Page 34 of Matthew

ML: Well…I might be able to do an open mic night.

Dr. R: I’m not familiar with the term.

ML: There’s a local club run by an Earther. Den of the Departed. Weird name, huh? Like it’s full of dead people, but I think it has to do with having left Earth. The people who go there are mostly Earthers and their clans, because it’s who it’s meant for. It’s supposed to be a place where we can feel comfortable. They have a night each week where anyone can go on stage and sing or play in front of everyone. That’s what an open mic night is.

Dr. R: It sounds promising. Have you gone there yourself?

ML: A couple of nights ago. I asked the clan to take me so I could check it out. It wasn’t bad. I didn’t feel stared at or anything. But I would be, on the stage.

Dr. R: The audience would be those like you, and clans who aren’t averse to humans living on Kalquor. They’d be safe to perform for, wouldn’t they?

ML: I guess so.

Dr. R: I realize this would be a big step for you, Matt, but you should seriously consider taking it.

* * * *

Matt’s grip on the Martin was sweaty. He wiped his hands on his trousers as he waited his turn to take the stage.

Another young man with an oddly warbling voice sang a twangy country song about love and loss over a backing track played from the club’s sound system. Most of those performing during open mic night used such tracks as they sang. Earlier, a violinist had performed, as had a flutist. A woman had played a guitar and sung as Matt planned to do.

Matt had learned the small club could hold only a couple hundred people, but as he peeked at the dark floor scattered with tables and the bar, bodies appeared to fill the place to bursting. Under the performer’s voice was the steady hum of quiet conversation. Half the venue barely paid attention to whomever was on the stage, though the flutist had been great and earned decent applause.

Maybe Matt would get lucky and be ignored. He half-hoped it would be the case.

The country singer’s performance ended. One table of two clans, including another male Earther, clapped enthusiastically, making up for the polite but quiet applause from the rest of the room.

The owner of the club, a thirty-something named Solomon Hastings, beamed as he took the stage to perform his emcee duties. “Thanks, Arjun, great job. Up next, we have a new face. Please welcome Matt Larsen to the stage.”

Quieter applause as Matt climbed the steps, then a fewaws. He wondered if his short stature and cute features would convince them to be kind if he screwed up.

He wiped his hands on his pants again. At least the new clothes fit nicely, an all-black ensemble of ankle boots, fitted trousers with leather lacing up the sides, a tee-shirt, and jacket sporting a leather lapel and cuffs. He looked good, he looked the part of a musician, but it wouldn’t make up for it if he sounded terrible.

He gazed at those faces turned up toward him. Friendly, yes, but so many. Too many. He couldn’t play for these people. Why had he agreed to this? It was supposed to be Earther-friendly, but who knew for sure? What if someone had followed him here? Someone sent by the monster?

He looked toward the door. He needed to get the hell out of there.

Chapter Ten

“Come on, Mattie,” Kom urged quietly as the young man hesitated, his blue eyes rounding in panic. “Remember what we told you.”

As if he’d heard him, Matt’s gaze turned to the table at the front right of the stage, where Kom, Avir, and Masok sat.Keep your eyes on us if it becomes scary,Avir had told him when Matt had balked about leaving their home earlier, second-guessing his intention to play a song in public.

“You’ve got this.” Masok gave him a thumbs-up.

Matt managed a shaky smile. His fingers plucked a couple of notes on the Martin, then he drew a deep breath. He kept his eyes on Clan Avir. “Hi, everyone. This is a song I wrote. I hope you like it.”

Scattered clapping. He bent his head to stare at the guitar and began.

Kom recognized the tune as something Matt had been working on for a few weeks. He’d heard bits and pieces of it as Matt trod around his suite and sometimes through the home. It was his typical manner of composing, his gaze distant and his mind far away.

He was wearing that distant look. It said he was forgetting his surroundings and focusing on the sweet, somehow plaintive tune weaving through the air. Kom wondered if he’d realized the club had gone silent as he lost himself in playing.

Then a pure, clear baritone twined through the guitar’s voice. Matt sang.

“This is my voice

Unheard for years

---