savants. The rest of the crowd was a mingle of Anaweir and mainliners. There was lots of Weir action in town, due to Cleveland’s proximity to the seat of Weir government in Trinity.
Jonah had learned to ignore the whispers, nudges, and pointed fingers from guildlings. Still, he couldn’t help picking out a faint chant of “Labrats!” from a crowd of mainliners at two tables next to the stage.
The Anaweir were, as always, oblivious.
Jonah began hauling amplifiers onstage, taping down power cords, testing mikes, and generally making himself useful. When he’d finished the setup, he collected a soda from the bar and carried it backstage. He found a viewing spot from stage right as the club manager ran through the usual announcements about restrooms, smoking, drugs, wristbands, and warnings that Teen Nights were a privilege that could be revoked if there were any more problems .
“And now, without further ado, Club Catastrophe welcomes Fault Tolerant!”
Lusty shouts and foot stomping ushered Jonah’s friends onto the stage. Natalie strode back to the drums, Severino took his place behind his Roland, and Alison and Mose carried their guitars out from backstage and plugged in.
All of the songs were familiar. Natalie had written most of them, some in partnership with Severino, and she and Jonah usually jammed on them before she ever brought them to the band. “Never Say Die.”
“Straw Man.”
“Caliente.”
“No Way Home.” It was all original music. Natalie believed in controlling the whole package.
Jonah breathed in the usual crowd funk of sweat, perfume, and raging hormones. Then caught a whiff of mischief mixed in. That was his term for the nose-prickling mingle of shade magic and rotting flesh. Shades? This close to the Anchorage?
He leaned forward and peered out from the wings, scanning the crowd. Blinded as he was by the stage lights, all he could see was a murk of dark moving bodies, studded with the patches of light that denoted the gifted.
Turning up the collar of his jacket, hunching his shoulders, Jonah slipped offstage and walked down the aisle, turning his head from side to side. But he couldn’t pinpoint the source, and then he lost the scent.
Ditching his sanctuary backstage, Jonah found a table in the corner closest to the door where he could keep a better watch on comings and goings. There was a price to pay, now that he was out in the open. He kept having to snarl at those who wandered over, thinking he looked lonely, sitting there by himself.
Every so often he breathed in the stench of decay or the burned-insulation scent of shade magic, but could never figure out exactly where it was coming from.
When the first set was over, the club sound track came on, and Natalie and Rudy waded into the crowd on the dance floor. Mose shuffled back outside to smoke, and Alison joined Jonah at his table.
“’Sup, Jonah?” Alison asked, tucking her hair behind her ears. She’d peeled off her jacket during the set, revealing her muscled arms. “How come you’re sitting out here?”
“Do you smell anything unusual?” Jonah asked, trying not to ask a leading question.
Alison wrinkled her nose. “Dude at the next table should go easy on the cologne,” she said. “And I think somebody’s been smoking weed in the ladies’ room. That what you mean?”
He shook his head. “I could’ve sworn I smelled a shade.”
Alison shrugged. “I know you say you can smell them, but I can’t—not from a distance, anyway. I wish I could.”
Jonah grimaced. “No you don’t. Trust me.” He paused. “You’re looking good, Shaw. Did you lose weight or what?”
She looked up, saw that he was kidding about that last part, and grinned. “I’m feeling good,” she said, sipping at her drink.
“I’ve been going to a new skin therapist. He is amazing .”
Jonah stared at her, puzzled. Skin art was Gabriel’s specialty, one of the treatments he never delegated. “Really? I didn’t know Gabriel
Jonah had learned to ignore the whispers, nudges, and pointed fingers from guildlings. Still, he couldn’t help picking out a faint chant of “Labrats!” from a crowd of mainliners at two tables next to the stage.
The Anaweir were, as always, oblivious.
Jonah began hauling amplifiers onstage, taping down power cords, testing mikes, and generally making himself useful. When he’d finished the setup, he collected a soda from the bar and carried it backstage. He found a viewing spot from stage right as the club manager ran through the usual announcements about restrooms, smoking, drugs, wristbands, and warnings that Teen Nights were a privilege that could be revoked if there were any more problems .
“And now, without further ado, Club Catastrophe welcomes Fault Tolerant!”
Lusty shouts and foot stomping ushered Jonah’s friends onto the stage. Natalie strode back to the drums, Severino took his place behind his Roland, and Alison and Mose carried their guitars out from backstage and plugged in.
All of the songs were familiar. Natalie had written most of them, some in partnership with Severino, and she and Jonah usually jammed on them before she ever brought them to the band. “Never Say Die.”
“Straw Man.”
“Caliente.”
“No Way Home.” It was all original music. Natalie believed in controlling the whole package.
Jonah breathed in the usual crowd funk of sweat, perfume, and raging hormones. Then caught a whiff of mischief mixed in. That was his term for the nose-prickling mingle of shade magic and rotting flesh. Shades? This close to the Anchorage?
He leaned forward and peered out from the wings, scanning the crowd. Blinded as he was by the stage lights, all he could see was a murk of dark moving bodies, studded with the patches of light that denoted the gifted.
Turning up the collar of his jacket, hunching his shoulders, Jonah slipped offstage and walked down the aisle, turning his head from side to side. But he couldn’t pinpoint the source, and then he lost the scent.
Ditching his sanctuary backstage, Jonah found a table in the corner closest to the door where he could keep a better watch on comings and goings. There was a price to pay, now that he was out in the open. He kept having to snarl at those who wandered over, thinking he looked lonely, sitting there by himself.
Every so often he breathed in the stench of decay or the burned-insulation scent of shade magic, but could never figure out exactly where it was coming from.
When the first set was over, the club sound track came on, and Natalie and Rudy waded into the crowd on the dance floor. Mose shuffled back outside to smoke, and Alison joined Jonah at his table.
“’Sup, Jonah?” Alison asked, tucking her hair behind her ears. She’d peeled off her jacket during the set, revealing her muscled arms. “How come you’re sitting out here?”
“Do you smell anything unusual?” Jonah asked, trying not to ask a leading question.
Alison wrinkled her nose. “Dude at the next table should go easy on the cologne,” she said. “And I think somebody’s been smoking weed in the ladies’ room. That what you mean?”
He shook his head. “I could’ve sworn I smelled a shade.”
Alison shrugged. “I know you say you can smell them, but I can’t—not from a distance, anyway. I wish I could.”
Jonah grimaced. “No you don’t. Trust me.” He paused. “You’re looking good, Shaw. Did you lose weight or what?”
She looked up, saw that he was kidding about that last part, and grinned. “I’m feeling good,” she said, sipping at her drink.
“I’ve been going to a new skin therapist. He is amazing .”
Jonah stared at her, puzzled. Skin art was Gabriel’s specialty, one of the treatments he never delegated. “Really? I didn’t know Gabriel
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