Page 6 of The Devil’s Feather

I squinted in suspicion. “Are you making this up?”

The grin widened. “Completely. I do not believe in divination.” He handed me his cup and saucer. “You are welcome to try it for me, though.”

The cup stuck quite stubbornly to the saucer. “Huh. What does that mean?”

His eyes widened a fraction. “Supposedly, it means your wish will come true.” Rafael pulled Dragonsoul out of the shopping bag. “Mine was for you to personalize your signature.”

I blushed. “Fine, but only if you sign the record.”

“How do you spell your name?” He produced a felt-tipped pen from his shirt pocket and followed through as I gave him the letters. His signature was full of swoops and spikes.

The dedication said: To Elaine, may you always dance to the music of your heart.

Charming stranger, indeed.

My Sharpie hovered over the title page. I finally settled on: To Rafael, thank you for giving this book the best (and only) dance of its life.

I turned the record over in my hands. “How did you break into the music industry, anyway, if you don’t mind my asking? I’ve always heard it’s nearly impossible.”

Rafael’s intense stare, sharpened by the blue of his eyes, filtered out the rest of the world. A bomb could go off, and I wouldn’t be able to look away from those eyes.

“Luck, mostly. Travis DeWitt, the head producer for RedDog, was on site in Istanbul, scouting locations for a shoot. This was right before they blew up like A24.”

RedDog had produced Blood Thaw. I owed them a debt of gratitude.

He waved Zainab over for another coffee order and continued. “I was fresh out of military service and had been busking in the city. Travis came across me on a street corner playing my broken-down old cello and demanded to know who had written the music. He did not believe me when I said I had.”

Rafael’s hands moved in hypnotically graceful swirls, illustrating the back-and-forth nature of the conversation. “He needed a theme song for this new thriller he was working on. I told him if he gave me the beat sheet and the mood, I would have a theme ready in two days. Again, he did not believe me. I told him if he liked what I composed, he had to hire me. He laughed in my face and agreed.

“We met again. I played the piece. He loved it and hired me on the spot. Told me to pack my shit and get on a plane the next day. That job allowed me to immigrate to the US in the early 2000s. Travis was an arrogant fuckhead, like most producers, but he opened the door for me.”

“Which do you prefer to score? Movies or games?”

“Scoring games is an interesting challenge. I especially like working with Gloomtide. Very creative people. Wicked Souls 3 has one of the best scores I have ever written.” He caught the sparkle in my eye. “Ah, you know it.”

“I…may have been a little inspired by that game when I was drafting. The title is an homage.” Dammit, I wasn’t going to tell him! In for a penny, in for a pound. “I actually went to the symphonic performance of it at the Warfield last year.”

With David, unfortunately, who’d whined about wanting to leave the whole time. Thank god he was already an ex; I would have dumped him on the spot just for the privilege of having a single coffee with my current company.

A genuine smile warmed the composer’s face. “We were destined to cross paths. I was there too, trying unsuccessfully to hide at one of their VIP tables. I wish they had true private boxes.”

“We were in the back, but I loved the concert!”

“One flautist was consistently flat, but everyone else played well.” Of course Rafael fucking Nazim would notice something like that. “If you ever want to go again, I will get you better tickets.” He held his hands up. “Ah, not for my music—I am not that vain—but any performance. I know the owner well.”

“I’d love to! The Warfield is a great venue.”

Rafael’s brows drew together in a severe scowl. “I must ask you a very serious question first.”

I held my breath.

“What other music do you listen to?” His scowl cracked into a mischievous grin. “I will absolutely judge you based on your answers.” He folded his arms across his powerful chest and leaned back, imperiously staring down his long nose at me. But his eyes twinkled.

“Do I have to name four of your songs in reverse alphabetical order to pass the test, Sir Incel? Sorry for the crime of wearing a band t-shirt while female.”

He barked a laugh. “That alone passes the test. No, please tell me. I am curious.”

I bit my lip. “You’ll judge me for this, but I love Sleep Token.”