Chapter 11
Eleven
Time seemed to shrink, then to expand, and finally, to stand still. I stood there watching the man standing in the wings as he watched the band. From my far-off vantage point, with all the lights in my eyes, I couldn’t tell who he was looking at, but I could imagine well enough that he was staring at Phillip.
For a moment—one that felt like hours—I stood there, unable to move my limbs, as though I was under one of Lydia’s infamous locking spells. After drawing a ragged breath, I found my strength propelled myself forward, poking at Roberta with one hand and Nikolai with the other. “It’s…him…” I managed to spit out, pointing toward the stage and nodding at Roberta, whose eyes were wild and frantic. I knew she’d fill him in. I turned to Jamie, who was happily bopping along to the music, his eyes closed, in a state of bliss I hated to interrupt. I grabbed his shoulder and gave it a shake.
“What is it, darlin’—" he started, and I interrupted him through clenched teeth.
“We have company.” I pointed to the wings, and Jamie’s eyes widened. I could barely hear him over the music, but I could read his lips.
“Who is that?”
“Shank,” I said, assuming the name would mean something to him. It did. His brows furrowed into an expression of fury and his shoulders tensed. He started toward the barrier that separated our seats from the stage, and I pulled him back.
“We can’t cause a scene. Besides, security will try to stop us. We have to find another way around.” I realized we were missing two people in our party. “Where’s Lee?”
“I think he might’ve went for another drink,” Jamie said. “Or maybe he was doing manager shit; I’m honestly not sure. I was watching the band.”
“Come on.” I looped my arm through Jamie’s with one sad glance back at the stage—I hated to leave the show of a lifetime , but it couldn’t be helped—and we did our best to carefully wind our way through the sardine-packed rows and into the main area where the crowd was packed even tighter. We had to find someone in security who would see my pass and let us backstage, and quick. I couldn’t let Shank, whatever he was here to do, carry out his plans.
It felt like it took hours, but finally, we made it to the back of the venue. The bar was packed with young people all nursing their various cocktails and draft beer, but there was no sign of Lee. “Bathroom?” I asked, out of breath, and Jamie shook his head.
“Maybe.” He swallowed. “Do you think he saw Shank and decided to take care of it himself?”
“It’s possible, but I doubt it. Lee’s in manager mode; he’s not an impulsive hothead like us,” I said with a joyless laugh. “Come on, let’s head out to the back. Maybe we can find someone who will let us in through the side door.” As I grabbed Jamie’s arm, a flash of blonde hair caught my eye, over near the bar. It was hard to see through the ever-growing crowd, but I was sure I’d caught a glimpse of long blonde hair, a carefully made-up face, and an expression I knew very well…
I felt a tug on my purse and turned, irritated, expecting to find some drunken man hitting on me. Instead, it was Beth, her face flushed and her hula hoop still hanging off her shoulder.
“Why aren’t you back watching the show?” I asked, confused. I glanced over at the bar again, looking for the blonde girl I thought I’d seen, but the only blond there now was a man with a braid down to his back. I shook my head; in my anxious state, I was seeing things.
“You looked upset,” Beth said with a shrug. “I could feel it. I thought maybe you needed my help.” She shrugged again, the little LED lights in her headband pulsing with her movement. “So what can I do to help?”
“You should go watch the show. You don’t have to…” I began, then had another thought. “Actually,” I said, looking to Jamie, “there is something you can do. If you don’t mind performing for the general public, that is.”
“Lucky for you, I’m an extrovert,” Beth said with a grin.
I flashed my backstage pass at the beefy security guard standing by the outdoor entrance. “I’m Phillip Deville’s girlfriend,” I said, and took a brief nanosecond to let myself feel the powerful little thrill that went through me at those words. “He’s onstage right now, and I really need to get in the back. It’s an emergency.” I waved the pass dangling from around my neck again. The guard seemed to hesitate, then nodded.
“I can let you back,” he said, his face unmoving in the glare of the streetlamps. “But I can’t let your friend back without a VIP or backstage pass.”
I pasted on my most convincing, dazzling smile, the one I used on Phillip when I wanted him not to be annoyed with me. “He’s one of our party, though. You can see from his ticket he’s sitting in the front row with me.”
The security guard shook his head, his arms crossed over his torso. “No dice. Sorry. Just you.”
I turned to Jamie with a grimace. “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve got to go back there alone.”
“I don’t like that a bit, darlin’,” Jamie said. His face looked more serious than I’d ever seen it, an odd contrast to the easygoing, sexy smile he usually displayed. He pulled me off to the side, out of earshot of the security guard. His eyes darted toward the door. “I’ll be just as dead as your boyfriend in there if I let you go in guns blazing to confront that maniac by yourself.”
“Well, somebody has to go back there,” I whispered hotly. “Why is Shank backstage at Phillip’s show? He’s obviously got some terrible plan. I have to stop him before someone gets hurt. And I need to hurry; that girl Beth can’t keep them all entertained forever. I’m surprised security hasn’t stopped her yet.” From inside the venue, we heard the voices of the crowd raise in excitement and then loud clapping as the band finished another song. My new friend Beth, bless her, was standing on top of my chair in the front row, hula hooping her little heart out, her flashing LED lights hopefully distracting the crowd and delighting them enough to keep them from noticing any potential scenes that might take place in the next few minutes. At least, that’s what I’d asked her to do. I only hoped she was able to comply.
Jamie wore a pained expression. “Deville is gonna kill me.” He sighed. “You got your cell phone on ya, darlin’?”
“Of course.”
“Call me if anything goes wrong. I mean anything at all,” Jamie said in a low voice, looking into my eyes. “I’ll come runnin’. I’ll pull the fire alarm if I have to. Hell, I’ll leapfrog onto the stage and tackle Phillip’s big ass if I have to. You feel me?”
“I got it,” I said with a grateful smile. “I promise, I’ll be careful. And I’ll call if anything happens. You try and go back and fill in the others. Tell them to…to…” I honestly didn’t know what to tell them. “Just tell them to be on high alert.”
“I’ll try to find Lee too,” Jamie said with a nod, and then he scurried back around to the other side of the venue.
I took a few seconds to catch my breath and center myself, closing my eyes and leaning against the venue’s brick siding and listening to the muffled sounds of the Bloomer Demons as they launched into another song. I couldn’t make out much of the melody, just the heavy thrum of the bass and the steady beat of Benny’s drums. Shank was dead for making me miss this, the motherfucker.
I moved toward the door, and the security guard opened it for me. I nodded in thanks and hurried inside, pulling the hood of my black jacket over my head as I went. If Shank was lurking around, I could use all the cover I could get. If he recognized me—and he definitely would—before I happened to see him, it would all be over.
As I walked flush against the wall, it occurred to me that I could have just told the security guard what was going on. There was still time…I could go back, sound the alarm. Let them handle it. That was their job, after all. But something instinctual told me they wouldn’t take me seriously, and that even if they did, they’d bungle it somehow.
Instinct had taught me in a very short time that matters to do with Guthrie and Elvin and their magic, and the people it had left in its wake, were matters best handled internally.
My head throbbed in muscle memory as I recalled the last time I’d seen Shank. That encounter had landed him, Phillip, and me in the hospital. Phillip had been shot, and I’d had a nasty concussion. Shank had fared the worst of us, thanks to me. I’d basically cracked his head like an egg on the concrete floor of our motel room. The noise his head had made when it connected with the hard floor, which had been barely cushioned with cheap, thin old motel carpet, was a sound I still sometimes heard in my dreams. Or nightmares. I knew Shank had lived—Phillip and I had made sure of that before we’d hightailed it out of Dodge—but he must have had had a hard recovery. Phillip had laid a few heavy blows to him as well before I’d seriously put him out of commission. And with Lee, his former boss, having a sudden change of conscience, and Guthrie, his even bigger boss, dead and gone, I’d assumed, or at least hoped, that Shank was out of the game. That he wouldn’t have any need to bother of us further. In fact, I hadn’t even thought about him since I’d been back in Georgia. I’d never even thought to ask Lee about him, to make sure that he wouldn’t come after us.
It was an oversight among so many other oversights. I had to get better at this, at anticipating threats before they showed up at my door. I had to.
Too many lives were being threatened; too many had already been destroyed. Now, with Phillip by my side, reuniting with his band and being in the public eye, my mom (and now my father) back in the picture and this beloved newfound family around, I had to be more careful than ever. I had people to protect, people other than myself. And they meant everything to me.
The hall was pretty dark and smelled awful. I briefly wondered what kind of musty, moldy sludge might be lurking on the ancient, ripped old carpet. I’d come in this way with Phillip when he’d been loading in instruments, but I’d been busy tapping away on my phone, checking social media and coordinating with my friends. I’d barely paid attention as I’d followed him around backstage.
The hall dead ended at a little room that had four separate doors—two straight ahead, and two to the right. From the loud thumps and muffled sounds of Phillip’s screeching voice, I could make out that he had now moved onto one of my favorites from their second album, “Silver Bullets .” I smiled despite my trepidation; I’d always wanted to hear that song live. It was a loud, heavy, thumping metal song that never failed to get my blood pumping, and it featured some of Phillip’s highest vocals. From the sounds beyond the door, he still had it. Damn Shank to the very depths of hell for ruining this for me.
I wondered if Phillip had noticed I was missing from the front row. It wasn’t like he could just throw off his bass and disappear to look for me, but wondering where I was and worrying about me was likely to throw him off his game. He needed no distractions. I hoped that, for once, he was not poking around in my head.
I stared at the doors ahead of me for a moment, then pulled one open, going with my ears. Jackpot. A small set of black, rickety looking steps led up to what I knew was the stage. I could hear Phillip’s voice as I bounded up them, an unstoppable grin breaking out on my face just as he hit the high note I’d been waiting for.
“Phillip, you sexy motherfucking beast ,” I muttered under my breath, pulling the hood down further over my eyes. It was mainly deserted backstage, save for a couple of guitar techs who were bent over what looked like Jason Langley’s second guitar. I recognized the familiar blue strap. I made my way past them, giving them a friendly nod and letting them see my face briefly, but they were too busy to look up to acknowledge me. I crossed over to the other side of the stage, my fingers lightly resting on the deep, solid black curtains, nervously trying to dissipate the odd tingling sensation that had begun in my knuckles, fanning them out subconsciously. The curtains were so heavythat they barely moved beneath my touch, but as I rounded the corner toward the side stage, I felt resistance give beneath my fingers. Something was pulling the curtain taut.
My eyes met Shank’s, and before I could stop myself, I let out a shriek. Because there was someone else standing there with him too.
Shank’s dark eyes, nearly hidden beneath his black baseball cap, glowed like embers as he stared at me, his face full of hatred. I could hardly blame him for the ill will he harbored toward me. I had tried to kill him, after all. Only thing was, he’d tried to kill me first, so I had just as much reason, if not more, to hate him right back. Plus, he had given me a concussion. That was after kidnapping me and holding me hostage at some abandoned house in Boston. He’d drugged me too. And had tried to talk Lee Courtenay into straight up killing me.
So as far as I was concerned, we were even.
Well, maybe not quite even. I still had a score to settle.
What I couldn’t quite understand, though, was the burgundy-haired guy standing beside him. The worn Charles Manson T-shirt that hung on his skinny shoulders suited him better than the teal Hawaiian shirt I’d seen him in last time, and his facial piercings glinted in the dim light as he smiled, cold and calculating. His eyes were dark as coal.
“Why the fuck are you here?” I seethed, clutching the black curtain tightly in my right hand. I held onto it to brace myself because I was shaking with rage and nerves. “And who the fuck are you?”
“Hi, pretty lady,” he replied, his face lighting up in a very sinister and very ugly grin. Beneath his cap, his head was bald as an egg. I had nothing against bald guys—in fact, I’d come into my sexuality watching The Mummy like every other adolescent girl my age, and had thought Imhotep was plenty fine— but something about Shank’s hairlessness, combined with his heavy, dark eyebrows and even darker eyes, and his dark, slightly pointed goatee, made him look like an actual devil. And not the good, authority-defying, sexy modern-day devil, either, but a medieval, depraved, genuinely evil devil. “How have you been?”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I repeated, but his grin only got wider in response. His free hand clutched at the curtains, which explained the tautness I’d felt as I’d rounded the corner to find him waiting in the wings. Beyond the curtains, I could hear Phillip play the starting notes of a searing bass solo that I’d only heard him play once or twice before. Fucking Shank, to make me miss that of all things. I glared, my fingers still tingling. I clenched them into a fist.
“Your husband is dead, I hear,” he said, his smile fading, but he didn’t look sad or even angry.
“I don’t have a husband,” I shot back.
“You know what I mean, pretty lady,” he leered. “Your ex-husband. Good ol’ Tessie. Whatever you want to call him don’t change the fact that he’s dead as a doornail.” He snickered. “Dumb fucker.”
“And is this his replacement?” I asked, disdain dripping from my voice. “Your latest lackey can’t cut it, Shankie. He can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.” The man glowered at me, his own long fingers curling into fists by his side. My eyes widened. I recognized him! I knew who he was! “Oh my god—you’re Colt Leather, aren’t you?”
“Guilty.” The cold, calculating smile was still on his face, but he was anything but happy. I could feel his resentment and bitterness from where I stood. I hadn’t kept up with his story too much, but last I’d seen on Twitter, he’d been fired by his manager, kicked out of his band, and even his agent had jumped ship. Women were still posting Insta-stories detailing the many depraved things he’d done over the years, each more horrible than the next. From the looks of his ratty T-shirt, the rumors about his serial killer obsession must be true. Rather than fear, though, I just felt pity. Charles Manson, really? The man clearly had never had an original thought.
“Nice shirt,” I said, casually inspecting my nails. “How’d you end up with this bald idiot?”
“How did you end up with that has-been hair metal pansy Deville?” he shot back, and I smiled.
“Big talk coming from the place where emo goes to die.” Even as I spoke, my brain was clicking over, trying to figure out if Phillip had ever mentioned this dude. Did they have some long-ago beef?
“Nice way to treat the man who saw your ex take his last breath,” Shank said, smirking at me. “Well, try to take his last breath, anyway, huh, Colt?”
I glared at Shank, trying to swallow down my rage. I felt pain deep in my stomach, grief and anger and sadness and fear mingling to make an explosive cocktail that threatened to double me over. Whatever Tess had been like—and he definitely had been no saint—he hadn’t deserved such cruelty. My face must have shown my despair because Shank threw back his head and laughed.
Something came over me. I didn’t think, I didn’t stop to even breathe. Before I knew what I’d done, I reached forward with my left hand, unballed my fist, placed my palm against Shank’s shoulder, and leveled every ounce of rage, power, and magic I had at him.
His eyes widened, and he staggered back with a jolt, the electric shock pulsing between us for a moment before he began to fall, clutching his right hand to his chest like someone having a heart attack, like a caricature of Fred Sanford of my dad’s favorite show Sanford and Son, screaming for Elizabeth.
In any other moment, I might’ve laughed at the image—how ridiculous, how weak and pathetic he looked—but there was no time for that, because my eyes had fallen on something small and black clutched in the hand Shank now held to his chest. His eyes were fluttering, rolling back in his head, and he was not conscious as he fell, but I grabbed at him anyway, the magic still pooling in my fingers and seeming to sizzle as I touched him, trying to prevent him from hitting the floor.
Trying to prevent him from dropping the little black device clutched in his hand.
A second too late, I saw a pair of retreating black motorcycle boots and a flash of a ratty white T-shirt. A door flew open—an exit I hadn’t known existed—and Colt Leather sprinted through and was gone without looking back.
“What are you holding—" I shouted at Shank, but before I could finish the words, before I had time to understand the magnitude of what I’d seen, Shank hit the floor, his fingers opened, and the explosion went off.