Page 42 of Disharmony

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Ripper cocks his head to the side. In his mask, he looks like something from a horror movie and says, “Boo.”

He doesn’t spook me.

“It’s…” I trail off. It’s hard to talk when your mouth feels stuffed with cotton balls. “You.”

“I guess it is,” he says. Ripper holds out his hand. The movement is robotic and jittery, like he’s moving to the clock hands rhythm. “And you are?”

I blink and take his hands. He’s wearing fingerless gloves, with copper rivets, which is rough against my palm, but his grip is warm and hard. I squeeze back in disbelief. Yep, he’s definitely real and not a drunken mirage. I’ve dreamed about meeting the Basilisks and what I’d say if it happened, but I’m way cooler in my head than the mumbling mess I’ve become.

I dare to look up and see my own face reflected in his giant goggles. They have a misty appearance, which means I can’t see his eyes properly. For the first time, I find myself wondering what color they are underneath.

“Um… I’m Ash,” I say. Ripper still hasn’t let go of my hand, and my knees are growing weaker with each passing moment. Why is he out here? Did he want to be alone? “I can leave if you want.”

“Stay,” he insists. He drops my hand and leans against the wall next to me. “I’d like to hear what you thought of our show.”

“You’d like to hear what I think?”

“Yes,” he says. “Can you do that for me, Ash?”

“It was…” How can I begin to express how good their show was? How their music rocked my soul and made my heart bleed? “Incredible.”

He rubs his chin in an exaggerated way. I can’t tell if he’s joking or doesn’t believe me. “Incredible, huh?”

I will myself to stop staring at him like a work of art. This may be the only chance I ever have to speak to him. If I blow it, I’ll regret it forever.

“I’m a huge fan of your work,” I continue. “The set was perfect. You sound awesome on your albums, but live? You guys have a raw energy that’s just…” I stop. He’s probably used to fans reminding him of how amazing they are. There is something that’s on my mind though, and I hope I’m not speaking out of turn as I ask, “Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask,” he replies, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

“Why singLion Slayer?” I poke my fingers through the holes in my tights to ground myself to the present. “You’ve never performed it live before.”

“You really are a fan,” he pauses and continues, “we wanted to try something different. Did you know it’s the only song I’ve ever written?”

“You…” My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “You wrote it?”

Venom usually writes all the Basilisks songs, but the difference in style would be explained by Ripper penning it. How didn’t I know that?

“What’s wrong, Ash?” Ripper laughs. “Do you believe everything you read on the Basilisks Wiki?”

I blush right down to the roots of my hair and hope my porcelain foundation masks it. I have their Wiki bookmarked and shamelessly stalk it every spare moment I get.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, raising a finger to his beak. “It’ll be our secret.”

A secret with Ripper? My stomach flutters.

“My lips are sealed.” I motion zipping my lips, then murmur, “The lyrics are… they… speak to me, you know? If I could write a song as beautiful asLion Slayer, I’d know I’ve made it.”

He stands straighter. “You’re a musician?”

“I guess.” I shrug. With my recent development in Camp Harmony, I’m not sure I can really claim the title as a musician. “I’m sure you’re always surrounded by aspiring artists. I won’t waste your time.”

“You’re not wasting my time.” His tone is abrupt, even though the mask distorts his voice. “I asked because I want to know. What kind of music do you make?”

“I’m at Camp Harmony,” I say. “I’m sure you know the place. It’s not far away from here.”

“Isn’t that the place who made the Lionhearts famous?” I detect a scowl in his voice. Even the Basilisks can’t get away from the overwhelming media coverage of America’s sweethearts. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Congratulations. Getting into a place like that is a big deal.”

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