Sonata - a Paranormal Gothic Romance: SONATA, #1

By M. G. Reyes

17-year-old Miranda is facing the biggest audition of her life - a shot at a violin scholarship to the prestigious Harkness Conservatory.

 

When her accompanist doesn't show up, it looks like the end of her dreams - until Leo, a piano student, offers to help. Leo is intense, patient, gorgeously French and he plays like a dream. Performing the Kreutzer Sonata with him goes beyond anything Miranda has experienced.

 

But while she's impressing the panel, another audition candidate goes missing. From that moment something disturbing seeps into Miranda life. Did the music draw in the forces of darkness? Or was it already within her?

 

Miranda and Leo travel to a medieval town in France to perform in a prize-winners' concert, oblivious to the ongoing search for the missing teenager. Their attraction intensifies, but there's more to Leo than meets the eye - and it's not all good news.

 

Miranda is warned off, yet it may already be too late. A secretive, ancient sect can protect her, but how can she accept their help when she can't quite accept that she's in danger?

 

After all - some deals are irresistible.

 

'Something happened between us as we were playing, I felt it. From him to me, an energy passed back and forth.

 

"That was good," Leo whispered to me as I stumbled off the stage, still shaking. "It was kind of incredible. You'll win that scholarship."

 

I could only stare directly ahead and clutch my violin even tighter. If I didn't, I felt I might drop it. Down it would fall, neglected, while I grabbed at Leo and begged him to tell me: what just happened?

 

You did something to me in there. That's what I'd say to him. I want to know what. And then I want you to do it again.'

 

A paranormal romantic thriller from the author of the EMANCIPATED trilogy (HarperTeen) - The Omen meets Twilight.

 

Set in the autumnal, ivy-covered old campus of an elite music academy, the story of Leo and Miranda blends the buzz of becoming a world-class musician with the stab of a deadly first love.

 

Music, mystery and murder intertwine in this  tale of the occult. A gothic romance with a supernatural twist. 

 

A message from author M. G. Reyes (author of the EMANCIPATED trilogy, Katherine Tegen Books/HarperTeen).

 

When I was a teenager and still too young to be allowed to see the OMEN movies I devoured the novelizations. I borrowed an uncle's well-worn paperbacks of the occult novels of Dennis Wheatley, too. SONATA is the kind of story I dreamed of reading back then - a 'Beauty and the Beast' style of romance where the 'beastly' aspect comes from a dark, supernatural place. In a school. Because who doesn't love a boarding school romance? ;) 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darkwater Books
• Release date: Apr 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781909072206

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Published by

First published in 2021 by Darkwater Books

An imprint of Harris Oxford Limited.

41 Cornmarket Street, Oxford, OX1 3HA

Text copyright © M. G. Reyes 2021

The right of M. G. Reyes to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her.

ISBN 978-1-909072-20-6

All rights reserved.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise)  without the prior written permission of Harris Oxford Limited.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Fb.me/mgreyesbooks

Also by M. G. Reyes

Emancipated

Incriminated

Vindicated

For Josie,

With love and thanks for your music and inspiration.

PART ONE

The Audition

Richard Lloyd seemed like a real nice guy

A real musician

Seriously, Leo Dauphin?

Maybe I’m not as interesting as you

Like being hit between the eyes by the universe

I’m as confused as you

Part Two

The Festival

My meaning wasn’t lost on him

What’s up with your family?

The third man

I’m the only thing that’s keeping you alive

Don’t move

Not even a shadow

Part Three

The Clique

Richard just vanished

Totally messed up

An invisible pattern

What about hello?

All the space between us

Part Four

The Invitation

Don't say a word

Mad about the boy

Trust no one

Driving myself crazy

Defend us in the day of battle

Part Five

The Sigil

All five are in place

We’re all behind you

A spectacular place

Mixed signals

Part Six

The Persuasion

No secrets in this school

Because of the music

A parallel universe

Everything just falls at your feet

Part Seven

The Flight

We’re way beyond threats

Hunter-gatherer

No judgment

My world fell out of balance

Ariana sang about The Way

What if Leo was right?

Part Eight

The Escape

No other option

Any runner knows that muscles can be trained

Why did you run?

A change of plan

A Leo-and-Miranda-sized bubble

Part Nine

The Interlude

Something so normal between us

Girolata

A brisk, cold breeze

Night in the city

Part Ten

The Sacrifice

We want them wide awake

The ceremony had begun

No blood can be wasted

As free as the dead

Alone

A Message from ‘Sonata’ author, M.G. Reyes

Acknowledgements

What’s next for Miranda and Leo?

From Nocturne by M.G. Reyes

The Chopin C-sharp Minor Nocturne

Part One

The Audition

Richard Lloyd seemed like a real nice guy

The day that Richard Lloyd disappeared was the best day of my life.

It’s not that I had anything against the guy, which I might have—if I’d known who he was. The truth is that I hardly knew Richard. I met him just once, for about half an hour. We were waiting for a music audition. Not enough time to become friends, but then no one’s at their best in a situation like that.

I’d survived years of exams and auditions. Then I turned seventeen, and there was the Harkness Conservatory. An audition that was change-your-life. A shot at a one hundred percent scholarship at one of the best music schools in the world. No more ifs, ands, or buts; this was the big time.

The waiting room was large and bright with red and white roses and wood-paneled walls. Plenty of light from French doors. Just the same, I felt claustrophobic. I couldn’t help but imagine myself in one of those reality TV talent shows and how I would obsess over what was being shown. Would the camera catch the fear in my eyes and the churn in my guts? TV cameras might have even made it easier. Who knows? Millions of sympathetic viewers could have shared my stress.

Instead, I waited in a room with five other dry-mouthed teenagers. All of us avoiding each other’s eyes; all trying to keep our minds off the brutal facts of an audition. Yet, I couldn’t escape the simple mathematics of the situation.

A place for you could mean no place for me.

Making a living as a musician is getting harder every day. The journey to turning professional is like crossing a white-water river dotted with treacherous stepping stones. Each time you miss a step, you’re in the water, swept away fast enough to make your head spin. Getting into a top music conservatory is one of the few unmissable steps.

It was the toughest step I’d ever aimed for, and it was only the first. A scholarship to the Harkness Conservatory was the prize: an invisible golden badge that everyone could somehow see: Studied at the Harkness.

My secret ambition, though, was something even more improbable. I wanted to be one of the few world-famous Latin women ever to dominate the violin on a classical stage. I wanted to be right up there with people like Vanessa Mae, Sarah Chang, and Anne Sophie-Mutter. As a young girl, I’d searched for faces like mine on the front of music CDs or in the concerts I’d attended and watched on TV. Where were we?

My teacher, Rosa Gordon, was a proud African-American woman. She’d taught violin in music conservatories all over the country until she’d taken a position at the School of Arts at the University of Florida. Now retired, she still kept a few pupils—the ones she really believed in. Rosa had always believed in me—from the first day when she saw the fine and natural way that six-year-old me held the bow. Except that it was anything but natural. But she didn’t know, and I didn’t tell.

Sitting with frozen knees in the waiting room for that audition, I remember wishing Rosa could have come along. Almost all the other kids had brought their teachers—middle-aged, pale, and white, except for one Asian gentleman. Two Asian boys, three white kids, and me. I could definitely have used Rosa’s support.

I took a few deep, jerking breaths. It sounded a bit like sobbing. Two other candidates glanced at me over their music.

Sympathy for other candidates was a waste of time. In the audition, good luck for me could mean bad luck for you. Therefore you’re lying if you whisper ‘Good luck.’ What you really mean is Fluff your notes. It’s nothing personal. Never mind that we both worked hard all our lives for this. Can’t all be top dog.

I thought I was nervous then. Really, I had no clue.

But Richard Lloyd seemed like a real nice guy that morning, as we all waited to perform. He’d worn a light gray suit for the audition. It almost made him look like an adult. But his face was cute with blue eyes and a dimple in his chin, and when our eyes met, he smiled a sweet, shy smile. He handed me a cup of coffee with a lot of milk. He glanced away discreetly while I took care of the gum I was chewing. And a few minutes later when I took the phone call, he showed genuine concern. Even though the whole time I could see his fingers working the keys of his French horn, silently rehearsing his piece.

Then came the phone call.

When I saw my accompanist’s name, Janet Pryce, flash up on my cell phone’s screen, I almost wept with relief. We’d had just one rehearsal the evening before, at her house in Providence. It was a forty-minute drive from the Harkness. I put the cell phone to my ear, waiting to hear the inevitable apology. Instead, she was silent for way too long. I caught my breath.

Miranda. Listen, I’ve been in an accident. In my car. I’ve hurt my wrist. Can’t play the piano. I couldn’t be sorrier.

Janet talked some more, but by then, I wasn’t really listening. I held the phone in abject disbelief, paralyzed by the news. I could hardly stand. I felt weak and faint as though the ground had crumbled beneath me. The other candidates stared at me as though they expected me to cry any minute. The images of failure were already taking shape in my mind. I saw my mother’s eyes shiny with tears, saw disappointment crumple my teacher’s smile. Saw the rest of my life filled with bitterness and regret.

Someone said, How about karaoke-style, playing along with a CD?

It was a half-hearted suggestion, and we all knew it. I heard smothered chuckles of disbelief. Karaoke-style would be lifeless, forgotten in the time it took me to play the opening bars. A brave attempt, not much else.

But I couldn’t give up. Not yet.

A real musician

I TRIED TO STEADY MY breathing. Already I could see my entire future derailing. I’d have to play something else—a Bach partita. I’d performed two of them at my last recital back home. Hadn’t practiced it for weeks, but I really couldn’t see any other way.

On the Internet, there’s a video of a concert pianist adjusting to something pretty startling: the dress rehearsal begins, and the soloist waits. But the orchestra plays an entirely different piece to the one she was expecting. After the soloist gets over the shock—and she is shocked, you see it—that woman kicks right in and plays the right concerto from memory.

That’s a real musician.

So, there I was, feeling like I’d been hit with a wrecking ball, when in walked Leo Dauphin.

He was tall, even taller than me. Skinny like a runner with pale skin and short and slightly fluffy dirty-blond hair, most of which fell over his forehead. Prominent eyebrows lent his heavy-lidded eyes an incredibly serious air. Not exactly fierce, more earnest. He wore charcoal-colored chinos and a thin knit sweater in autumn colors. The sweater fitted his torso like he’d been wrapped in it. On his feet were dark brown brogues, not sneakers. Kind of formal for everyday wear, but I assumed he’d dressed up for something at school.

I knew from the minute he opened the door that Leo was there for me. Calmly, he surveyed the faces of all the girls in the room as if he was wondering: Which one is Miranda?

His scrutiny was getting a little odd, so I stood up, glad to get the crackle and itch out of my muscles. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that Richard Lloyd actually did stand. I could swear that he seemed to have turned white. It didn’t mean anything at the time; I logged it the way you might glance at a cloud and think, Rain.

Leo’s eyes swept over scholarship candidates and finally rested on mine.

You’re Miranda Castillo?

I nodded. The girl with the accompanist fail? Yeah, that would be me.

He squinted; no smile to reward my attempt at humor. Hello, Miranda. I’m Leo Dauphin. I’m a student here, a sophomore. There was the slightest hint of a French accent. I had to stop myself saying one of the handful of French phrases I knew, top of the list being Ooh la la!

Good catch, Miranda.

I folded my arms across my chest to hide the fact that my hands were trembling. You’re French-Canadian?

Slowly, he smiled, like he enjoyed my curiosity. No.

You don’t have an accent. (He did, just a hint. Quite attractive it was, too.)

His expression didn’t change. "I try. Tu parles français?"

I smirked. Let’s stick with English.

I became aware of the curious stares of other scholarship candidates. No wonder—Leo walked in, and all we could do, it seemed, was flirt with each other.

I cleared my throat. The guy with the French horn, Richard Lloyd, was still looking at us, I noticed. Trying not to be obvious about it, too. Once again, I had the strangest sensation that his interest went beyond normal curiosity. It felt like he was somehow invested. Almost like he might be upset. These impressions came back to me only later. At the time, I just caught wind of something odd, but it wasn’t enough to distract me from my looming audition.

To Leo, I said, Did you need to tell me something?

Crossing my arms had taken care of the body shake, but I couldn’t get the tremors out of my voice. The last thing I wanted was for Leo to assume it was him making me nervous, which he wasn’t even. (Much.)

Your accompanist called the office just now. Janet Pryce, that’s correct? Apparently, she’s not going to arrive—you knew this, yes? Well, maybe I can help. I know your piece. I know it well.

Leo seemed to be sincere. Maybe you know it, I said, somewhat skeptical. But we’ve only just met.

His initial hesitancy seemed to be vanishing as he gazed at me. He gave a quick shrug and pointed to a practice room. Quick run through? It’ll be fine.

It had to be better than fine. Karaoke-style might be fine. To win the scholarship I needed something spectacular.

He was hanging back, waiting for me to decide. So, I stalled for time. You know the Kreutzer Sonata by Beethoven?

Leo smiled, obviously struggling to appear modest. I know it. Quite well, actually.

The atmosphere in the waiting room shifted uncomfortably. Those girls had started to count on me being out of the game. Only Richard Lloyd appeared to be relieved to see me back in the contest. I could have hugged him for his gift of sympathy if I hadn’t been so numbed with shock.

Leo put a tentative hand on my shoulder. When he felt the tremor in my muscles, his eyes filled with concern. Hey, he said. Don’t be scared. You’ll be wonderful. You’ll see.

Thirty minutes later, we were performing the piece in front of the panel. I felt as though my entire body was being shot through with a kind of benevolent electricity. It was unbelievable how well we played. Even as it was happening, I couldn’t believe it. From outside, I’m sure it looked as though we’d worked hard at our rehearsals and were making an impressive job of Beethoven’s sonata.

But that performance had nothing to do with hard work. I’d never played the violin like that. It was beyond good, beyond being one with the instrument. It was like controlling the laws of harmonics, the elasticity of wood and horsehair, the physical universe in which heat, friction, and rosin meshed to make perfect music.

It wasn’t just me either. Something happened between us as we were playing. I felt it. From him to me, an energy passed back and forth.

That was good, Leo whispered to me as I stumbled off the stage, still shaking. It was kind of incredible. You’ll win that scholarship.

I could only stare directly ahead and clutch my violin even tighter. If I didn’t, I felt I might drop it. Down it would fall, neglected, while I grabbed at Leo and begged him to tell me what just happened.

You did something to me in there. That’s what I’d say to him. I want to know what. And then I want you to do it again.

I didn’t drop my violin though; I’d like to remember that I retained enough poise to be respectable. We strolled off the stage and into the practice room. I breathed nice and slow, gave him a quick, grateful smile, wiped rosin dust from my violin, and methodically replaced it in its case.

The sensation when I first saw Leo, Richard’s odd reaction to him, all of it was forgotten. I could only remember how I’d felt while we were playing. The energy permeating the space between us, the buzz of the bow against the strings, the way my fingers had dazzled a path through the music. It had felt like being possessed.

Now I understood why people who saw Paganini play the violin whispered that he’d had made a pact with the devil.

Seriously, Leo Dauphin?

FOR AT LEAST AN HOUR afterward a sense of displacement overtook me. I shook the hand of the dean of the Harkness Conservatory, Professor Juliana Solomon. Warmly, she assured me that I’d done well, very well, and the selection panel would make their decision within twenty-four hours. With one sweep of a neatly manicured hand, she swept back a thick lock of shoulder-length gray hair, perfectly smooth, immaculately cut, and the color of a sea pebble. Deep blue eyes twinkling, she beamed at me with polished manners.

You’ll stay with us until then, won’t you, my dear? I know it can make for a rather nail-biting experience. But it makes things so easier for us to arrange travel for the Harkness Prize concert.

The Harkness Prize concert. When Professor Solomon mentioned it, I felt my stomach lurch with guilt. Somehow I’d managed to keep that out of my mind. I wanted the scholarship, of course, but I hadn’t dared to let myself think about the concert. The winning candidate would be whisked, almost immediately, to a music festival taking place in southern France this year. It was sickening, and it was thrilling. I wanted it and was terrified of it in roughly equal parts.

Solomon knew perfectly well that I was staying at the Harkness. Her entire greeting was, therefore, little more than a show of impeccable manners. Well, I couldn’t match that. All I could manage was an awkward nod and a hasty grin. Her glassy-eyed response showed me that my anxiety was pretty transparent.

I went back to the room I’d been assigned in the girls’ dorm block and dropped off my violin. I changed into casual clothes; skinny blue jeans and a plain white shirt, planning to take a walk around the campus. The school was mostly empty, being a week into the vacation. A few students had stuck around to act as ambassadors, showing us candidates around and whatnot. Hopefully, I’d run into one.

I wandered over to the main building where the reception area was situated. The lobby of the Harkness wasn’t only the functional heart of school with a window for the reception area and a bank of wooden cubbies for mail. It was a definite statement of intent—like a full-blown Ivy League college in miniature form. The entire campus had that languid, New England vibe: colonial-style buildings connected by neat lawns of mint green grass with tidy little cycle routes winding between.

Taking in the atmosphere, I was unnerved to acknowledge how little I’d noticed when I’d arrived yesterday. I guess I’d been more nervous than I’d known. Now it was as though I was seeing the Harkness for the first time.

Sometimes I’d hear Mom tell her friends about my tunnel vision. How focused I was on the violin, how crucial that focus was to my success. I’d always assumed it to be my mother’s school-counselor reaction to the fact that I didn’t have any close friends. But yes, sometimes I wasn’t the most observant person.

The way I saw it, my life would begin properly when I got into a great music school. Until then, it was all preparation.

I crossed the lawn. There is more of the school to explore, I told myself. But deep down, I knew exactly what I was looking for. Or rather, who.

The first time I saw Leo alone, my pulse actually seemed to slow, my movements too, like striding through molasses. I stopped being able to hear what anyone around me was saying. In the audition room, to be honest, he didn’t seem all that. Just another skinny musician who didn’t get enough sleep. My tunnel vision thing again, most likely. I definitely hadn’t thought he was anything special to look at.

But now? It was as if in the past two hours of remembering him in my mind, he’d suddenly become totally hot. This kind of thing didn’t happen to me.

Leo was dressed in unbleached linen jeans and a plain white loose shirt with a round collar. In that moment, hair all rumpled and one hand in his pocket, he reminded me of a Gap model. At the front, his honey-colored hair was sticking up as if he’d been fidgeting with it. He was reading the announcements on the outdoor notice board. I stopped to let some nearby students continue on their way. Then I frowned at Leo.

Was it possible that he couldn’t sense the tension running through me?

Hey! He sounded surprised. Are you feeling calmer now?

Just a little. Pay no attention to the cute French accent. You saved the day.

I was glad to help. You were amazing.

Thanks to you, I replied quickly. I mean it, I added, swallowing my pride. He’d earned some praise, so why not? Your playing. You must have inspired me. I’ve never played like that.

You shouldn’t thank me, he said with a hint of a grin. You should thank your accompanist. She’s the one who shed blood for you. Well, broke a bone, at least.

Puzzled, I tried to smile. What...?

There’s an ancient civilization of Mesopotamia that used to finish the construction of a city with the commemoration of a special temple, the one dedicated to the spiritual protector of that city. Inside that temple, they would construct the first, the innermost temple, from a heap of bleached skull bones—the skulls of every citizen who died in the construction of the city and every warrior who died in its protection. The sacrifice of the ancestors would imbue the city with a powerful spell of protection. So it was believed. Without the sacrifice, those temples were just stones, and the city was nothing more than an organized pile of rubble. But the sacrifice made it whole. It’s the same with any great music. One way or another, you have to give your blood. For you, I think today the accompanist broke her wrist bone.

I’d listened in growing bemusement to his story and when he finished, I couldn’t contain a laugh. Well, that’s one way of feeling better about it, I guess!

We were good together, he said with immense warmth.

Our eyes locked; he looked absolutely serious. I could sense it. He knew what I was talking about—he knew that something had happened between us when we played. Something that went beyond the music.

Who knows where our conversation might have gone if we’d been able to continue. But our encounter was over almost as soon as it started. From across the lawn came a voice calling my name.

I turned to see a girl with long, ash-blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face with huge blue eyes heavy with dark eye shadow. Her clothes were a mishmash; shabby-looking black leather jacket, black and purple tie-dye top, and ruffled short black skirt underneath. She wore bracelets all the way to her elbows, and some of her fingers were barely visible underneath rings.

She gave me a quizzical grin and seemed bemused to find me deep in conversation with another Harkness student. You’re Miranda Castillo, right?

Hello, Naomi, Leo said with a benign smile.

Hullo, Dauphin, she replied, carelessly. She sounded like she was from