Something Completely Different

I had a bit of a setback in my progress toward tweaking my outlook in a positive direction. To cheer myself up and as a way of sharing a portion of a story I’m currently revising, I decided to show you all a piece of The Court of Smoke & Crows. I would be most grateful if you’d take a peek and see what you think.

An Excerpt From The Court of Smoke & Crows 

by Michelle Engel 

It was open mic night at the Velvet Void. The band Manic Taco thrashed and wailed onstage. Their lead singer jumped up and down, whipping the mic cord around and spitting out what had to be furious lyrics, though most of them escaped Acacia. The singer’s brown hair was so firmly crusted in place, not a single strand moved while he gyrated. The overhead lights glimmered off the many safety pins threaded through his yellowed, sweat-rimmed tank top. It looked like the pins were arranged in the shape of the Anarchy symbol. 

Beside Acacia, danced her best friend Liv, with her freshly-cut-and-colored lavender, pixie-styled hair, undulating with liquid grace. In her white cotton corset, voluminous tie dye broomstick skirt, and many silver bangles looped about both arms, Liv looked like she’d just been freshly transplanted from the festival at Woodstock. Her languid movements couldn’t have been more out of step with the music, but her smile radiated from her entire body.  

Liv caught Acacia’s eye and winked, sidling up to her to shout in her ear. “Manic Taco, eh? Sounds like the latest made-up STD. The next Blue Waffle.”

Acacia tipped her head back and laughed just as the last echoes of feedback screeched to a halt, and the song ended. Hurt flitted across the features of the helmet-haired lead singer, quickly replaced by a punk-rock sneer worthy of Sid Vicious. 

Of course, they’d been standing right in front of the stage, and her laughter echoed even over the sound of the applause. Maybe it was her imagination, but it felt like everyone was staring at her, not the stage. 

When she wanted to hide behind her chocolate-cherry hair, it stubbornly refused to curtain across her features. A rolling flush boiled up from her belly, spilling across her collarbone and rouging her sparsely-freckled cheekbones. 

Liv broke the tension with a round of wolf-whistling and whooping. The lead singer popped the mic back onto the stand with unexpected tenderness and smiled in Liv’s direction, gracing her with a small bow. 

The neon-purple mohawked bassist unsnapped the strap on his instrument, swinging free of it rather than lifting it over his head and risking his hairstyle. Meanwhile, the bald guitarist likewise began unplugging and packing up. The drummer climbed out from behind the house drum kit, slipping his drumsticks into the back pockets of his strategically-ripped black jeans.  

The scarecrow-like emcee returned to the stage, weaving between them all.

“Right, right, yes, let’s hear it for Manic Taco!”

A smattering of half-hearted applause rippled through the small crowd, just scarcely louder than the laughter and conversation carrying over from the bar and lounge area in the next room. The members of Manic Taco filed down the stairs to the left of the stage, carting away their equipment. 

Still distracted by her self-consciousness, Acacia nearly missed the announcement for the next band. Had she heard something about smoke and crows?

Unexpectedly, the house lights and the stage lights both darkened. Someone, hopefully Liv, bumped into her in the dark, though the whispered apology she thought she heard, sounded masculine. 

Panic sped her heartbeat and her breathing. She thought to reach out for Liv but was afraid she’d find someone else beside her. Was this all part of the act? Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. 

Around her, people were taking out their phones, the small screens casting pockets of bluish light into the shadows. She’d just started to do likewise when the dimmer switch on the stage lights began to incrementally brighten.  

Judging by the clustered movement onstage, the next band was finishing setting up in the half-light. She heard the buzz and hum of instruments being plugged into live amps, along with a subtler rustling and hushed voices as the band members got into position.

Then the opening notes to Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” played on keyboard, echoed all around her. The lights came up just as the bass and guitar joined in. 

The guy playing the house keyboard moved his fingers over the keys with the occasional spare flourish, like a concert pianist. His chestnut hair was pulled back tight, as though braided. He wore a crisp white t-shirt, fitted close to his toned body. 

Opposite him onstage, the band’s female bassist further darkened the mood with deep, driving tones. The ropey muscles of her forearms flexed with strength and dexterity. Sweat glistened and gleamed on her golden skin, blending with the blue and green iridescent body glitter she’d applied along the very daring neckline of her creamy, satin and lace blouse that could just as easily be lingerie. The body glitter complimented the pastel tones washed in streaks into her pale blond hair. 

Acacia looked over at Liv once more. Judging by her glazed, dreamy expression, she’d noticed the bassist, too. Badass hippie chicks were Liv’s Kryptonite. Liv still had a shelf full of disturbingly-shrine-like piles of sea glass and puka shells, the last one– Mitzy? Misty?– had given her during their brief courtship. 

Acacia shook her head and smiled. It was best just to let these things play out, she’d found. So thinking, she returned her attention to the stage.

The grunge-reviving drummer in a flannel and a Ledbelly tee looked a bit like a wannabe Kurt Cobain– an ironic homage given that Cobain’s instrument of choice had been the guitar.

Lean and lethal-looking, the actual guitarist had a madcap of ginger curls and a black top hat completing his pinstripe suit and black-on-black, button-down suit and tie. What a rag-tag group! 

Up until now, the band’s singer had his back to the audience. He turned, just as a white-hot spotlight spilled over him. He wore a vintage white, long-sleeved, ruffled shirt and black leather pants that laced up at the crotch and side seams. The tight leather only further emphasized the thick muscles of his calves and thighs. In spite of her best efforts to focus on Girls Night and friendship, Acacia couldn’t help but think he was a present waiting to be unwrapped. 

His shoulder-length hair fell in loose waves that started out raven-black at the roots and faded to white at the tips. Sensuous and full, his lips were made for kissing. Black eyeliner and shadow lent a distant, haunted air to his icy blue gaze. 

Acacia silently blessed her bestie for insisting she wear her favorite crushed velvet baby-doll dress. The forest green fabric really played up the red tint to her new hair color and the emerald hue of her violet-shadowed eyes. She’d even paired the dress with her best water bra to boost her A-cup bust into visibility. Fishnets and her scuffed, but trustworthy, black patent- leather boots completed the look.

It wasn’t just any Girls Night, after all. Earlier that day, she’d caught her boyfriend– ex-boyfriend– Michael bathing a very-naked Cassandra Worthington in whorls of sweet-smelling vape “smoke.” Fruity Pebbles cereal would never taste the same.

Acacia had sped home in a blur of tears; Liv then saved the day, insisting on a trip to Curl Up N Dye for fresh looks for both of them, followed by a night out on the town. Even if Acacia wasn’t quite yet on the market for a revenge rebound, it couldn’t hurt her confidence to look her best. 

She sighed. Acacia didn’t stand a chance of being noticed next to Liv and her abundant, milky-white curves. Liv had nothing but women on her mind, but the guys wouldn’t know that. Still, a girl could dream. 

Then, the towering rock god before her, who was probably all of six-foot-five, began to sing with a voice like liquid silk, and she forgot all about her fashion choices, and Michael. 

Acacia’s jaw dropped. She may have even mouthed “Oh my God.”

The singer responded with a sudden, playful twist of his indigo-painted lips and a wink totally at odds with the song’s dark lyrics, which he sang an octave lower than the original song. 

She turned around, wondering who’d caught his eye. 

Behind her stood a blond surfer-looking type wearing a tan hoodie that reeked of cannabis and patchouli. He didn’t seem especially fixated on the singer, though. She turned again. The singer was still watching her.  

Certain she was about to make a fool of herself, Acacia pointed at herself and mouthed “Me?”

Laughter like the darkest, earthiest red wine poured through the sound system. “Yes, you,” he answered into the mic, interrupting the flow of the vocals. 

Once again, Acacia could feel everyone’s eyes on her, their mix of envy and curiosity peppering her skin. The song seemed to last longer than she remembered, unless that was just her discomfort at being made the center of attention. The singer gazed into her eyes for a good portion of the song, only occasionally looking up to take in the rest of the audience. 

The last few strains of the cover song finally ebbed away, and the vocalist addressed the crowd. “I am Nyven Ash, and we are Smoke and Crows.” The way he pronounced it, his first name sounded like “knives.” Somehow, that made him seem even sexier– dangerous. “Myca Bay’s wielding that dark and ominous bass. The very talented Aspen Alba’s playing lead guitar. That extended intro we hope you enjoyed was courtesy Parker Rhodes on keys. Last but definitely not least, we have Linden Hawthorne on drums.”

In between each introduction, he paused, giving each musician the opportunity for a short solo and some well-deserved applause. Acacia felt a little sorry for Manic Taco, if they had, indeed, stuck around. The difference in audience response could not have contrasted more starkly. 

Not only was the audience clamoring for more; it also looked as though people from the connecting bar area were flocking to the stage in droves, to get close to Nyven and his band. The crowd pressed forward. Someone jostled her from behind. The breath caught in her throat, but she gulped in some air. It was fine. There was still plenty of space.

“I know tonight is about all of us,” Nyven continued, once the whooping and hollering died down some. “Every single band in tonight’s lineup deserves to be heard. But, before we give up the stage, we’re going to perform one more song for you– an original, called ‘Stone Angels.’” Nyven closed his eyes, and a tense, expectant hush descended, triggered by his dramatics. 

The song began with raw, stripped-down vocals.

“Follow me into the city, the city where silence lies. You’ve nothing to fear there from the stone angels, and their cold, blind eyes. Wipe all traces of your name from the Book of Life. Join me in eternity. Ride the starry tides.”

He opened his eyes at last, his gaze fixed intently on some distant point well beyond the neon-graffiti-splattered brick walls of the Velvet Void. 

The moment his eyes opened, his bandmates eased their way into the song. The glittering bassist, Myca, ground Nyven’s voice with some rhythm, mimicking the “walking bass” style of traditional jazz upright bass Acacia had studied in a college jazz class.

Hawthorne’s percussive drumbeat, deep and slow, rumbled the song forward like thunder pushing gathering clouds. The ginger-haired guitarist plucked out a line of notes that toyed with the deeper tones of Nyven’s voice and those of the bass simultaneously, as the lyrics continued.  

The rhythms pulsed through Acacia’s entire body. She swayed in place, and her eyes drifted closed. Acacia soon lost track of the words, of everything including her own anxieties and her place in time and space. Surrounded by a caressing wall of sound, she felt everything and nothing, seeing only the non-colors perceived behind closed eyes. 

An unusual turn of phrase caught her attention, filtering through the haze, as Nyven sang of eons flying by like hours with but the smallest tithe to pay.

She hadn’t heard anyone speak of tithing since her parents forced her to attend Catholic mass on Sundays as a little girl, when they’d dropped five-dollar bills in the collection basket every week. It wasn’t much, but it was what they could afford. Surely that couldn’t be the type of tithe Nyven meant? It must be metaphorical or symbolic, for some other kind of offering. 

Acacia opened her eyes. Once again, Nyven’s icy-blue gaze connected with her own; his expression had turned openly predatory. Her instincts whispered, “Danger,” and she had a fluttery sensation in her belly like she was on a rollercoaster, spinning and turning upside down. She broke eye contact and began searching frantically for Liv, almost panting from the effort to breathe as anxiety overtook her. 

The room careened as she turned her head. Had she had too much to drink? She thought she’d only had one Vodka Seltzer, heavy on the seltzer. Her thoughts were so muddled, she couldn’t be sure. 

Liv would know. Where was Liv? A mass of outstretched arms and blank faces with frighteningly-glazed expressions sprawled about her in all directions. She’d seen adoring fans before, but this looked like something else altogether. Something was dreadfully wrong. She could feel it. Liv, however, was nowhere to be seen. 

The ceiling and the floor began spinning in opposite directions. Suddenly the music sounded far away, like she was hearing it from underwater. Acacia tumbled into the surfer guy as she nearly lost her footing. 

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked her. 

The question seemed so important, but she found herself unable to speak. Static and feedback echoed through the speakers as chaos erupted onstage, the crowd surging forward and surrounding the band. Through the musical distortions and white noise, as though layered within it, she could swear she heard a voice, male and unnaturally-guttural and definitely not Nyven’s, whispering, “Heresy…” 

The voice drew out the “s” into a hiss. Gooseflesh broke out all over her arms, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. Her ears rang. Again, that sense of something eerily wrong, overwhelmed her. She tried pushing off from the surfer guy’s torso to regain her balance, but everything was still spinning. Acacia slipped down the side of him just as he roped his arms around her; the only embrace she felt was that of a deep, black silence.