Page 51 of One Last Regret

“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand and leading her downstairs.

We rush outside, just in time for my rideshare to pull up. The driver steps outside to open our doors, and I say, “I’ve got the doors, just get us to the Midnight Melody.”

His brow furrows. “The where?”

“The Midnight Melody. It’s a jazz club.”

“I’ll give you directions,” Amelia says. “Just hurry!”

The driver looks at the weeping girl, then at me and says warily, “I thought you needed a ride to the airport.”

I reach into my purse and pull out a fifty-dollar bill. “This is yours,” I say, stuffing it into his hand. “Just get us to the Midnight Melody.”

He takes the bill, still looking warily at me. “This isn’t a drug thing, is it?’

“Do I bloody look like a drug runner?”

He lifts his hands. “All right. All right. Just making sure. I don’t want to get shot or nothin’.”

We step inside and buckle ourselves, and the car pulls into traffic. Amelia sobs and shivers with fright, and I take a deep breath and pray that I’m right and Gabriel has gone to find the music.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

When we reach the club, I tell the driver to call the police. He frowns and says, “Damn it. Thisisa drug thing.”

“Why would I tell you to call the police if I was planning to deal narcotics?” I ask. “There’s a boy in danger. Call the damned police.”

He blinks and shakes his head, muttering under his breath about taking the wrong job. Amelia and I jump out of the car while he reaches for his cell phone.

The club is closed. The sign on the door says the closure is indefinite due to damages during Mardi Gras. I don’t know if that’s true or if the employees here have just refused to return to work after the cursed music plays for no reason over their speakers.

Amelia tries the door, and when she finds it locked, she releases an anguished cry. “It’s all right,” I assure her. “I know how to pick locks.”

I kneel and pull two bobby pins from my hair. Her eyes widen when she watches me insert both pins into the lock and slowly engage the tumblers. Fortunately for me, the club’s financial troubles have apparently forced them to forgo anything more sturdy than a simple lock, so as soon as the tumblers are engaged, the door swings open, and Amelia and I rush inside.

The song is playing. It is in the middle of its fourth movement, mocking and mischievous but not yet aggressive. I wonder at this for a moment, then remember that the last time the music played here it wasn’t for no reason. Gabriel played the song. He played it on the piano on the same stage where his grandfather died after performing that song, and now he’s playing it again.

Or so I desperately hope.

When we reach the auditorium and I see him playing, I release a sigh of relief.

That relief is short-lived. He is playing, but he is not conscious. His eyes are rolled back in his head, and his head lolls oddly as his fingers fly over the keys. Amelia cries out and rushes the stage, but out of nowhere, she falls to the ground. The way she falls is almost as though she is shoved to the ground by some unseen force.

She cries out and rolls over, gripping her ankle and grimacing. I pick her up and carry her away from the booming speakers. The volume is so great that I feel nauseous. It’s the same as before when the noise was loud enough to drive the patrons out of the theater.

I set her down at the back of the auditorium and shout, “Cover your ears! Stay here! I’ll go get him!”

She nods, grimacing and weeping. She doesn’t cover her ears, so I move her hands over her ears, then head back toward the stage.

The music is in its final movement now. It snarls at me, pummeling me with hellish rage. My muscles go slack under the force of the onslaught, but I force myself forward anyway.

Just as I reach the stage, I see a silhouette standing next to Gabriel. At first, it is barely visible, an afterimage of a shadow. As I pull myself onto the platform, though, it coalesces, first into a wraith, then into a clear figure. My sister's ghost glares at me with dark, empty eyes. Lips that aren't there peel back from pale teeth, and the fingers that rest on Gabriel's shoulder grip hard.

He winces from the grip and tilts toward the side on which the demon is squeezing. I falter, convinced for a moment that this is no hallucination but is truly some monster of hate stealing this poor boy’s soul.

But I am not insane. I may suffer from hallucinations when the memory of my past collides with the tragedy of my present, but I know the difference between what’s real and what isn’t real.

So, I get to my feet, face the creature that isn’t there, and say boldly, “Gabriel, she isn’t there. This isn’t real.”

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