Dylan Mercer's Arc

Chapter 1 of 6

Dylan Mercer counted six people in the Riffing Tavern, and two of them worked there. His band had one shot at the summer festival every band in the realm dreamed of headlining, and the booker sitting at the back booth had just checked her watch twice in one song. Dylan sang the chorus anyway. His voice landed flat against the neon guitars glowing on the wall. Behind him, Derek Ramone dragged the beat again. Hoot Hendrix stared at his own hand on the fretboard like it belonged to someone else. Luna Basswood retuned mid-verse, her fish-shaped bass buzzing on the low string. The song ended. Nobody clapped. The booker stood up before Dylan could speak into the mic. He caught her at the door. "One more. We've got a new one." "You don't," she said. "You've got four people playing four different songs. Come back when you sound like a band." She left. The door swung shut on the neon sign outside. Dylan walked back to the stage. Derek was already packing a snare. "That's it, right," Derek said. Not a question. "No," Dylan said. "We practice. Tonight. Here. Until we don't sound like that." Hoot lowered his guitar. "I've been coming to practice. You haven't." That landed. Dylan didn't answer it. He unwound the mic cable and plugged back in. Luna sat down on the stage edge, tail flicking, and tuned her bass one more time. They ran the first song. It fell apart on the bridge. They ran it again. Derek's kick drifted. Hoot stopped playing halfway through and shook out his fingers. "Three months I spent on F sharp minor," Hoot said. "I can play it. You can't hear it because he's rushing." "I'm not rushing," Derek said. "You are." Dylan stepped off the stage before it got worse. He sat in the empty booth the booker had left and put his head in his hands. Someone sat down across from him. A small figure in a feathered wrap, chalk marks on gray fur, a crescent stitched at the belt. Behind her, a fairy in torn dark cloth watched from the doorway, wings folded flat. "You have no beat," the rabbit said. Her voice was quiet and final. "Your drummer listens for the wrong thing. I can fix that." "Who are you?" "Tsuki." She set a small hide drum on the table. "He hits the skin. He should hit the ground under it. The ground answers." The fairy stepped closer. "I carry sound," she said. "I can hold a room quiet until your first note. After that it's yours." Dylan looked at the stage. Derek was tightening a lug. Hoot was retuning. Luna was already watching the booth. "Why help us," Dylan said. "You need to be heard," Tsuki said. "I need someone who hears. Same night, same problem." Dylan waved the band over. Practice started again at midnight, and this time the beat sat down where it belonged.