Page 78 of The Devil and His Sparrow

I bit my lip. I wanted to help him, not make his frustration worse. Maybe being honest was the help he needed, though. “But … it does sound pretty similar to the music you already have out. You know. Sex. Pleasure. Sin.”

He sighed and sat the guitar aside to rake both hands through his already tousled black hair. “I know. That’s my issue. I just can’t seem to get inspired or write something different these days.”

This was important to him. Music was Zagan’s passion, and struggling with it was weighing him down greatly. He needed a solution. He needed some inspiration. He needed a break.

“Maybe you need to step away from it a bit,” I offered slowly. “Forcing yourself to come up with something isn’t going to help. It needs to be natural, and for that to happen, breaks are occasionally needed. Try listening to or playing a different type of music for a bit. You’ve been honing in on this one style for so long, which can make you stagnant. Change things up. Play a different instrument or something.”

He seemed to weigh my suggestion before nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I might try that.”

Offering him a suggestion he found helpful made pride swell up inside me. I beamed at him. “Good. Now then, I was gonna make some coffee. You want some?”

The demon perked up. “That sounds great.”

He followed me down the hall and up the stairs to the main floor. I waltzed into the open kitchen to make the hot brew while he continued on into the house.

“How was your first night in your new room?” he called from one of the neighboring rooms.

“Good,” I yelled over my shoulder so that he could hear me from wherever he was. “That bed is amazing. I really appreciate you getting it for me. I appreciate the whole room.”

“As I said before. There’s no need to thank me,” came his faraway response.

I hit brew on the coffee pot just as a new sound began to filter into the room. My entire body locked up, and I took in a sharp breath. Goosebumps prickled over my skin, and my heart beat faster as my ears tuned into the slow, beautiful sound of the piano. I turned on autopilot and stared at the stretch of wall separating the ballroom from the kitchen and living room, and as if pulled by the piece, I trudged closer to the doorway. I stopped just shy of the entrance and pressed my back to the wall, listening to the haunting and somber movement of the piece. My eyes slipped shut, and Zagan’s melancholy spirit practically touched me in a ghostly whisper with each note.

I stood there, enraptured and in awe for the entire first movement. When the coda finished and he didn’t continue into the next movement, I peeled my eyes open and took what felt like my first breath in the past six minutes.

I finally rounded the doorway and found Zagan at the piano bench, hands now on his thighs, looking like a fallen god.

“Beethoven. ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ First movement,” I said, but I wasn’t sure who I was really saying it to. Probably myself. It was a reminder to the girl who’d been buried inside me. She still knew these pieces as well as she knew her own reflection, even after all this time.

Zagan looked up at me and gave me a small smile. “You know it?”

I nodded once, but I couldn’t move anything else. I was frozen, staring at the sleek piano. The instrument was my deepest temptation manifested. I could still feel the dark movement of the sonata gripping my chest.

Zagan ran his fingers over the black and white keys. “It is a pretty well-known piece.”

I cleared my throat and gestured to the instrument. “You played it beautifully. Can—Can you keep going?”

His eyes trailed over my form in the doorway, the gaze like a tentative caress. I didn’t think he was going to meet my request when finally, he hovered both hands over the keys and began the second movement. This was the shortest of the three movements in the piece, but it was the start of what would lead into the fiery third movement.

I lingered in the doorway like a ghost haunting the room, listening with eyes closed, as Zagan commanded the music like a master.

When it finished, and he made no move to keep going to the finale, I opened my eyes to find him watching me.

“You play,” he stated, staring at me with unwavering certainty.

I blinked and tried to clear the haze of the piece from my mind. “What?”

He pointed at me. “You were mirroring the keys on your leg.”

I looked down, and sure enough, my fingertips were still posed in the ending notes of the movement. I hadn’t even realized, but now, my throat squeezed with emotion trying to climb up it. I curled my fingers into fists against my legs.

I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. Instead, I finally closed the space between us and gingerly sat beside him on the bench. With the black and white keys right there in front of me, close enough for me to reach out and touch, the ache in my chest intensified like a seismic wave rolling through a city.

“Keep going,” I whispered, my eyes never leaving the keys. “Please.”

I could see him watching me from the corner of my eye, but with less hesitation than before, his tattooed hands hovered over the keys. The fierce final movement began. There was no faltering or stumbling as he moved with the skill of a seasoned pianist.

I closed my eyes, brow furrowed and lips parted, as I focused on the intense movement. The music carved into me with its fire and strength, infusing me with its power for this moment in time.

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