Chapter 9: 9 – Trace

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Trace wanted to turn to look at the speaker, but kept himself still. Eye contact was uncomfortable and could invite an attack, two good reasons to avoid it.

“I’m, um, pretty out of practice on most classical music,” he said, shrugging off his denim jacket so the sleeves wouldn’t interfere and pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “But I remember ‘Für Elise’ off by heart. My mom loved it. Is that okay?”

“Oh, yes. A beautiful piece with deep meaning to you? Please.”

Trace swallowed, nodded, and laced his fingers together for a quick stretch.

Nervousness faded, washed away by the familiar music. His hands knew every note, every motion, as the rest of the world stopped existing for that long. When he reached the end, he switched to ‘Ode to Joy’ instead. Whatever was happening, whatever was going to happen, he had this.

“Oh, that was lovely,” his unseen companion said softly. “Gentle joyful music on such a ferocious night. So much love and passion in it. But not the precision I would expect from a professional musician. That was not a complaint, only an observation.”

Trace shrugged. “It’s hard to make a living at music, and it’s expensive. After my dad left, things changed for me and my mom. Practicality had to win.”

“I see. You said your mother loved it. She’s gone?” The question was unexpectedly gentle.

“Yes. But it’s too late for me to make a start now. I could maybe find a band to join, if I moved to a bigger city. Something local and amateur. I can do current music too. I haven’t found the nerve. Or motivation. Or something.”

“That’s a shame. Do you only play piano?”

“I made a start on drums. Had to give it up. But I can sing.”

“Would you? Something newer, that you can play with. Not much, nothing to strain your voice or hands with no warmup, just... something you like.”

Trace shrugged. The first thing that came to mind was ‘Mad World,’ Gary Jules’ simpler cover of Tears For Fears.

“One more?”

“Sure, I guess.” He thought briefly, then shrugged and did Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.

“That was a bit more optimistic. I quite like your voice. And the way you play.”

“Um, thank you. But... who are you? And how can the house that I came into now look like it’s in perfect condition instead of being a wreck?”

“Oh, I’m Richard Mallory. Welcome to my house. As for its current condition, for that, my wonderful and very complicated wife and her familiar are responsible. With, I might add, my enthusiastic blessings.” Trace heard motion behind him, which was enough that he could keep himself from jumping when a hand was laid lightly on each shoulder. “But the details on that are not anything I can currently explain. What I can tell you is that we do not accept the psychopathic or the abusive into this family, and by family I mean all those who call this house their home. Guests are safe from death or harm. Hallowe’en night is long, and it can be a challenge for those who find their way in and discover that there is no way out until sunrise. But there is nothing to fear. The worst that can happen is that you leave here at sunrise, believing that you fell asleep and saw nothing.”

The man behind him smelled gently of unusual things—a light unfamiliar musk, a suggestion of mint, something sweet—but it wasn’t unpleasant. The hands on his shoulders were light and cool.

“If that’s the worst, what’s the best?”

The man, Richard, laughed, and that was quite a nice sound. “Perhaps worst is the wrong word. For some, that is the best. Everyone who comes through the door is unique, and so, what is best for them is always unique as well.” Trace felt him shift position, then felt warm breath near his ear. “It would be breaking the rules for me to tell you too much, even if I would very much like to. I have a weakness for, among others, attractive younger men with talent and passion for music. But I can tell you this. The way to find the best road is to be open to new experiences.” He straightened. “Dora, my beauty, will you wake up and dance for us?”

A full-sized statue near the window... moved.

Somehow, there was nothing sudden or jarring about it, any more than if it had been someone simply sitting very still.

The statue looked like a slender woman with long hair loose down to her waist, barefoot, in some kind of very full long skirt and a top with fancy sleeves.

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As she softened into life, more detail became clear. The skirt was sheer and gauzy and white. Her top was a very minimal strip across her breasts, which might be attached to the shoulder-baring dramatic drapy sleeves. That appeared to be equally filmy.

Under it, she seemed to be wearing a glittery, skin-tight leotard or catsuit or something that went from her toes right up over her chest to her collarbone, with separate tight sleeves from her wrists to her upper arms.

Then he realized what he was seeing: those were scales. As he watched, they shifted colour, darkening from alabaster-white all the way to black. Her bare skin, however, remained pale. Her long hair deepened to a brilliant candy-apple red.

“As though I could ever refuse that request,” she laughed, stretching lazily, then spinning in place, her skirt flaring out around her. “But I need music.”

“Of course.” Richard paused. “My manners are terrible. I neglected to ask your name.”

“I’m Trace,” Trace said automatically, his attention mostly on the vibrantly-alive woman who couldn’t seem to stop moving, but who had been a statue a moment before.

“And I’m Dora,” the dancer said. The loose sheer sleeves fluttered with every motion. The skirt and top weren’t exactly much help for modesty, since he could see scales right through them, but then, modesty might not be exactly relevant. “Play for me, please, Trace, Master.”

Trace tore his gaze away from her, and scanned the room for anything else he might have missed.

There did seem to be more instruments around than he’d noticed before, but then, it had been dark and the flashlight hadn’t given him much range. He hadn’t noticed a human-sized statue, either.

Richard moved around into sight. He was, Trace thought, old enough to look mature and make those clothes look perfectly natural—fairly straightforward, although close-fitting, black pants and glossy black shoes, a collarless white shirt with the top three buttons unfastened and the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, a waistcoat buttoned over it that was all in deep sapphire and amethyst brocade. He had a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, the ends hanging down at the front, something silky in a purple and black pattern. His ash-brown hair was just dark enough for the silvering at the temples to show. Every movement was confident and controlled.

That smile wasn’t flashy, but it struck him as genuinely friendly.

Richard strolled over to... that was a drum kit. An essentially modern rock-style full-sized kit, although realistically it could have come from any time in the past few decades. Calmly, comfortably, he seated himself behind it and picked up a set of sticks.

“Your lead, Trace.”

Trace looked at the dancer... Dora. “Fast? Slow?”

She laughed. “Fast, please. Something with lots of energy.”

Trace shrugged. He hadn’t had much inclination around work lately for picking up new songs, but there was plenty to be said for 80s music and his mother had a substantial collection. So he started Depeche Mode’s ‘Just Can’t Get Enough.’

Dora laughed again, spun happily in place, and began to move. The black scales shimmered and changed in ripples of colour, right through the whole spectrum and back around again, endlessly. He thought they were faintly luminescent as well. She didn’t need a spotlight or any kind of fancy effects; she had her own, and while that should probably have been frightening, it somehow looked perfectly right and natural.

Richard came in behind him, adding a simple beat but no more.

It felt absolutely amazing. No audience, at least as far as Trace could tell. Not really any pressure, either. Just the music, and Dora dancing to it with a joy that reflected Trace’s own feelings. She was graceful, and agile, and energetic; he didn’t know much about the subject but from his own perspective, she was absolutely amazing.

Without much thought, just because it felt right, he moved into a-ha’s ‘Take On Me’—not the easiest song to sing, but he knew from experience that he could do it. And from there, because he couldn’t bear to stop and let the moment end, into Soft Cell’s ‘Tainted Love.’

As that one wound down, Richard laughed. “Enough, pause for a break before you end up broken.” He stood up and stretched, then walked over to a rope that dangled near one of the doors and pulled on it. “I can’t fault the enthusiasm, however.”

Dora spun to a stop and perched on the end of the piano bench to slip an arm around Trace for a quick, and rather nice, half-hug. The colours of her scales were settling now, melting back towards that dazzling black. “That was fun! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And yeah, it was.” Beyond fun, in fact. He hadn’t felt that kind of joy and completion in recent memory.

“Tea and cookies for three, please,” he heard Richard say at the door, and then the other man came back. “Maggie’s going to fetch us something to drink. Come have a seat over here, it’s more comfortable. Let’s talk.”

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