The Griffin's Secret Page 4

  Stubby fell back and trudged beside him. “Pretty as an angel, ain’t she?”

  Jackson faked a grin. “I’m not much for angels. The less virtuous, the better.” Maybe that would satisfy Stubby.

  The man glared at him. “Sometimes angels can be tempting. But you’d be smart to steer clear.”

  “I’m trying, brother.” Something about her kept pulling him closer. Even now, his effort to stay back was like dragging a heavy weight.

  “Try harder.” Stubby grabbed his shirt and dragged him to the fence where an eager girl waited. “Plenty of these to go around.” His wink held no friendliness this time.

  “Got it.” Loud and clear. In the past, loneliness sometimes had overtaken him and forced him into a stranger’s arms, but getting close to anyone posed a risk. He strode ahead, easily outpacing Stubby. Work would clear his head.

  Layla slipped in the side stage and stood away from view of the audience, but in line of sight to where the band would play. Jackson lingered on the opposite side of the stage, pretending to secure wiring until Layla met his gaze. Lost in her dark eyes, he wanted to run to her, hold her until sadness no longer haunted her.

  As if she were invisible, the Malcontent members strode past her and took up their instruments. Entering last, guitar strapped to his back, Mal paused long enough to kiss Layla’s head, then swaggered out and waved to fans. A deafening roar drowned out his welcome, and he scowled at the reverb—and at Jackson.

  The piercing glance scraped across his nerves, startling him back to work. He stepped down from the stage as Kev scrambled to adjust the volume. The sound-mixing board sat front and center of the house, hidden from the audience but with a full view of the stage—the perfect place to keep watch over Layla.

  Mal’s gritty, deep voice grated through the speakers. “Who’s ready to rock?”

  Another cheer swelled as Jackson feigned a check of the plugs.

  A nod to his bandmates, and Mal launched into the opening song. The spotlight concentrated on him, lending him an otherworldly glow.

  In the wings, Layla appeared hardly able to hold herself up. Eyes closed, face pinched. With every strum of Mal’s guitar strings, she trembled, body jerking.

  Jackson strode to where Kev stood by the controls. “Is she all right?”

  “Leave her be.”

  At Kev’s solemn reply, he turned. “She looks hurt. Shouldn’t someone—”

  “Leave. Her. Be.” Green lightning flashed in Kev’s eyes. He shoved Jackson with enough force to knock him over and with more power than mere muscle could possibly have produced. Some other strength had slammed into Jackson, invisible, but like hitting a wall.

  Catching his balance, Jackson stumbled back, out of his reach. So that’s how it was. Mal must have all the roadies under his spell. Or under Layla’s? Maybe he’d guessed right about her touch earlier.

  Trancelike, she swayed, eyes still shut. A mist pulsed between her and Mal. No, not back and forth—one way, from her to him. Somehow, she boosted the rock star’s performance. Mal fed off her energy. The more he drew from her, the weaker she seemed to become. And the better he played guitar.

  Jackson peered past the roadie blocking his way. “What the hell’s going on?”

  The green glow returned to Kev’s eyes. “None of your concern. Go help Rad. Do your job.”

  Must be my cue to act like a zombie. The tattoo, burning hot on his back, said otherwise. “Help Rad. Gotcha.” A subversive glance revealed Layla securely in the grips of the song, and he froze. “I—”

  “Go.” Another invisible shot from Kev.

  This one knocked Jackson on his ass, legs splayed up against a speaker. If he tried to get to Layla, he’d probably end up MIA like the previous roadies.

  This wasn’t the moment to help her. But eventually, the right one would come along. When it did, he hoped he’d make the right choice. For her sake and his.

  Chapter 3

  The bunk’s thin mattress never felt so good to Layla as it did after a Malcontent concert. Cushy throw pillows lining the three sides lent a homey touch. Almost. In her weakened condition, she burrowed into their center and curled into herself, unable to stop trembling, unable to clear her head of unwanted thoughts. Tonight, another show and tomorrow night and two nights after that…

  It would be another long tour. By the time the band wrapped up this one, Mal would already have the next one planned. Ride the wave to the top, he had said, but for Layla, it was more like a tsunami. Pushing her deeper under each time.

  She might have given up and let herself drown, except this time, Jackson had shown up, an unexpected beacon of hope in the darkness crowding her.

  Yet he treated her like she was poison. What had she expected last night? Him to charge past Kev onto the stage? He had tried. Through her haze, despite the enchantment locking her to Mal and the guitar, she’d glimpsed Jackson fighting with Kev. He had wanted to help, but why? Others had tried before because they wanted the guitar, and Mal’s fame, for themselves. Jackson had focused only on her.

  Her restful state abandoned her as a man leaned his elbows on her bed. Her energy levels dropped. She didn’t need to look to know it was Mal.

  “How’s our princess?”

  “Fine.” Any other response would have brought down some threat on her. Or a yawn. She’d learned a long time ago not to bother complaining. Or asking. Or attempting any meaningful conversation.

  “Wonderful.”

  If only his soothing tone came from a warm and fuzzy place, but Mal wouldn’t know a real emotion if it stabbed his tiny, black heart.

  She sighed. “What do you want, Mal?”

  With his ever-present smile, he asked, “Can’t I drop by to check on you with no ulterior motive?”

  That would be a first. “Of course.” Then you can drop dead.

  “I brought a treat for my sweet.” He held out a travel mug. Steam curled in wisps from the opening.

  The scent of mocha teased her, but she knew what the cup really hid—another dose of potion to enhance their bond and his performance. Total overkill that added nothing to either but used up every bit of her energy.

  “You’re so thoughtful.” When it concerned himself.

  A low-wattage smile. “Anything for you, love.”

  Because he wouldn’t leave until satisfied she’d drunk every drop, she sipped. “Delicious. Thank you.”

  “We have to keep you at your peak.”

  More like keep his shows at their peak. “Your fans apparently appreciate it.” Through the thin dressing room walls, their ecstatic moans had carried into her tiny compartment. If the second encore hadn’t completely drained her, she’d have dragged herself off the cot and out of earshot.

  A tsk, and he traced a finger along her collarbone. “Oh, don’t be a sour puss. How many times have I invited you to join us?”

  In the middle of another sip, she jerked back, and the mocha liquid choked her. “We don’t want to complicate our working relationship, do we? It might constrict the flow of power and ruin everything.”

  His cold smile iced her heart. “Drink up, love.”

  She drained the last from the cup.

  He tucked the blanket tighter around her. “You think you want your freedom.”

  A pinprick wounded her heart. Yes. More than anything.

  He patted her cheek. “Be careful what you wish for, my dear.”

  “Why?” The word slipped out before she could stop it.

  He froze, all good-natured pretense on the surface, but beneath roiled a storm ready to burst. “Because you might get your wish, of course.” He leaned closer to whisper, “And then wish you hadn’t.” He slipped the mug from her grasp.

  Knowing a slight would infuriate him, she rolled over and faced the wall. “I need to rest if you want tonight to go well.”

  A beat of strained silence. “Yes. You’re right, princess. Rest well. A larger audience awaits.”<
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  A tear slipped out, and she squeezed her eyes shut. No. A bigger crowd meant he’d amp up his performance, no matter how much it tore at her.

  He strode away, whistling.

  Freedom. Yes, she’d have it, and soon. And every wish she made thereafter would be for freedom to last forever.

  For now, her only escape was her mind. She burrowed away from reality, where she wouldn’t feel Mal’s touch. Where his hot, horrid breath became the tickle of a summer breeze on a faraway beach, and the rocking of the bus became the waves lapping the shore. Sun warmed her skin. A man spoke in deep, low tones that soothed, caressed. Though the sun obscured his face, she recognized him by the outline of his figure: Jackson. Since his arrival, his presence had a palpable essence of strength, honor, and goodness. Her unfocused, fluttering self was drawn to the flame of his being, and she wanted the burn to consume her. Only then could her true self arise.

  He trailed soft kisses along her shoulder. With a lazy smile, she curled toward him. “Mm, yes.”

  “Someone’s in a good mood.”

  The voice rumbling from him shocked her eyes open. Mal. Gasping, she backpedaled, halted only by the window. “Stop.”

  His face turned cold, hard, and unfeeling, even his smile. The only sign of life showed in his eyes. Blazing with fire. Angry fire. Aimed at her. “A moment ago, you wanted more.”

  “No.”

  “Ah, because you thought I was someone else?”

  Oh, God. “No.” If Mal guessed who, Jackson would be in terrible danger. “What do you want?”

  The slightest twitch in his eye. “It’s nearly time.”

  “Already?” Yes, the light in the bus had changed from a natural glow to a harsh electric glare.

  “We’re meeting with a Rolling Stone reporter in a minute.”

  Oh, no. She couldn’t sit through another session of a rock journalist fawning over Mal. “I’m still exhausted.”

  His expression placid, he studied her. After a moment, his lips soured. “Fine. But don’t leave the bus. And no one else is allowed to enter.”

  Most likely, Mal would ensure as much with a protection spell. All the better for her. No interruptions. “Of course. I’ll be resting.”

  His cold eyes said he didn’t believe one word. “I’ll return for you. Make sure you’re ready and don’t dawdle.”

  “I never do.” She’d meant to say, I won’t. She bit her lip and waited for a reprimand. The silence that followed was almost worse. She had no clue what to make of it.

  Bowing his head, he backed away a few steps, then swirled to stride off.

  Drama queen. But one who could make her life miserable if she didn’t cooperate. After his footsteps faded and the inevitable female screams receded with them, she swung her legs over the side and dropped to the floor. In a few minutes, she’d dressed but didn’t feel ready, not mentally. Not emotionally.

  The guitar. Mal hadn’t brought it with him. Just what she needed to center herself. If he ever caught her touching the instrument, he’d be blinded by fury, and certainly unleash his temper on her.

  She tested the doorknob to his compartment. It turned freely. She slipped inside, her knees bumping the bed. Rumpled sheets smelled of sweat and sex. She crept along the wall to where the guitar stood in its metal stand, lacquered white body gleaming despite the dim room. Hopefully, he had forgotten to cast a separate protection spell over the instrument. He’d grown more careless in that regard, and she used every opportunity.

  The odor of Mal too repugnant to bear, she couldn’t stay in the room. After wrapping her hand around the Stratocaster’s neck, she held her breath and pulled. Easily, the guitar came out of the stand. She released a laughing breath and carried the instrument into the hall. She didn’t dare stray too far so remained beside the closed door. After wrapping the strap around her, she stroked its smoothness. Hard use necessitated replacement of the strings numerous times, but the guitar was the same one used by Jimi himself. A more potent magic than any witch could conjure emanated from the pristine white body.

  Excitement shivered through her. She had to hurry and use Mal’s absence to her full advantage.

  First, she had to cast her own little magic. A quick chant of a basic insulation spell ensured no one outside the bus would hear one note.

  A deep breath, and she closed her eyes to concentrate on the song. She’d been working on the same one for weeks. Maybe now she could finally lay out the basic structure.

  Gentle strums coaxed the opening notes. If only she could plug the cord and play with juice…but she couldn’t be certain her spell would contain the sound, and that would invite disaster. Mal would make certain she never had access to the Fender again. An unbearable thought and the premise behind the lyrics, a poetic expression of her lamentable situation and sad lifestyle.

  She poured the frustration and anger into the guitar, strums turning to hard strikes. Her voice carried the grit of her emotions, releasing them in sublime anguish. Her mind began to fill in the blanks where the song had been lacking before, and she repeated those sections to commit them to memory. The very last part still stymied her, and the tune butted into a virtual wall. She tried again and hit it again.

  With a loud groan, she brought her fingers down across the strings hard. The stark reality of her surroundings slammed into her. Someone was standing in the aisle of the bus. Watching her. A sharp intake of breath, and she jerked her head up, ready to fend off another would-be thief.

  The man in the shadows eased nearer. Instead of treachery, his face held awe.

  Jackson. No one should have been able to cross the magical barrier. How had he? And how in the hell had he escaped the fate of the other roadies who were imprisoned by spells to carry out orders for Mal without question? His dark eyes displayed no greenish glow. Was he somehow immune? Did it really have something to do with the griffin?

  Why had he come—for her or the guitar?

  * * * *

  Mesmerized by her singing, Jackson couldn’t find his own voice. He waited for Layla to speak, but she stared back at him, at first with fear, then pleasant surprise. Then confusion.

  Say something. Anything. “I…” Christ, he was such an asshole. Gripping the guitar, she looked ready to bolt. Because the guitar belonged to Mal, she must be afraid he’d find out.

  Hoping to put her at ease, he forced a grin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I heard someone playing and…” And what? Decided to break into the bus to hear more?

  “You heard?” Her gaze flicked to the front where the bus door was open. “No one was supposed to be able to.”

  “Sorry.” Said that already. He pressed his lips tight. Probably shouldn’t mention he had to pull on the door twice before it opened.

  A wince, and she squeezed her eyes shut as if in pain.

  He stepped closer. “You sounded amazing. What were you singing?”

  Lips in an adorable pout, she looked up at him. “Nothing.”

  He risked another step. “No, definitely something. After hearing a few notes, I wanted to hear more.”

  She huffed and struck a sour chord. “Yeah well, good luck with that.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been writing the same one for weeks. I’m stuck.” She turned her focus to the guitar, staring at it like it was the hardest puzzle in the universe.

  “Maybe I could help.” A mental grunt. Right. How long had it been since he’d attempted any lyrics? He hadn’t been able to write a half-decent tune since… He shook off the memory.

  At least she appeared to consider the offer. Or maybe she stared at him because she wondered if he’d lost his mind. He nodded at the guitar and sat cross-legged in front of her. “Let’s hear what you have so far.”

  She arched her brow. After a beat, she said, “All right.” She sang softly, her voice mellow but gritty, like she exposed her inner self in the song.

  She probably did. The lyrics hit him ha
rd. The yearning to be free, to find herself and her place in the world where she wasn’t an outsider. The need to keep searching, traveling to every part of the world to look for truth. Real happiness and serenity, the best kind of bliss. His heart twisted and swelled. He wanted to take her in his arms so badly.

  She crumpled over the guitar. “That’s all I have.”

  The abrupt halt caught him off guard. “Hm. How about…” He hummed a few notes, then softly sang the first words that came to mind.

  Eyes narrowed, she tilted her head, watching him. She strummed and sang along.

  Their voices mingled in an almost erotic way, his deep tenor sliding beneath her angelic soprano, demon and angel making love in midair. His focus sharpened on the fullness of her lips, the sensual movement twining his desire deeper. More electric. His chest tightened, heart threatening to explode.

  Beneath heavy lids, her dark eyes seared heat into his as she sang. The words took on new meaning, a yearning for love. For him.

  Snap the hell out of it. You’re fucking dreaming.

  Ending the song, she dropped her head over the guitar, then threw it back in a laughing squeal, her face alight with so much happiness, she glowed. “I can’t believe it. Thank you. Seriously, you have no idea how many nights this song has kept me awake. I’m amazed at how easily you plugged into the melody. Like you knew the song better than I did.”

  He suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or how to sit without looking like a stick had been shoved up his butt. He forced a smile. “High praise. Thank you. We make a good pair.” He swallowed hard.

  She turned shy and looked away.

  He furrowed his brow. “I mean, collaborators. You know, on the song.”

  “I get it. And I agree. About being a good team. Songwriting team,” she corrected herself. Then froze, eyes wide. Outside, girls squealed. Her gaze iced his. Mal was coming.

  He scrambled to his feet and helped her up. “Put the guitar back quick.”

  She whirled and vanished into a tiny room, and in a second returned empty-handed. After closing the door, she blew out a breath and smoothed her hair. “Get out. Now.”