Page 24 of Howl for the Gargoyle

Kiernan only moved farther away from the couch, finishing the conversation with George. A warm hand settled on my shoulder, and I jerked out of its grip.

"Sorry," Mikey rushed out, moving out from behind me so I could see him at the side of the couch. "It's just… It's gonna be okay, Han."

I didn't know what he meant. It would be okay that we lost our record release? That we didn't go on tour? That he and Lawrence and Kiernan cut their losses and quit the band? Or that it would be okay if I was somehow dragged along, feral and frightened and out of control?

"Hannah, we have—" Lawrence started, his voice too loud and drawing out another growl from me.

"No," Kiernan said as I stood up from the couch. "Not today. We meet up on Tuesday night, bring some new ideas, music. We can all talk then."

Lawrence had always listened to Kiernan in a way he hadn't to me. Asshole.

"Fine," Lawrence muttered, but he took his time stomping around the room and gathering up his things.

"Been a while since we worked on anything new. I'll bring something funky," Mikey said, too brightly, trying to make up for Lawrence's temper.

Kiernan was out of reach, a fact my hands noted as they tightened on my own knees, claws itching and burning in my fingertips. He faced forward—faced away from me—with his arms crossed over his chest, tablet dangling from his fingers.

I watched him as he waited for Mikey and Lawrence to leave, the whole band actively aware of the atmosphere about to boil over, waiting for half of us to leave so there'd be the least amount of casualties in the aftermath.

"What are you doing?" I asked as the door clicked shut.

Kiernan's breath gusted out of him and he turned, eyes down as he tossed the tablet onto the couch cushion. He crossed to stand in front of me and then immediately fell into a crouch, the sudden meeting of our gazes startling me.

"This isn't just about you, Hannah," Kiernan said.

I stiffened and my mouth fell open, but he continued without me.

"This is my band too, my music too. My life and the career I've built too. I love you, you know that. I love our music. And I've worked really hard, at your side, with you, to get the band to this point. So have Mikey and Lawrence. We need you to find a solution to this problem."

"What do you think I've been doing?" I snapped. "I am the problem, Kiernan!"

"You've been sulking," Kiernan said, eyebrows rising. "You can afford to. If this record falls through, if this band falls apart, you are going to be okay. This is our job, and we both love it—we've both put the work into it, the time and the money and the love. But you don't need it the way I do. I only mean that in the most concrete financial terms."

"Fuck you," I said, the most useless response I could give, the most petulant. As if I was proving his point. The truth tore through me as effectively as the werewolf's claws had that night, months ago. "You know what music is to me, you know that it's not just about money or—"

"Hannah, you've been holding back." I gaped at him and his mouth grew flat and pale before he spoke in a rush, "You give half effort in rehearsals, there's no energy. I know what music was for you, but are you sure you still feel the same way?"

I couldn't feel the couch beneath me. My entire body was buzzing. "You don't understand," I breathed out. He wasn't wrong. I didn't find the release in singing that I had before the attack. My body wasn't mine anymore. My voice had new textures that didn't belong to me. I no longer trusted any part of myself.

Even my music.

Kiernan stood and turned to the side, nodding. "I know I don't. I'm sorry. But it's true. I'll see you on Tuesday."

"That's it?"

Kiernan paused with his back to me, looking at me over his shoulder, a wince in his gaze.

"You tell me that I…it's just my fault and I—" The words curdled in my throat, and I lost track of what I wanted to say, what accusation I could throw.

"Of course it's not your fault," Kiernan said, almost shouted. "But how much of your life, of our work together, are you going to let it destroy?"

I bent forward, doubled over with a queasy blend of guilt, shame, and anger. Kiernan's footsteps clapped across the floorboards, pausing at the door. But I couldn't bring myself to look up, and he didn't wait for me to recover.

Ray stood outside of the Chicago Diner—a stalwart vegetarian landmark, filled with remixed greasy spoon classics—tall and broad and grizzled, with thinning salt and pepper hair that hung shaggy around his ears, his hand cupped around his cigarette to shield it from the gusts of wind barrelling up the street. From the start, he reminded me of a detective out of a noir novel, and a little of my mother's father too, smelling of stale cigarettes and of the candy peppermints always available from a pocket.

My jittering nerves and turning stomach bounced through me as I crossed the street to meet him. I was late, having sat in the wreckage of the rehearsal space for too long after Kiernan's departure, holding arguments in my own head.

Most of the arguments were with myself, with the truth I tried not to remember more often than I had to and that Kiernan had forced between us. I hadn't grown up wealthy, and when my father's accountant went about the matter-of-fact arrangements laid out for me after high school, the relief had been too great to refuse. I was taken care of, financially at least, for life. I did my best to let the money sit, lived a balance between style, comfort, and modest usage of the money. The appointments with MSA were my most extravagant purchase to date.

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