Chapter Twenty-Three
P astel splattered the horizon, sent upward by the sinking sun, and cast a golden glow across Decatur Street.
Aiden stood on the sidewalk outside the House of Blues and watched the sun reach for the moon.
Black bled into navy, pressing on bronze streaks and orange-bellied clouds.
Thin light chased a shadow down a nearby alley, stretched away from ankles he couldn’t see.
Pink hugged the space between buildings and disappeared beneath the concrete.
He lifted a cigarette to his lips, sucked, exhaled pale plumes, and flicked the butt into a slimy gutter.
“Hey, everything’s ready,” Pru said. She leaned around the front door, snapping her fingers to get his attention. Sherlock perched on her shoulder, buckled into a blue harness and clipped to a leash. “Don’t let Georgia see that. She’ll grab you by the ear, auntie style.”
He nodded, laughing under his breath. “Any chance I can get a beer on my way in?”
“Already got a pitcher backstage.”
“Bless,” Aiden said. He scratched Sherlock’s head and followed Pru inside, dipping left through a door labeled Stage Crew beside the bar.
House of Blues had requested Knight’s Blood after the larger, more prestigious arena pulled out post-David Crystal-meltdown.
Yeah, the paycheck might’ve been skinnier, but Aiden still loved gigs at homey theaters rich with weird history.
The walls were teal, orange, and canary yellow, decorated with stained reclaimed wood and eclectic artwork.
Neon flames surrounded the doorframes, overlayed with glowing handprints and names scrawled in permanent ink.
He ran his hand along Claudio Sanchez’s signature, and thought, you’ve come so far from innocence.
Meeting with Kelly had turned him skittish, dwelling on what and if and who .
Drowning. Shay coated in blood. Laura staring at him through their shared reflection.
Clumsy fear filled his throat, shaped like the rock Thomas had shoved into his mouth all those weeks ago.
He reached for the scar on his throat, the place Cit’s knife had nicked him, and remembered cacti and desolate desert.
How similar they’d been, in the end. Except Aiden had lived.
Bled and fought and survived after standing on a cliff, begging for a stolen future.
Now he wondered what future meant. Dying, living. Becoming unstoppable.
If Laura could be created, she could be destroyed, and if those ass-backward witches could fill her with power, then Aiden could fucking steal it.
“Stage entrance is to the right. I’ll be in the green room, just holler if you need me,” Pru said, and waved with Sherlock’s paw as she walked through the open doorway at the end of the hall.
Aiden ducked past a curtain and grabbed his guitar off the instrument stand.
Dylan greeted him with a nod and gestured to the pre-poured beer seated on the taped X where Aiden was meant to stand. “Jacob wants to talk once we’re done with rehearsal,” he said.
“Great. Any chance we’re gettin’ out of that hotel?” Aiden asked.
Shay frowned, shaking his head. “Everyone had the same idea we did. The manager gave us a partial refund, at least.”
“At least,” Georgia scoffed.
“We’re only here for two more nights. They had the pool drained and the media wrangled before we left, so.” Shay tipped the microphone stand with his foot. “It sucks, but we’ll deal.”
“I know, I know.” She wrinkled her nose. “Let’s get this shit started, yeah?”
Aiden plucked at guitar strings. Their introduction played over the speakers.
Shay sipped his beer and gripped the mic, and the band ran through Never Say Die, launched into Reign, Fallen Throne, Shelob, See Through Fire, Rise, an entire set linked with songs they'd loved and perfected.
They paused halfway through rehearsal to playfully argue about encore options.
After a brutal game of rock, paper, scissors, Shay insisted on an acoustic version of Glory.
"Should we give any of the new material a go? I know we're still working, but it might be a nice tease?" Georgia asked.
Shay tipped his head back and forth, considering. "I don't know. I think we should stick with what we've got for now. Wait until we're finished with the album before we debut anything else."
“I agree,” Dylan said. He finished his beer and poured another.
“We’ll close out this tour with our current set-list and book another round once we drop the album, right?
People know we have new shit in the works, we sold out tomorrow’s show in, like, a week, and Never Say Die is in the top ten on Rock Nation, Octane, and iTunes. Not to jinx us, but we’re killin’ it. ”
“Yeah, I mean, I’m not a patient person, but I bet Jacob’ll say the same thing,” Georgia said. She mock-pouted. “Guess I’m jumping the gun, huh?”
“We need to give people enough time to hear about us, get to know us, and want more from us,” Shay said.
Aiden nodded. “I think we should switch the opener and closer for our next. . .” His voice faltered, snuffed out by woozy heat.
He planted his feet. Inhaled through his nose.
Don’t pass out . White spots clouded his vision.
Then searing jabs erupted, landing on his stomach, hips, chest. Hot saliva filled his mouth.
He stumbled, ripped his guitar away, and set it down before he lost his balance.
“Aiden?” Georgia dropped her drumsticks. They clattered, pinging and bouncing, and Aiden winced at the sound. Her hands landed on his face, startling him. “What the hell? You’re burning, honey. Like, burning .”
His mouth turned cottony and useless. He made pathetic attempts to grab onto her.
Someone is stabbing me , he wanted to say.
I’m hurt, I’m hurt, I’m hurt. No blood dampened his clothes, no wound opened on his torso, but he felt something hard and small digging into him.
Fingernails deep in his skin. Flesh breaking under his molars.
He squeezed his eyes shut and re-opened them.
Gasped and fell, smacking his tailbone on the stage, tearing away from the gaping crimson wound where Georgia’s throat should’ve been.
Shay dropped to his knees beside him. “Aiden, hey. We’re right here. You’re safe, you’re fine. What’s happening?”
Dylan pressed a cool, empty glass to the back of his neck. “No judgement, man. But what’d you take?”
“He didn’t take anything,” Shay said. A moment passed, clipped in half by a snarl. “I’m serious. I was with him all day. He didn’t take anything, Dylan.”
Dylan sighed. “Not to be a dick about it, but. . . ”
Speak, you idiot. Aiden sucked in air. Talk . “I didn’t take shit,” he said, and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his forehead in the groove where his kneecaps met. “I. . . I think it’s a cyst.” Say more. “I’ll be fine, just give me a sec.”
Georgia made a patient, unpleasant noise. “Oh, ouch. . .”
Aiden swallowed another mouthful of watery spit. Ovarian cysts had plagued him for years, but he hadn’t dealt with them in a long while. For once, he wished a cyst had knocked him on his ass. “Yeah, ouch is one way to put it.”
“Hey, can we get some water?” Dylan called, flagging a loitering light technician. He flicked through his phone. “So, Google says if you’ve got a fever it’s doctor time.”
“I’ll be fine ,” Aiden said. Pain rippled again, just beneath his solar plexus. “Let me just. . . Just cool down, okay? I’ll be right back. Shay, can you. . . ?”
Shay took his arm and hoisted him to his feet. “I’ve got him,” he said to Georgia, and curled his arm around Aiden’s waist, guiding him to the private bathroom next to the green room. Once the door was locked behind them, he took Aiden’s chin, steering his face. “Is it actually a cyst?”
“No,” he said, and lifted his shirt.
Reddened crescents littered his torso. Welts slashed his stomach, printed onto his brown skin by invisible hands.
A curved mark bled into the fading bruise on his ribs and sliced through a spotted hickey on his hipbone.
He glanced from his reflection to his belly, resting a shaky hand over four raised marks, pricked faintly with blood.
“Qué mierda,” Aiden whimpered. He met Shay’s eyes, turned back toward his scratched-to-hell body, whipped his face upward again.
“I can taste…” He tongued at his teeth. “Blood—I taste blood , Shay. And something else. Perfume? Like, l-lotion, maybe? Jesus Christ. What the fuck is going on?” He hated sounding scared.
Hated being scared. But his eyes watered, and he breathed too fast, disheveled and unhinged. He smacked the handle on the sink.
“I don’t. . .” Shay shook his head. “I don’t know.”
He scooped water into his mouth, swished, spat, then splashed his face. “I’m losing my goddamn mind,” he whispered. He stared at his reflection and snatched his rosary, rolling the garnet beads in his closed fist. “I’m. . . We’re. . . We’re here, right? I’m awake? We’re awake?”
Shay took his wrist and gripped. “You’re awake, Aiden,” he said, like he would to a frightened cat. “I’m here, you’re here, we’re at rehearsal—we’re awake.”
Aiden nodded. Kept nodding. “Yeah, okay. Okay.” Am I really? He glanced at Shay, at his parted lips and sad, knitted brows, and swallowed thickly. “When you came back, did you feel me?”
“Aiden—”
“Did you?”
“No, I didn’t feel anything. I wanted answers. I wanted to find you, okay? I needed to find you.”
“To kill me?”
Shay worried his lip with a fang. “Does it matter?”
Aiden didn’t need an answer. He knew the truth, anyway.
That Shay had tried to be like him—murderous, vengeful, power-hungry—and that he’d been too good, even at his worst, to become anything like Aiden.
“I can feel her, somehow. I know it’s crazy, but…
” He gestured to his upper half. “This isn’t you and it isn’t me.
So, it’s her. What’d Kelly call it? Tied, tethered? ”
“Tethered.” Shay gave him a slow once over. “Did you feel me?”