Van Bender and the Burning Emblems (The Van Bender Archives #1) (4 page)

I kind of understood, but certainly didn’t believe him. Plus, the warnings in my head had grown stronger. Could I politely tell him I thought he’d lost it? Probably not. I mean, he may have been crazy, but he was still Nick Savage. You don’t just say to Nick Savage, “I think you’re a raving lunatic.”

He handed me the Cask. “Take it. Keep it with you during your performance. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

I took it and frowned. It was light and cold. “It’s not going to... .” I waved it as if making a rabbit appear out of a top hat. “I don’t know—make my legs disappear, or something. Is it?”

He laughed.

I wanted a reason to get rid of the thing. “I don’t want to break it. I get pretty crazy when I’m playing.”

“It’s not nearly as fragile as it looks. Put it in your pocket. It’ll get heavy. And warm. At intermission we’ll swap the wooden part out. Meet me in the bathroom just off stage.”

The knocking at the door became a pounding.

“Richie!” Mom screeched. “Get out here this instant!”

I got to my feet, still holding the Cask, just a little weirded out.

“Go on, son,” he said. “Just drop it into your pocket.”

What did I have to lose? Nothing, as far as I could tell. Besides, this was Nick Savage. I’d finally met another rock star. Despite his weirdness, it felt like a victory. A significant one.

Nodding, I shrugged and dropped the Cask into the front pocket of my True Religion jeans. Personally, I thought the jeans were about like any other pair, but the execs at my record label said I should wear expensive pants. You know, for my image. My T-shirt, though, was a simple orange thing from American Eagle.

I headed for the door. I certainly didn’t want Mom and the show manager breaking in and seeing Nick.

“I got to go.”

“I’ll wait in the bathroom,” Nick said. “Whatever you do, don’t let anyone see that Cask.”

I stopped at the door. From outside, somewhere, the crowd cheered. My heart began to pound.

Nick Savage was in my dressing room. He’d apparently appeared out of nowhere. He seemed perfectly insane.

I was ignoring the red flags going off in my head.

It was all too awesome to believe.

I exited the dressing room, well on my way to making the biggest mistake of my life.

Chapter 6: Safe from what?

I can always sense when Richie is up to no good. I can’t always prove it, but I can sense it a mile away.

-Elizabeth Van Bender

As we walked to the stage, I endured quite a lecture from Mom and the show manager. But I kept silent. When we reached the side of the stage, the manager peeled away, and Mom turned to me, her face solemn in the dimness. Beyond the curtain, the crowd chanted my name. My band mates waited under spotlights. The curtain was down.

“Richie,” she said. Her voice trailed off as she looked at me with concern. Her expression raised my fears that she wanted to cancel the concert.

I tried to move past her. But she grabbed my shoulders.

“I thought you wanted me on stage,” I said.

She shook her head. “You’re getting older.”

“Aren’t we all? Do you know something I don’t?”

A sad smile touched the corner of her mouth. I’d seen that expression a hundred times back during the cancer. She’d always looked at me like that when trying to put on a brave face, when I was sicker than a dog on a Tilt-A-Whirl. She’d done so much for me back then. The effects lingered. I couldn’t question her good intentions on my behalf.

“I wish,” she said, “you understood. The world is scary. I’m afraid for you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That’s the kind of thing kids are obligated to roll their eyes at.

“Have fun out there,” she said. “Don’t do anything rash.”

“Mom, I haven’t done anything rash since I was in diapers.”

Except, maybe, that the Cask already sat in my pocket.

As if on impulse, she pulled a silver chain from around her neck and over her head. She reached to place it around my neck, and I let her.

She always wore the simple necklace with a silver pendant of a stick figure standing inside a circle, arms stretched to the side. A little diamond was stuck into it, where the stick head met the stick body. It was warm against my skin. She tucked it under my t-shirt.

She smiled. “There. You’re safe. I feel better.”

“Uh, okay. Safe from what?”

“As long as you have that, you’ll be protected.” She kissed me on the cheek, stepped aside, and held one arm out toward the stage. “But if anyone throws lip gloss at you, don’t touch it.”

Mystified, nervous, I stared at her for several seconds before stepping out onto the stage, to enjoy the moment I’d looked forward to for years.

Chapter 7: The power of a crowd

I’ve been to a fair number of concerts in my short life—and not all of them good, believe you me. But Richie’s... Richie should be arrested after his. For attempted involuntary manslaughter. Because it about blew my mind with sheer awesomeness.

-Kurt Strand

Ninety thousand people are a lot of people. And when the curtain lifts after three years of releasing albums and music videos and not doing a single in-person concert—well, those ninety thousand people cheer so loud it hurts your ears, makes you blush, and causes you to nearly miss the beginning of your first song.

As we played the first tune, my knees shook. My mouth dried up. My fingers felt like spaghetti. Because, you know, ninety thousand is a lot of people.

Not that I could actually see most of the crowd jumping up and down and waving arms. Lights shone in my eyes and clouds of flame spit up all over the stage. And I couldn’t hear the crowd particularly well because I had plugs in my ears so I could hear the band and myself, and make adjustments where needed. After all, I still needed to play and sing well.

But while I couldn’t see or hear most of the crowd, I could feel it. Its excitement rolled onto the stage like waves of the ocean on the shore. It filled my bones with energy—almost like the exact opposite from chemo therapy. How many days had I just laid around, stomach nauseous, entire body just drained of all strength and drive? But being in front of that crowd, feeling all its energy focused on me was like the exact opposite of chemo therapy. It was soul therapy.

Even better, shading my eyes, I could see the first few rows of the crowd. At the very front, in the center, stood Sandra, Kurt, and Kurt’s dad, mouths gaping as they sang or cheered. Arms waving. Before the start of my second song, I pointed at them, thanked them for supporting me. They beamed back at me, eyes twinkling, mouths wide in grins.

The crowd cheered them with jealous appreciation, and I jammed on. I sang and I played my favorite guitar, an old Fender from the 90s, a special edition Stratocaster honoring Richie Sambora. The rest of my band stayed generally back, out of the spotlight. I hated that. They deserved more of the cheering, but the show manager had said, “People came to see Richie Van Bender, not some no-name playing drums.” I suppose he was right, but I still thought my band needed more of the glory. I certainly had enough to spare.

At least, so I thought. Until I remembered the Cask.

Caught up in the excitement, I’d nearly forgotten about the Cask until I realized what the incredible weight in my pocket was. It had grown heavier and heavier throughout the show, until I thought my pants might fall down. Luckily, I wasn’t F-Nasty, wearing the pants really low, or I’m sure the Cask would have pulled them to my ankles.

As we finished the second-to-last song before the intermission, the music in my ear buds faded, and for a moment the roar of the crowd filled my senses—my ears and my chest. The stage lights dimmed. The pillars of fire faded. I stood holding my guitar, sweating, looking out over the audience. Thousands of cell phones illuminated the crowd as they filmed the concert for live streaming online. I breathed hard, trying to regain my breath for the next song.

The Cask felt heavy in my pants. And hot.

I reached into my pocket and pulled the Cask out. All but one of the LED lights glowed bright green. The wooden cylinder practically glowed red, and the black bar nearly singed my fingers.

Either Nick Savage was right, or he was playing some kind of cruel joke on me.

I couldn’t wait to get back to him during intermission and ask about the device. What was it, really? What did it do?

The lights went back on. My band started up the next song. I dropped the Cask into my pocket. Nobody seemed to notice that I missed the first bar of my riff, because the crowd had gone bonkers again.

I played on. With the heat of the Cask fresh on my fingers and its weight in my pocket, the energy rolling in from the audience felt like much more than simple excitement.

It felt like power.

And Nick Savage seemed like a wizard genius, not a lunatic.

Chapter 8: I have to go number two

Sometimes Richie takes forever in the bathroom. I’ve thought about taking him to a doctor.

-Elizabeth Van Bender

At intermission, Mom and I met with my band and the stage crew to discuss some tweaks to make to the sound. I soon excused myself to use the bathroom. Mom followed as I left the stage.

“What’s going on?” she said with a frown as we reached the restroom. “You seem unusually cheery. And you look really tired.”

I rolled my eyes and started to open the door.

She grabbed my arm. “What’s going on? What are you planning?”

“Right now I’m planning on using the bathroom.”

She didn’t let go. Her eyes narrowed. For a moment I thought she might step into the bathroom like she’d done with my dressing room.

“Did you want to help?” I said. “It’s a number two.”

She raised her eyebrows and let go. I pushed through the door. It shut with a bang behind me.

I didn’t have time to feel bad for brushing her off like that. Nick stood in front of the mirror, examining his teeth.

“Well, son?” he said. His southern accent again caught me off guard. “How did it go?”

Strange that he called me “son,” but he must have done that with all kids. I pulled the Cask out of my pocket. The metal bar felt hotter than a burrito out of the microwave, and the wooden cylinder throbbed with red heat. I juggled it in my hands as I held it out. The last bulb had lit up.

“It’s like,” I said, “like it just got out of a nuclear explosion!”

He turned to me, and an expression of concerned surprise replaced his excitement. “You look downright tired.”

I felt worse than tired. Dull pain throbbed through my body, even stronger than before the concert. It surprised me. Ever since the cancer, I’d made significant efforts to strengthen my body. In fact, I had a trainer that tortured me daily, keeping my body fit, trim, and as muscular as a fifteen-year-old can get.

So, feeling such weariness surprised me, even if it did take a lot of energy to stay lively in front of ninety thousand people.

Flashes of the concert’s first half blazed through my mind. The crowd responding to my thanking them for coming. The cheering-like-crazy when I had started playing
Pictures in My Head
, my first huge single. And how, when I’d asked them for a moment of silence for cancer victims, the place had become as still as a morgue.

A thrill shot up my spine at it all. I wanted to do another concert the next night. And another the night after that. Actually, in two nights, I would perform at the awards show, right before they awarded the Best Young Entertainer of the Year award. That might just have to do.

The Cask was burning up my hands. I held it toward him. “Why is it so hot?”

He studied me for another moment before turning his attention to the Cask. His eyes brightened. The green light from the LEDs lit his face.

“Let me see that.”

I plopped it into his hands. He hissed, nearly dropping it.

“Holy crap! It’s downright burning up!” His eyes glowed almost as much as the Cask.

“Did it work?” I said. “Did it harvest the power?”

Giving in to my curiosity was easier than heeding the warnings in my head.

He turned back to the counter, placed the Cask next to the sink, and nodded.

“Oh, yeah. It worked all right! All that emotion from ninety thousand people packed into that Cask. I’ve never felt one so hot!”

He popped open the lid of his little black box and pulled out another wooden cylinder. It was hollow. I moved next to him, taking a moment to admire myself standing next to Nick Savage in the mirror. Mom would have freaked.

“What do you want me to do?” I said.

“I’ll take off this wooden part of the Cask. When I do, you plug this new one into the plastic tube. Got it? Do it fast. There’s a portion of emotion in the tube and the bar, here. The emotion will drain into the air if you don’t get the new wooden piece on there right away.”

With the fresh wooden tube, he nudged the Cask over on the counter, so it sat between us. He handed me the new wooden tube. From the black box he pulled a tiny cork. He took a deep breath, widened his eyes at me, then moved his hands with the speed of a master guitarist.

He pinned the black bar down with the fingers of one hand, and with his other pulled off the red-hot wood. With a “pop” it came free of the plastic tube. Half an instant later he plugged the wood with the cork, and dropped it into the black box.

The smell of microwave popcorn filled the air. I pinned the black bar with a forefinger. It burned my skin and one of the green lights went out. Hurrying, I plugged the tube with the fresh wooden cylinder.

The LED lights went out one by one, over about two seconds. The wooden tube turned from cold to warm.

“Excellent job!” Nick said.

“It smells like popcorn?”

He smiled down into the black box, at the full wooden tube. “Pure, raw emotion harvested by a Cask smells like buttery popcorn. Delicious, isn’t it?” He picked up the Cask, giving me a wide-eyed, crooked smile. “Now, get back out there and fill this little guy with even more emotion.”