All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [205]
Now he had to up the stakes—get these people really excited. Like Ms. DuPreé had been trying to teach them: put his soul into his music.
But why?
He stopped. Right in the middle of the song. His hair fell into his face.
Why was he doing this? Really? He didn’t want to be here. He’d never wanted to impress anyone with his music.
He slammed his hand across the guitar stings. The sound that came out was odd and dissonant and abrupt.
The audience jumped.
It startled him, too.
He hadn’t known he could do that—scare people. Without magic.
Maybe that was the best magic of all. . . .
He played—and didn’t even think about it—just moved fingers over strings. It was classical, a bit like Mozart. It reminded him of the way he felt the first day at Paxington, at least, the way he thought it was supposed to have been: learning about mythology and his family, surrounded by books and other students just as smart and dedicated.
That music was too predictable for his mood, though . . . and it seemed like a lie to force himself to play it that way.
Eliot flipped a switch and the sound looped. He riffed over the piece, shifting to bass notes.
He picked up the pace and his music felt like all the fighting that went on at Paxington—the duels and the team battles in gym class.
It was rock and roll (one of several terms he had studied in class last week) and he made Lady Dawn snarl.
He dialed up the feedback and sound tore through the air.
Head down, he focused on the notes, no magic, no ghosts or chorus of kids singing along. He was alone and that suited him fine.
He even tuned out the audience. He didn’t look. He didn’t care.
Lady Dawn heated under his hands, her wood flashed like liquid fire, and her strings felt sharp as if he were pushing her past her engineered limits.
He shifted back and forth between styles that he’d just discovered—mariachi to bluegrass—classical Chopin to jazz to the ancient ballads of Charlemagne and then with a long slow grinding changeover, he beat out some heavy metal.
He wasn’t playing to do anything. No miracles. No life-or-death situations that he had to save himself from.
He wasn’t playing for anyone, either. Not to impress Julie, or Jezebel, or Ms. DuPreé.
He just played.
Music—for the thrill.
Because he wanted it.
Lady Dawn resonated and flexed under his hands, soaking up all his anger and frustration and power, amplifying it . . . and wanting more.
He blasted out the last power chord, flourished with the phrase of a little lullaby, and stilled her strings.
He was bored with this . . . and done.
He finally looked up.
Not a single person in the audience moved. They sat and stared openmouthed.
Far away, dogs barked and howled and a dozen car alarms warbled.
Eliot didn’t care what any of them thought. He turned and started to walk backstage.
Ms. DuPreé waited in the wings; Sarah had come out to listen to him as well, and both their eyes were wide at his audacity.
They hadn’t liked it? Maybe Ms. DuPreé would kick him out of her class. It seemed so silly and trivial now to play for her approval.
Eliot had almost reached the curtain’s edge when the applause came—waves of it along with wild cheering and calls for more.
He turned. Every single person in the audience was on their feet, clapping and waving their lighters in the air.
They’d loved his music and him.
And none of it mattered to Eliot.
He went to Ms. DuPreé and Sarah. The applause behind him intensified. The look on Ms. DuPreé’s face shifted, and her mouth snapped shut. She wasn’t astonished anymore; the narrowing of her eyes signaled something closer to disapproval. It was hard to tell.
Sarah’s mouth, however, remained dropped. Then she blinked and shouted to him over the applause, “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Do me a favor?” he shouted back.
“Anything!” She seemed out of breath.
“Borrow your phone?”
Sarah frowned, like this wasn’t what she’d wanted him to say, but nonetheless, she turned and rummage through her backpack. She handed Eliot her phone.
Eliot