Fire and Ice (2 page)

“Lorelei, you'll be late. Aren't you ready yet?”

Mom's sing-song voice wafted up the double staircase. I'd been curled up with a book for over an hour already. Ready for what? Sundays were supposed to be a day of rest, weren't they? Then I remembered. Tomorrow was my seventeenth birthday… and
oh right
, today was my appointment with Dr. Greenbalm. I'd forgotten. She'd booked a session with my Freudian wanna-be psychiatrist.
And they think I have identity issues
. Singing in this competition tomorrow was bringing nothing but trouble. The only thing I had to look forward to was the whole day being over with.

“Lorelei?”

Mom had already dropped the melody and added a note of impatience. Soon she'd hit a high completely-fed-up note and send Brigit up after me. Brigit was our housekeeper. I hated the term
maid
. It sounded so condescending — or perhaps it was just the way mom said it. Her people skills were limited to schmoozing the press and blowing kisses at the nameless faceless men who adored her. I'm not sure when concert pianists became objects of fandom, but judging by the number of sold out tours and autographed pictures she sent out, they were hot. Did I mention
I'm
the one stuck going to therapy?

I tugged on a baby blue t-shirt that was a little too fitted, considering the occasion.
Whatever
— let him psychoanalyze that one — my questionable judgment in event-appropriate clothing.

Heavy footsteps lumbered up the marble staircase.
Took too long
.

I grabbed my brush and yanked it through my willful curls. That's how Gran described them. Thanks to Mom's repeated insistence that I get it cut — it hung past my shoulders in loose spirals, around my slightly rounded face. Medusa minus the snakes. It was brown. Not auburn, or chestnut, or russet. Just plain brown. It was shiny through, I liked that. See? Perfectly healthy self-image.

I peered at my reflection once more, wondering if I should bother with lip gloss.

There was a light rap on the door before it swung open.

“Lorelei, you mother is waiting on you.”

It was the voice that matched the footsteps. Brigit O'Malley, our Irish housekeeper, plodded into my bedroom as I gave up and tossed the brush onto the bed. She made a face and immediately retrieved it, putting it back in its rightful place.

“Brigit, you know I would have put it away. You don't have to clean up after me.” I gave her a warm smile.

“I know, luv, you're the tidy one in the house.” She winked.

Brigit was Neil's sister, and she was like a nanny to me. Upsetting her would bother me way more than upsetting my mom did. My mom and I loved one another, and usually we got along great. But I admit, I derived a sort of immature pleasure from getting her riled sometimes. Maybe I should open with that at Dr. Greenbalm's.

“Anyway, I'm ready. Just tell her to chill. For $250 an hour they can both afford to wait thirty seconds.” It was pricey to get a consult on a Sunday.

She furrowed her brows, but I could tell she was biting back a smile.

“Let's go, missy. Enough of yer smart talk. Go on—" She gave me a gentle shove out the door.

“Remind me why I can't just stay with you while Mom's gone?” I sounded like a three year old. I felt like one too. Whiny and petulant were my only moods when I had to pack up my stuff to be shipped off to Camilla's. Remember the wicked witch from
every
fairytale? Camilla could have been a stand in for any one of them.

Before Gran passed away, I used to look forward to Mom's tours. I loved hanging out with her, picking herbs from her garden, and concocting what seemed like magic potions. I learned so much from her, and she was the only one who knew the full extent of my healing abilities.

“Don't be silly, you know your mum would have none of it. And it's not my place to meddle.”

My shoulders fell. She was right. Mom would never go for it.

She offered a sympathetic smile. Brigit knew how awful my great aunt was.
Everyone
did. It was simple. I disliked Camilla and I adored Brigit. She didn't treat me like a freak, no matter how strange I acted.

“Right, now off you go.”

I scrambled out the door, just as Mom started leaning on the horn. I climbed into the passenger seat as she flashed her withering, put-out glare, the one I'd seen way too often to even register an impact.

“I have to be at the airport in less than an hour. Honestly, Lorelei, you'd think I was doing this for my own benefit.” She gave an exasperated sigh and revved the engine.

Yep, that's pretty much what I thought. I ignored her, fixing my gaze dead ahead. She glanced over at me once more, her cutting blue eyes taking in my appearance from head to toe. I don't know why, but I secretly loved the fact that I had my father's dark brown eyes.

“That's what you're wearing? It's not a rock concert.”

I'll admit, a lot of the fights between us were my fault — I had a quick temper and a shortage of patience — but then I came by it honestly.

The car was already turning out of the driveway when I put my hand on the door handle. “Do you want me to go change? There's my black cut off `Wanna Bite' tank-top I've been dying to wear.”

Again with the withering stare. We drove the fifteen minute trip to the city in silence.

Dr. Greenbalm was always running late. It wasn't unusual to wait at least twenty minutes for my appointments. The only thing worse than a doctor's office waiting room, was a doctor's office waiting room trying to be something else. Greenbalm's waiting room smacked of trying too hard not to fit the mold. Instead of uncomfortable chairs too close to one another, the room was furnished in techno nightclub decor. Complete with a reception counter which looked more like the bar, and a bleach blond receptionist-slash-bartender. Nothing about this place said “tell me your problems.” It might, however make someone want to drink their troubles away at the nearest pub.

Fortunately, the office and the doctor were more like what you'd expect to find, a Sigmund Freud-look-a-like behind a massive mahogany desk.

Dr. Greenbalm sat in his leather armchair decked in a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches — so cliché.

“Lorelei. Please, make yourself comfortable. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long.”

I glanced at the black leather lounger in the center of the room as I passed by and dropped into my usual seat next to the window. There was something comforting about knowing an escape was nearby even if we were on the second floor.

“How are you today?”

Well, let's see, the head cheerleader hates my guts and plans on ruining me in a vocal competition I don't want to go to, but have to, because my mother invited a talent scout to witness my humiliation. That is, if I don't puke and pass out first.
“I'm good.”

“Excellent. Where did we leave off?” He thumbed through his notes and then squinted up at me above the round spectacles perched on his nose. “I believe you were telling me about the dreams.”

“They weren't dreams,” I blurted then bit down on my lip.

"No?" He arched an eyebrow.

“Um, I mean some of it… er… seemed quite real.”

“All right, Lorelei.” Scribble, scribble, scribble. “Tell me about the first night you remember the music coming to you.”

I sighed. We'd been over this before. Multiple times. Ever since Mom decided my non-existent performance two years ago must have been caused by stage fright, and I was in need of psychiatric help to fix it before I caused her any further embarrassment. I don't know what they wanted from me exactly. What was I supposed to say?
Hi, my name is Lorelei Kaylen Alundra, and I see shadow faeries
? “I was about four, I think.”

“That was around the time your father left, was it not?”

“Pretty sure we covered that too,” I mumbled, chewing on my thumbnail. My twin sister died at birth; Dad couldn't handle it and he left when I was four. A short while later, an officer showed up at our door and told us he'd been killed in an accident. I remember it because it had been pouring rain the entire day, and yet while standing in the driveway with my mom, the man in uniform had somehow remained completely dry, almost as if he repelled the water. Not that I'd tell anyone
that
memory. My mom fell apart, but I remember not really knowing what to think. I felt like I'd lost someone special, but I never really believed he was gone. I guess I held on to the unreasonable hope that the dark faerie would somehow keep him safe.

Since then it's been me and Mom, for the few months of the year she's actually in town and not touring. The rest of the time she'd leave me with Gran, and then after she passed, with Gran's sister, Camilla. As for me, it had been years since I last heard the music. My invisible Faerie muse was probably as appalled as the rest of the crowd with my first and last live performance; although no one could have been more disappointed than my mother. Since then, I hadn't so much as hummed a note in public, until recently.

He ignored my uncooperative attitude. “Indulge me. Tell me what you remember.”

“Fine. It's the same dream I've had for years. He strolls out of my closet and into my room, hovering over me like an angel. Only I knew he wasn't an angel. The black wings were a tip off.” Shifting in my chair, I continued. “He tells me my voice belongs to him now, and long, icy fingers reach for my throat. When I open my mouth to scream, nothing comes out and I wake up in a cold sweat. It's the same every time.”

“Good. Now let me ask you again, why are you so certain this was not your subconscious dealing with the death of your father?”

I straightened, and glared at him. “Because it had nothing to do with my father. I know he's gone. How can I miss someone I never really knew?”

Dr. Greenbalm peered across his long desk at me, the pale grey sky reflecting off his lenses.

“Yes, when we last spoke you were adamant about that. I'd like to know why. How do you know?”

“I don't know how I know… I just know.” My gaze wandered to the window. We'd arrived at the same impasse we'd hit so many times before. I knew this wasn't about my father, because it wasn't a dream. Not even close.

More scribbling. What was he writing anyway?

“Let's move on. Next you said you met him.” He waited for my reply.

“I didn't recognize him. But I knew who he was. We were in a bookstore, reaching for the same book at the same time. I remember it well, because the book was glaringly out of place — dark fairytales in the midst of the healthy cooking section. Plus, there was also the temperature thing.”

“The temperature thing?”

“The unbelievable cold of his touch wasn't something I could forget… like the icy hand of death.” I paused.

“And the third dream?” I must have made a face or something because he corrected himself. “Or rather, the third
occasion
?”

“Two years ago.” My patience was as short as his memory. This whole session had started off wrong. I wasn't usually this easily irritated… unfocused.

“Only this time you spoke to him?”

“Yes. Well, no. I mean sort of. Look, I've already told you this,” I snapped, pulling my knees up under my chin in the oversized armchair.

He gave me a patient nod, making more notes. “Tell me about it again,” he encouraged.

I wondered what he'd write if I jumped up and smacked him with his own notebook.

“It was his figure… backstage… when I was about to perform. He warned me I owed him, and only him, my song. That if I chose to sing without his consent I'd…”

I could tell by the look on his face there was no use in continuing. What was the point, anyway? There was only so much I could say. I could never tell him the truth and expect to walk out of his office. If I told him what really happened to me in my room that night, he'd have me strapped in a straight-jacket and checked into the nearest psych ward.

Perhaps he sensed my mood because Greenbalm changed his tactics. Removing his glasses, he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands under his chin. “So, Lorelei, you believe this man gave you your singing voice? And without his permission you will not be able to perform. Is that correct?”

“More or less… It's really just… complicated.” I've always heard music in my head. But not the way real musicians do, like connecting to a muse. This was a disembodied voice in the darkness that sang to me since I was a kid… and then composed the score for me to sing. The weird part is I can't sing… except for his music. Everything else comes out in a croak. “The last time I tried to sing in public, I stood in front of a room full of people at the swanky charity benefit Mom had organized, and threw up. Not a single note came out. That was two years ago. I left the stage in tears. Mom was mortified — hence the therapy,” I said, motioning to him. I returned to gazing out the window, desperately wishing I was on the outside looking in.

The walls were going up. I could feel them, that protective fortress I'd hidden behind my whole life. It was safer to hide than to trust.

“Since then I've thrown up before any type of performance. Not that I perform much anymore.”

“Until tomorrow,” he said gently.

I nodded. A cool breeze blew past me, carrying the faint tang of herbs. I stared at the window. It was closed, sealed shut.

“Lorelei, where did you go? Did you have a breakthrough?” He actually looked sincere.

Yeah right, you are such a
brilliant
shrink. I finally see the misplaced Electra complex manifested as performance anxiety brought on by latent psychosexual tendencies.

“No. But I'm sure I'll survive tomorrow night,” I lied.

I looked at the clock. It was annoyingly large for someone so often late.