Light From Uncommon Stars(82)

Not surprisingly, their owners tend to keep quiet. Thus, cursed violins rarely receive regular maintenance. More than a few have been ruined, not by Hell’s Infernal Forces, but by being played without a sound post or with a backward bridge.

Even worse, most every player of a cursed instrument seems compelled to flaunt their anguish like a cheap Paganini understudy— snapping a string, spewing various bodily fluids, playing drugged or drunk, lurching like a contortionist.

And if a player cracks the pegbox while playing because he absolutely had to writhe as if possessed by Mozart’s illegitimate child, what then?

People willing and equipped to repair such violins didn’t advertise openly. Such business was conducted quietly, through word of mouth.

The Matías had done this work for generations. And they were paid very well. But curses are, well, curses, with all the danger and unsavoriness that the term implies.

Thus, Catalin and Francisco Matía had only worked on these particular violins late at night, or early in the morning, when a pretty little girl like Lucy was safely tucked in bed.

Here was the legacy of the Matías. And not only the client notebook—others even older, full of special techniques and recipes, with lists of tools and incantations passed unbroken through time.

Just then, the doorbell jingled.

“The lights were on, so I decided to drop in.”

She looked up to see who had entered. For a second, he looked like a toad.





27


“Lucía Matía. My name is Tremon Philippe. I noticed that you are open for business.”

Tremon Philippe. A black-and-white photo of him was on the wall.

“This … San Gabriel Valley … is interesting. In this seemingly ordinary place are two people who are very important to me: the Queen of Hell and you.”

“What?”

“Rumors suggested that you might be closing the shop.”

“I suppose word gets around. But no, I’m not closing. However, I had been planning to limit our work to student violins … at least until Andrew might make the shop worthy of its name.”

Tremon looked at her workbench. “Yet that is no student violin.”

Lucy shrugged helplessly. “Shizuka Satomi decided before I could say no.”

“That’s her in a nutshell, isn’t it? So, her del Gesù. What do you think of it?”

Lucy was about to say something diplomatic when a strange energy came over her.

“Aesthetically, del Gesùs aren’t to my liking. They’re not as refined as, as…”

“As a Stradivarius, or perhaps an Amati?”

“Well, to be honest…”

“Hmm?”

“But the tone is powerful and rich,” she said, trying to recover. Who was she to criticize a freaking del Gesù?

But Tremon Philippe chuckled. “I would expect nothing less from a Matía.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said to the demon, because that was what he was.

“You’re welcome, Lucía.” He smiled. Lucía Matía suppressed a shudder. She would not want to be on the other side of those teeth.

“So, how may I help you?” she said, trying not to sound at all nervous.

“Help? Oh, no, no, no. I simply dropped by to greet the new master. Of course, we will be in touch—since many of your clients are mine as well.”

And then the demon was gone.



* * *



The NetherTale offered a scenario where a player would rescue people from Hell—yet not hurt anyone at all.

Might one live that way?

Until recently, Shizuka would have dismissed the suggestion as na?ve, a fantasy of the weak and sheltered, those who had never fought or known loss.

But nothing in Katrina’s background suggested she was weak or sheltered. As for loss? Her music did not lie. She was fighting with an abandon that only came from loss.

But there Katrina had been in Temple City. And there was Katrina downstairs now. Refusing to kill.

Trying to set another trapped soul free.

“Miss Satomi?”

“Yes, Astrid?”

“Lan Tran is at the door,” Astrid said quietly. “Shall I bring her in?”

“No,” Shizuka said. She fetched her coat and purse. “I’ll meet her outside.”

“Shizuka, I know Shirley is here,” Lan said.

“Of course you do.”

Shizuka walked past her and grabbed Lan’s hand. By the time Lan recovered, Shizuka had already led her to her car.

“Shizuka, I need to see Shirley now.”

“Lan, I’ve not had morning tea. Come with? Astrid will let me know if anything happens.”

“But—”

“Lan.” A flash seemed to come from behind Shizuka’s sunglasses. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go,” Lan repeated as if charmed.

Shirley heard Miss Satomi’s Jaguar leave the driveway.

“Your mother is not coming in, Shirley,” Katrina said.

“But she’ll be back. And that will be the end of me.” That was simple fact. Being a program, she literally could not separate herself from Starrgate’s systems.

Why had she even tried to escape? How stupid could she be?