note or to email Julián, I wasn’t sure. “Welsh failed with Ana. He’s not still pulling energy from her.”

“He might be. I don’t know if he knows he is, but he might be. I heard the Death Song in her apartment, and it sounded like Welsh’s variation. And it would make sense if he was. When Ana got away, whatever connection he made to take her life energy might’ve been partially broken, but not all the way broken. So he might still be killing her, just really slowly.” Never had I been so excited to realize someone was slowly dying. “And if that’s the case, then I should be able to test the song with her.”

“That . . . actually sounds like a workable theory.” Jonathan made a ‘huh’ face. “I’ll contact them and ask if we can talk.”

“Don’t ask if we can talk. Tell them what I think I can do.” At his surprised look, I added, “Ana can sense people’s gifts, remember? She knows about my powers.” Though, honestly, the list of people who don’t know seems to get shorter every day.

“Right. I forgot about that. I’ll tell her. In the meantime, we can start thinking about how to set up a confrontation with Welsh, and— have you talked to your other witness? Asked about getting copies of the security tapes?” I nodded, and he went on. “Good. It probably won’t do much good, but I’ll review my list of other witnesses and events and see if I can get anything too. You know, as a backup plan.”

“I can help with that. A little.” Jonathan’s probably more likely to get results, though. He seems to have way more connections than I ever will. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Jonathan stood. “I should go— I have another story I’m working on, and it’ll take time to through the list again. Let me know if anything comes up. And . . . thanks for trusting me again.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for being trustworthy. And for coming back.” I gave him a half grin. “Good luck with your story.”

“Thanks.” He headed off with a wave, carrying his coffee. I stayed at the table for several minutes after he left. So many pieces were still missing from our plan, and yet it seemed to be coming together at last. Bowing my head, I silently prayed: God, let this work. Let us be able to stop Welsh. Let my quest finally end.