27. Jules #2
The bright, easy version built for cameras and people who believe they are entitled to pieces of me.
“A show,” I say.
The host’s expression twitches.
“That’s what we owe them. A great show. Our best work. A safe night where everyone gets to scream, cry, dance, and go home afterwards.”
The lower voice beneath hers disappears for half a second.
I lean forward.
“We’re going to give them the best show they’ve ever seen.”
The words leave a silence behind them.
My pulse is too loud. The bond is a live wire beneath my skin, Camille’s presence wrapped around mine without touching me.
The host blinks.
Her smile falters.
The screens behind her distort, every fan feed stretching into bands of color. For one frame, something dark stands in the negative space between them.
Too tall.
Too wide.
Watching.
Mina makes a small sound beside me.
Then the screen turns gold again.
The ECLIPSE RUN logo returns.
The host looks down at her cards as though she has lost her place. “I…”
Someone speaks into her earpiece.
Her smile snaps back into position, but this time it is human. Confused. Shaken.
“Well,” she says, laughing too quickly, “we certainly can’t wait to see that show.”
Kaia takes control before she can ask anything else. “We’re looking forward to sharing it with everyone tonight.”
The red camera light switches off.
Production staff begin speaking all at once.
The host removes her earpiece. “Was that on the teleprompter?”
No one answers her.
Blaire crosses the studio floor, already demanding the names of everyone who approved the fan feeds. Camille follows more slowly.
Her eyes find mine immediately.
The bond contracts around the space between us.
I am fine. I try to project it through the bond.
She knows I am lying.
Meanwhile, Remy removes her microphone and examines it as though she intends to dissect it with her bare hands.
“That was the Patron,” Mina whispers.
“Or one of the Mouthpieces,” Remy says.
“No.” Mina stares at the blank screen. “The Mouthpiece asked the question.”
Her face has gone pale.
“The Patron was watching.”
Cool.
Love that for us.
Camille stops in front of the couch. Her expression gives nothing away, but fear and fury burn through the bond.
“The performance window has not started,” Kaia says.
Camille looks towards the production clock.
“According to the public schedule,” she says.
My stomach drops.
Remy follows her gaze. “They moved it.”
“They expanded it,” Camille corrects. “The pre-show interview, global fan broadcast, and concert are now listed as one continuous engagement event.”
The channel is already open.
Hours early.
“Then start the override now,” Remy says.
Camille shakes her head. “They have opened the collection window. The internal contract layer will not expose itself until the music, wards, and all four performers are active simultaneously.”
“Meaning we still have to go onstage,” Kaia says.
“Yes.”
All around us, staff rush to contain what they think was an embarrassing technical malfunction.
But the system is not malfunctioning.
It is working exactly as intended.
I look through the studio wall towards the arena beyond it, where tens of thousands of people will soon fill the seats.
Tokyo was supposed to be our chance to catch the system exposed.
Apparently, it has been waiting for us too.
***
The room seals behind us with a muted click.
Soundproof. Private. Serious.
That is how I know this is not standard.
We have barely made it out of the pre-show studio. The echo of thirty-two countries chanting our name has not left my head. Neither has the image of that shadow standing between the fan feeds.
Mina stays close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. Grounding.
I don’t comment on it.
Kaia moves to the center of the room immediately.
Remy takes up position near the wall, already analyzing whatever she heard in the interview’s audio pattern.
Camille stands beside the conference table with her tablet in hand, composed enough that no one looking at her would know fear is moving through the bond like a live current.
Blaire looks at all four of us, then at Camille.
Her gaze lingers.
She knows something is off.
She just doesn’t know how much.
“This is the highest-risk event we’ve had,” Blaire says.
No preamble. No softening.
Cool. Love that.
I cross my arms. “Define ‘highest-risk,’ because we’ve had some pretty creative near-death experiences lately.”
No one laughs.
Great.
Devin stands at the far end of the table, phone in hand, looking more inconvenienced than frightened. Mr. Bane waits beside him in a dark suit, as calm as if we are discussing weather rather than the possibility of my body becoming demon property in front of a stadium.
“The interview was added to the official performance window,” Camille says. “The global broadcast opened the channel approximately twenty-seven minutes ago.”
Blaire’s expression hardens. “Who authorized that change?”
Devin looks up from his phone. “The Tokyo production partnership expanded the engagement package. The fan events tested above projections, so the interview was folded into the main broadcast.”
“You changed the performance window without telling us?” Kaia asks.
“It was a promotional adjustment.”
“It gave a Mouthpiece access to a live host,” Blaire snaps.
Devin’s jaw tightens. “The incident was contained.”
I stare at him. “Did you miss the part where the host asked what I owe a supernatural fan cult?”
“That is not what happened.”
“Right. My mistake. Very normal interview question.”
Blaire ignores both of us and turns to Bane. “Their resonance is drawing in more demonic energy than they can safely contain. I understand that their performances are supposed to attract it so they can destroy it, but this is excessive. Can we stop the draw before they go onstage?”
“No,” he says.
The answer lands heavily.
Blaire goes still. “Why not?”
“Because the energy has already been called here,” Bane explains. “If the girls pull back from the draw without properly dispersing or destroying it, the entities gathering around the arena will seek other sources. They will move into the audience, the staff, and anyone else close enough to reach.”
Mina’s hand tightens around mine.
“So cancelling could make it worse,” Kaia says.
“Yes,” Bane replies. “Potentially catastrophically.”
“Cancelling the concert would interrupt the performance, not terminate the connection,” Camille adds. “The active window would remain open, but the girls would no longer be controlling where the energy goes.”
Exactly what she discovered after Barcelona.
Blaire turns towards her. “You knew that?”
Camille does not look at me. “I confirmed it after Barcelona.”
The statement is technically true.
It is also nowhere close to the whole truth.
Blaire’s eyes narrow. “And you didn’t tell me?”
The bond tightens.
Camille’s voice remains level. “I did not have enough verified information.”
Kaia shifts beside me. Remy looks down. Mina’s fingers brush mine and then curl into her own palm.
The lie sits in the middle of the room with us.
Not a complete lie. Somehow that makes it worse.
Blaire looks from Camille to the rest of us. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
Yes.
The contracts are magical. The wards are collecting emotional output.
Eon has been doing this to groups for decades.
Camille plans to rewrite the agreements from inside the active channel while we perform, and none of us knows whether that will free us or tear the whole structure apart with us still attached.
We need Blaire.
The thought hits hard enough to make my chest tighten.
Of course we need her. She has been the one standing between us and Eon for years, bending every rule she could without letting the system see her do it. She knows our schedules, our breaking points, and every version of us the cameras never get.
Keeping this from her feels like walking onto the stage without one of the girls.
But Devin is standing six feet away, Bane reports directly to the Council, and Camille’s warning runs through my head…
We don’t know who sees Blaire’s reports. We don’t know which systems are monitored. We don’t know how deep this goes.
Kaia answers first. “No.”
Blaire looks at her for a long moment.
Kaia does not look away.
Something passes across Blaire’s face. Not belief.
Hurt.
It disappears before I can be certain.
“Fine,” she says. “Then we work with what we have.”
My stomach twists.
Mr. Bane places a small device on the table. A pale line of light rises from its center, forming a rough model of the arena and the channels threaded through it.
“If another Mouthpiece manifests tonight, it will have significantly more access than before,” he says. “The interview demonstrated coordinated control across multiple broadcast systems. We should assume the entity has moved beyond fragmented interference.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “And by ‘more access,’ we mean…?”
“A complete alignment attempt,” Bane says. “No fragmentation. No partial interference.”
Right.
Cool, cool, cool.
“So, worst-case scenario,” I translate, “it tries to take me over completely in front of a live audience.”
“Yes,” Bane says calmly.
Awesome.
“You must not let it complete the connection,” Blaire adds.
I blink at her. “Oh, is that all?”
No one bites.
I run a hand through my hair. “Right. Sure. I’ll just politely decline.”
“This is not a joke, Jules,” Camille says.
I turn towards her.
She is already watching me. Focused. Controlled.
Terrified.
The emotion hits through the bond before she can bury it. Not vague concern or operational tension. Fear sharp enough to hurt.
“I know,” I say more quietly.
Because I do.
That is the problem.
This is not another flicker in the mirrors or a voice hiding beneath the music. The pre-show interview proved the Patron does not have to wait until we step onto the stage anymore.
It is already here.
“I saw the shadow again,” Mina says quietly. “The big one. During the interview. It was behind the screens, watching through them.”
Blaire’s attention snaps towards her. “You saw the entity?”
“Only for a second.”