King Trevor

Prologue

Trevor

The first time he came to, Trevor wasn’t even sure he was awake. When a guy like Trevor Wolff was awake, there was noise. Usually of his own making, but not always.

Right now, he couldn’t hear anything. It was worse than the time they’d jammed plugs in his ears. He strained, listening for the whisper of something, anything.

Nada.

His eyes felt glued shut. Maybe it meant he was dead.

He let himself slide back into the oblivion he’d come from. He’d deal with Satan and the rest of his life in Hell when he wasn’t so fucking tired.

The next time Trevor woke, he knew he wasn’t in Hell. Not unless he’d managed to drag Mitchell along with him. There was no way in Hell Satan could play the guitar and sound like ShapeShifter.

Maybe this was Hell. Maybe it wasn’t. It wasn’t the time to find out.

Trevor slid back into his comforting nothingness. It was better than trying to figure out why his entire body felt puffy, numb, and not his.

Third time’s the charm, Trevor thought when he fought his way out of the darkness again. Mitchell’s guitar was still going strong, if quiet enough to let him talk to Amy.

Trevor tried to focus on their words, but they made no sense. Something about his back, about nerve damage, about time telling, and rehab, and post-surgical care. It made no sense. He had cancer. It had spread. He’d been on stage; the last thing he remembered was thinking the motherfucking cancer hadn’t even let him get through the encore.

Maybe Satan was fucking with him, he thought, and slid back into oblivion.

One

Kerri

Kerri listened as Mitchell paused outside her attic studio. She knew that sound: sweaty hands being rubbed down the fronts of his thighs. Something was up.

Hey, Ker?

She looked up from her painting, unable to stop the small smile. He was so cute when he made racing stripes on his legs. "Give me five minutes? That’s all I need and this bad boy will be done."

Uhh, sure. He reached across his body to scratch his shoulder; another familiar gesture. Whatever this was about, it was big.

What’s going on? Kerri asked with a sigh, setting her brush down and telling herself she’d been teetering on the edge of overkill anyway. His interruption was a good thing.

He ran his hands down the fronts of his thighs again. Remember us talking about buying a building and converting it into an office for the band?

Yeah— Really, it didn’t sound so life-shattering that it couldn’t have waited five more minutes—or that it was worth getting this worked up over.

Uncle Nils found us the place, Mitchell said, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. The old slaughterhouse in the warehouse district near Pigeon Square.

Slaughterhouse? That could be creepy enough to boost ShapeShifter’s reputation. Kerri raised her eyebrows, an invitation to keep talking.

Mitchell nodded eagerly, his eyes brightening. Without fully realizing what she was doing, Kerri moved away from the painting to her nearby desk, where she picked up a pencil and immediately began sketching on the first blank piece of paper she came to.

That’s … different, she said, her pencil moving along without her will. Think about it. All those dead cows who’re now ghosts. Do you think you can hear them mooing after midnight when there’s a full moon? She wrinkled her nose, but she knew she wasn’t fooling either of them.

That’s why it’s perfect. And it’s really cheap. Okay, maybe it’s better than perfect: remember when we were playing with the idea of putting in a recording studio? This place had a butcher shop in front. The big glass windows are already there. He fidgeted, shifting his weight and opening his hands, fingers splayed as if ready to make a new trail down the fronts of his thighs.

… but it really is haunted? she supplied when he didn’t drop the bomb.

"It’ll need a lot of renovations, he said. By someone who’s got experience turning old buildings into modern beauties. Uncle Nils found the best guy in the country at it…"

This was it, Kerri knew, and it wasn’t going to be nearly as entertaining as ghost cows. She stopped sketching and watched her husband, who looked like he was sorry he had to say this.

It’s a firm called Steel City Skyscrapers.

When Kerri needed a second to place the name, Mitchell continued, Owned by some guy in Pittsburgh named Steve—

Broadhurst, Kerri finished, kicking herself for not having figured out where this was going. No wonder Mitchell was being skittish and staying in the stairwell. He probably thought the potential for death was pretty big—not to mention the potential for being tossed out the attic windows. Or divorced.

Yeah, Mitchell said, rubbing the back of his neck and continuing to shift his weight. He stopped rocking long enough to paw at the ground with his toe. Ummm…

Kerri held her hands up, trying to say it before he could. Look, it’s not that big a deal. Stevie and I are cool, for the most part. Just, she paused, licking her lips to buy some time—and Mitchell’s full attention. Don’t go out there if you have to meet with him in person. Make him come here.

Our turf?

"More like not her turf, which makes it neutral in most eyes except hers, and who cares about her anyway?"

"Who’s her?"

Kerri sighed, her eyes closing. She opened them to say, Our mother, M.

Once again, his eyebrows shot upward. You mean she’s not dead?

Only in my dreams.

Oh. He scratched his head, his eyebrows falling like a flag that had lost its wind. I’d sort of always thought…

That’s fine. She out-and-out tells people I died. Kerri shrugged and looked down at her sketch. She hadn’t realized she’d started back with it; what was it about sketching Mitchell that she found so damn soothing, anyway?

I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would, she said when he didn’t answer. It keeps us from having to acknowledge each other. And it gets you and me out of an awful lot of family events, too. She paused, considering. It was nice not being torn between two families for Christmas or Thanksgiving, not having to choose between a laid-back Voss gathering and a tense, ugly Broadhurst torture session. Not that family got a say when the band’s touring schedule came first. Those holiday concerts were goldmines, with people desperate to escape from their own happy, healthy families. They needed ShapeShifter more than ever on those nights.

Mitchell needed a minute to work his jaw before sound would come out. "She tells people you’re dead? Did I hear that right?"

Yes.

How long’s this been going on?

Kerri looked back down at her sketch. It needed some cow ghosts to be complete, she decided. Ghosts were good, especially when you were one.

Mitchell raised his eyebrows once more and kept waiting.

She wished he was the type to get tired of waiting and move on to something more pleasant. Since the day I called to tell them we were getting married. Well, what they said was I’d be dead to them if you and I went through with it. I haven’t talked to them since, but Stevie said the official word had me dying in a drunk-driving accident the night before the wedding.

Mitchell’s eyebrows entered new territory, they went up so high. "You serious? People bought that shit?"

She set her pencil down and gave him a patient look. You know it as well as I do: people believe what they want.

"You were on that magazine cover with me when the Behold Me single was hot!"

"Amazing, isn’t it, how there’s another Kerri out there who’s an artist, who looks just like me, and who happens to live in the same city I supposedly died in. Not to mention married to the same man. But she’s not me, because I am dead."

Mitchell’s eyes went glassy, like he was trying to get his brain around what she was saying. Kerri didn’t overly blame him; his family was so close, so willing to take the rebellious with the conformity. Like Trevor often said, Mitchell had a very naïve, sheltered side; this revelation had to be testing it.

No one asked? Thought the coincidence was too great?

Kerri shrugged. They don’t exactly know how or where to find me if I’m dead.

Hello? You’re married to…

She refused to give him the rock star satisfaction he sought, so he changed tactics. No one in your family could set them straight? C’mon, Ker. Not even this brother of yours?

Well…no. He knew the whole thing. But, she added, holding up a finger to stop whatever was about to spill out of Mitchell’s pursed lips, "think about it for a second. He was trapped at home, dependent on her for college tuition. He had to play along."

"You can’t tell me someone who’s the best in his field is still under Mama’s thumb. Not after all this time."

Why not? What’s one got to do with the other?

Mitchell ran his hands from the bottom of his face to the top, stopping when the heels of his hands got to his eyes. He spent a long second scrubbing away.

Kerri reached for a fresh piece of paper, telling herself to stay calm. This actually was going a lot better than she’d expected—and she’d spent a lot of time fretting about it. I know they give Stevie shit for talking to me, she said carefully.

"So they do acknowledge you’re alive."

"Only to Stevie. Imagine the hell that puts him in."

Mitchell stood up and paced the width of the room; it took eight steps. Kerri watched as he returned, stared out the window, and repeated the ritual.

If I hire him on for this project, he said after his fourth circuit, are there going to be problems?

If there are, they won’t be ours, Kerri said with a shrug. "You have every right to hire the best architect for the job. This is ShapeShifter we’re talking about. Do it right or don’t fucking waste your time, right?"

But, if it’ll fuck things up for your brother…

Kerri gave him a bright, fake smile. "Stevie’s under no obligation to take this job, Mitchell. He will, though, just because of the challenge you’re handing him. She twirled her pencil and dropped the grin. It was making her face hurt. The challenge of the project, I mean. She paused, thinking. Okay, and maybe the challenge of dealing with her, but I doubt it. Stevie’s never been able to stand up to her, and that’s not going to change so fast. But he’ll do this. It’s a dream project."

Mitchell choked on something. "Kerri, you’re asking your brother to step into a steaming pile of shit for … for I don’t know what? Have you seen his list of completed projects lately? It’s short, but... damn."

Nope, haven’t seen anything.

"He doesn’t need anything anymore. Trust me."

Okay, Kerri said with a shrug. As if she cared what Stevie did…

Well, okay. She did care.

Sounds like you and little brother have some catching up to do, Mitchell said. "Before you get started, let me call him first. I think we ought to keep the job as separate from the brother-and-sister shit as possible. And Ker? It does sound like shit."

Tell me about it.

Mitchell snorted and left.

Once he was gone, Kerri stared at the spot he’d vacated. There was a message in all he’d said.

Hell, there were five messages, minimum.

The questions now were which ones, if any, she’d listen to.

Two

Kerri

There he is, Kerri said, not sure if she was excited to see her little brother after so long or if she was dreading this. There was no way they could be together and not discuss their mother. There just wasn’t. Mitchell couldn’t keep him busy enough, even though he’d promised to try.

It had been three weeks since Mitchell had approached Kerri in her studio. Three weeks that had driven Mitchell crazy with the waiting and turned Kerri into a nervous wreck.

Once you got past the impending family issues, all ought to be good. Stevie was, after all, her little brother. Before she’d left for Riverview, they’d been close. They still would be, she was sure, if it hadn’t been for her invented death and the way that one little thing had come between them.

He’s where? Oh, there, Mitchell said, scanning the sidewalk outside the building. He jumped out of Kerri’s Jeep and held a hand up. Stevie was squinting in the early afternoon sun, his face etched in pain. He reached into the pocket of his jacket—Kerri wasn’t sure from the distance, but she thought she recognized the clean lines of a Spyder—pulled out a pair of sunglasses. After he’d put them on, he lifted his chin in acknowledgment of Mitchell, picked up his garment bag, and headed their way.

Kerri made herself take a deep breath. Stevie looked good: he wore jeans and a black t-shirt that showed he was still in pretty good shape. His hair was browner than Kerri remembered. Shorter and cut a bit more severe, too. She started to get out of the Jeep but paused when Trevor spoke.

Oh, come on, Rusty. What’s got you so tied up in knots?

Some things weren’t worth answering. Most of those were the things that came out of Trevor’s mouth.

The only upside to Trevor’s garbage was the way it eased her nerves. She hadn’t seen Stevie in three or four years, since the first time ShapeShifter had played Pittsburgh after she’d married Mitchell. They’d gotten along. But then again, they’d spent maybe an hour together, nothing nearly enough to get near certain subjects. This time, they’d be spending days with each other. At some point, talking about the always-gorgeous Riverview weather would get old.

Kerri! Stevie called. Since both his hands were full, Kerri mentally added him waving at her, his arm extended fully over his head just like he’d done every single day when he’d been in junior high.

Hey, there! she called back, feeling the years peel away. It suddenly didn’t feel like it had been so long since they’d seen each other.

Mitchell grabbed Stevie’s bags so Kerri could give her brother a hug. So you’re finally here! she said, laughing. It took you long enough!

I know, he said, hugging her tightly. "You spent how many months trying to get me to come hold your hand when you first got here?"

She pulled back, stung. If there was any hand-holding intended, she said softly, "it was me thinking I’d be holding yours while you broke free."

He grimaced but didn’t answer.

Well, you’re here now, she said, forcing herself to be brisk, the way Charlie, the band’s tour manager, would get when situations got too intense. Your first time.

My first time, Stevie echoed, taking a step back and looking around at the less-than-scintillating view.

If you wait long enough, even someone as repulsive as you will lose your virginity, she could hear Trevor saying in his off-hand way, even though he still sat in the Jeep, the windows and, presumably, his mouth shut. Problem is, you’ve got to do the waiting first. It’s all about the power of belief, Rusty. If you quit believing in it, it’ll never happen.

Well, Kerri told the voice in her mind, the waiting’s over. It’s time to make Stevie fall in love with the city and relocate. It would get him out from under her thumb and let him have a life already.

As if your controlling him is any better? Kerri could hear Trevor asking.

She glanced guiltily at the interior of the Jeep, where Trevor sat, facing front, waiting as patiently as only the post-Hell Trevor Wolff could. Kerri half-expected to see the seat stuffing flying or smoke rising. The lack of it was, in its own disturbing way, more upsetting than the damage Trevor used to cause.

Stevie and Mitchell had barely finished their good-natured, friendly, and thankfully at-ease, introductions when the Jeep’s back door opened. Trevor was done waiting.

Stevie jumped. You brought the fan club?

Peanut gallery, Mitchell said as Trevor gingerly hopped down from the back seat, his cane hitting the ground at the same time his feet did. His bad leg barely crumpled; Kerri caught the barest of satisfied nods from the bass player. His progress was slow, but it was coming.

So the prodigal baby brother’s here? Trevor said, and, with a giggle, turned to Stevie. That makes you, who? The prodigal baby brother’s brother-in-law?

Trev, Kerri sighed, covering her face with her hand.

Mitchell chuckled and shook his head. Stevie froze, looking from Kerri, to Mitchell, to Trevor, and back again, as if he expected someone to explain. As if an explanation would do justice to the joke.

Just say yes, Kerri told Stevie, and then introduce yourself to the one and only Trevor Wolff.

"Trevor Fucking Wolff, thankyouverymuch, Trevor said with a sniff and a satisfied nod, his nose raised firmly to the sky. And don’t you forget that. One and only and damn glad of it. He looked around as if making sure no one was looking, then reached into his black leather biker jacket. Who needs a smoke."

The world can only handle one of you, Trev, Mitchell said and lifted Stevie’s bag into the back of Kerri’s Jeep.

That’s because the world is stupid, Trevor said. While lighting up, he nodded at Stevie. "You get in on the other side. I don’t care if Rusty’s your sister, you don’t get to pull her hair while she drives. That honor’s reserved for me."

Lucky me, Kerri said and gave Stevie the most sympathetic smile she could manage. Stevie had become a ShapeShifter fan only after Kerri had told him she was dating the band’s frontman; she trusted he knew enough about Trevor to not be too terribly phased by this entirely typical performance.

They let Trevor take a few more hits off his cigarette before yelling at him. Mitchell was getting increasingly paranoid they’d be spotted by the autograph seekers they’d so far been able to avoid. Kerri watched Trevor carefully, wondering why he wasn’t equally as worried about the autograph hounds; Stevie was one of the first people outside of the band’s inner circle to see the post-onstage-collapse Trevor, despite valiant attempts by tenacious fans. The cleverness some of them had shown had truly impressed Kerri.

As if he knew what she was thinking, Trevor got into the Jeep the same way he had back at the house: slowly, carefully, but still afraid of that bad right leg if you knew how to read the signs. Once seated, he started up a stream of chatter, pointing out every high- and lowlight they passed.

This is where Mitchell got pulled over for DUI one night and talked his way out of it.

You did not! Mitchell!

I did, he laughed from the backseat. I was dumb enough to try to drop Dad’s name, but Dad had already sent word around, saying my ass was toast as far as he was concerned. I had to pull a ShapeShifter on them.

A ShapeShifter? Stevie asked.

That’s when you turn into a rock star to get out of trouble, Kerri told him. He nodded, moving his lips as if he was rolling the phrase around on his tongue.

The Trevor-tour continued, turning into a monologue about all the bands in town.

Pittsburgh’s trying to get a festival together, Stevie said. Something about wanting to grow it from a one-day destination event into something that rivals those European things.

I’ve heard that before, Trevor said with his usual sneer. Name me one city that hasn’t tried it. And they all fail. Know why? This isn’t Europe. What’s the point of acting like someone you’re not?

The concert culture’s different in the States, Mitchell said. Kerri glanced over her shoulder at him, trying to get a read on his mood. Mitchell wasn’t always a willing participant in Trevor’s games. Unless he was smelling what Kerri was: the possibility that Stevie was going to try to rope the band into something.

I think that’s why we’re starting off small, Stevie said.

We? Kerri asked, her stomach dropping. The band would never forgive her for this—and she sure as hell wouldn’t forgive Stevie, either.

The city. That we.

You’re not involved? Mitchell growled. Don’t bullshit me, now.

Well… I know the players. Three smaller promoters are working together to make this happen. I’m helping them scout the location. Nothing more.

Mitchell grunted. Kerri had been around music long enough now to know how fiercely promoters competed. Three wouldn’t team up unless there was more to this.

It’s a new thing we’re trying out, Stevie said as if he understood Mitchell. We still need a name for it, but we’re thinking along the lines of the Pittsburgh Music Consortium.

We? Kerri asked again. "You are more involved than just the location. Fess up."

I knew it, Trevor said, sounding fatly satisfied, the way he did whenever he was right about something. Or when he wanted someone to think he’d been right all along.

I’m on the board, Stevie said with a sigh. He sounded so embarrassed, Kerri wanted to laugh. As if being on a board was anything to be ashamed of; she was on a few, herself, despite her crazy ShapeShifter-dominated life. Art stuff, but essentially, a board was a board. Great for networking and putting feathers in your cap.

Syndicate, Trevor said. Pittsburgh Music Syndicate.

Mitchell snorted, sounding like he was choking on something. Kerri glanced over her shoulder at him as the joke clicked. Pittsburgh Music Syndicate—PMS. Only Trevor.

That works, Stevie said, bobbing his head as if he liked it.

Kerri pointed out the joke, hoping her little brother wouldn’t fly off the handle. They’d been together maybe ten minutes and already, he was getting picked on. At least she hadn’t been the one who’d started it.

Kerri wondered how long it would last. If she thought Mitchell was an easy target, she’d clearly forgotten how perfect Stevie could be. In some ways, this could make it a very long week for her little brother.

It could also send him running back to Mom.

Kerri wouldn’t do that to Trevor, let alone her worst enemy. Or her brother.

Three

Trevor

Fucking Mitchell, Trevor thought, throwing a glare at the big idiot while the guy was busy trying to suck up to the little brother. Figured. He’d shoved the newcomer in the front seat, making out like he was being all polite and shit, but what Mitchell was really doing was making sure Trevor couldn’t get a good enough look at the guy.

But he could. He sat behind Rusty, after all, so that meant he could peek between the seats at the famed little brother. Didn’t look like