by Sarah Kuhn
As Aveda hobbled back to the bar area, another familiar figure approached.
“Hey, Rose!” Bea exclaimed. “We’ve got a Patsy Cline number queued up just for you.”
“I can’t wait,” Rose said, giving her a slight smile. She nodded at me. “Aveda.” Rose was dressed casually tonight. I’d never seen her in jeans before. But they were, of course, perfectly pressed, with a sharp crease running down the center.
“Bea tells me you might need backup tonight?” Rose said.
I frowned. No one outside of Team Aveda knew about our Maisy suspicions. “Backup?”
“In one of our email exchanges, Bea indicated—”
“Um, that we really should have some extra form of security on-site since this is such a big deal event and all,” Bea said. “Lucy’s only one woman.”
“Right.” I nodded at Rose. “Thank you.”
She nodded back then took note of the dimming lights. “Looks like we’re about to start,” she said.
The crowd noise faded to a burble as Kevin bounded onstage clutching a gold-sequined mic. “Welcome, welcome, welcome!” he crowed. “And can I just say it is fantastic to see so many karaoke enthusiasts in one place?”
He grinned as the crowd cheered. Tonight, his T-shirt proclaimed HAPANESE, BITCHES.
“We’ve got quite the battle for you tonight!” he continued, swaggering across the stage. “The city’s preeminent lifestyle blogger . . .” He gestured to Maisy, who preened for her following. “ . . . versus our favorite superhero!” He pointed at me and I popped a theatrical “ta-da!” pose. The crowd screamed its approval. (For me? For her? Maybe just for the idea that they were about to witness a nasty catfight as rendered through song.)
I had selected my own superhero getup: a short, sparkly dress, a matching sparkly hair clip, and a pair of strappy heels that laced up my legs. And I’d practiced walking in them, so I was prepared. Maisy, meanwhile, had gone for some kind of ironic eighties athlete statement, and was outfitted in running shorts, a tank top, and thick white knee socks with jaunty red stripes banding their way around her calves. I felt like those stripes were mocking me.
Kevin stopped in the middle of the stage and motioned for the crowd to hush.
“Before we get started,” he said, “I’ve got a little surprise for these lovely ladies.”
Um, surprise? Oh, no. Nonono. The surprise was supposed to be, when, exactly, Maisy was going to go full demon. I didn’t think I could handle any surprises beyond that.
Kevin paused and planted a hand on his hip.
“As Karaoke Master,” Kevin continued, “I decided to spice things up. Who wants to see a battle where the contestants merely alternate full songs, am I right? Boooooooring.”
Oh, no, I thought. Not boring at all, Kevin. In fact, that’s exactly what I prepared for and I really wish you would do me a fucking solid and abide by the original rules of this contest. You know, so I can focus on the evil-fighting bit.
“Instead, we’re gonna do the songs random roulette style,” he said. “Song stealing is allowed. Whoever owns the entire sequence and makes it her bitch wins.”
Um, what?
I frantically scanned my brain, trying to remember if Lucy had said anything about song roulette. I looked at Bea, hoping she’d have answers. But her eyes were glued to the stage, wide and panicky. Even she didn’t know what to make of this.
“A serious wrench in the master plan,” Lucy said, sidling up next to me. “But never fear, darling: I sneaked a peek at the karaoke machine and all the songs are the ones you prepared for. They’ll just be smashed into each other in random order. Listen for yours and you should be fine. And don’t forget the running punch move I taught you!”
With that, she shoved me toward the stage. I stumbled and felt my wobbly legs carry me forward. Kevin placed a microphone in my sweaty hand.
And then it was just me and Maisy underneath the hot lights, staring out into the sea of faces before us. I could practically feel the malevolence—the sheer satisfaction of her impending victory—rolling off her. I clutched my microphone harder, willing its slippery plastic surface to stay glued to my hand.
What if my fire won’t work?
What if I die?
What if everyone else dies?
I was jolted out of my thoughts when the first song blared out of the speakers. It was so loud, it sounded like a random collection of yelps and drumbeats and I was keenly aware of Maisy throwing me a challenging look, as if to say, “Better jump on this shit before I do.” I realized the song was one of mine: “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé. Bea claimed the “oh-oh-ohs” punctuating the chorus made it an easy ham-it-up song, so I rallied, shoving the microphone into my face and singing as loudly as possible.
I vamped my way through the first verse, thrusting my hips all over the place while trying to keep an eye on Maisy for demon signs. She remained surprisingly docile: mic dangling carelessly from her hand, her expression unreadable. Maybe she was waiting for her song to throw out all the stops.
As I sang, a gaggle of girls pushed their way to the front, doing a drunk, enthusiastic version of Beyoncé’s hand-flippy dance. Hey, crowd participation! Unexpected. And kind of cool. Maybe Bea’s tutorial on showmanship was paying off.
“We are over the moon for Jupiter!” one of the girls screamed.
I flipped my hand back at her and kept singing, my gaze roaming the rest of the crowd. I zeroed in on Nate leaning against the bar, trying to suppress a highly amused grin. Emboldened by my dance circle of fangirls, I gave a particularly emphatic hip thrust. Unable to hold back any longer, he laughed. The dance circle let loose with a “WHOOOOOO” and a wave of triumph surged through me.
Then I was unceremoniously shoved to the side.
My knees buckled. I stumbled and nearly wiped out on the floor.
And there was Maisy, stomping a sneakered foot in front of me and bringing her microphone to her lips and giving me the smuggest look of all time ever. Her voice captured my last series of “oh-oh-ohs” as I focused on staying upright. The crowd went crazy. She’d stolen the song.
Shit. I’d made a crucial mistake. I’d gotten wrapped up in my showmanship and taken my eyes off her.
The Beyoncé song cut out mid-“oh,” only to be replaced by the dulcet opening bars of the classic Backstreet Boys power ballad “I Want It That Way.” Maisy’s eyes narrowed in sultry fashion as she switched gears. The crowd went quiet, transfixed by her. She looked around the room, connecting with each of them in turn.
Wow, I thought. Maisy is a total master of the stare-fuck. Better than Lucy, even.
I tried to think of how I could provoke her, how I could rattle her and get her to show her true self. But I was distracted.
Because goddammit, her voice was stunning.
It soared over the audience, grabbing hold of notes and spinning them into new shapes, turning the song into a master class of vocal ornamentation.
She bent down on one knee and extended a hand to a cute guy at the edge of the stage sporting a raggedy Green Lantern T-shirt. She was charming my demographic. The cute guy ate it up, his eyes going all big as Maisy belted out the chorus, pulling him closer.
So karaoke was the one thing she didn’t do ironically.
Meanwhile I was just standing there with my mouth hanging open, hoping her demon side would come out. Which it was showing absolutely no signs of doing.
Maybe we had been wrong. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe I was about to lose this thing in every sense of the word.
I was so screwed.
I mean, even I was into Maisy’s masterful rendition of the song. In fact, I was so mesmerized I didn’t notice when the “oh-ohs” of my “Single Ladies” chorus blared back into being.
I needed to take the song back. Even if Maisy wasn’t the demon we were looking for, I had to keep myself
in the game for the sake of Aveda’s fanbase. I stepped forward and raised the microphone and spat out the last few words of the chorus. A little off-key, but still loud enough to have an impact. I forced my voice to right itself, to be less shaky. My dance circle of fangirls cheered.
And suddenly Maisy was in front of me again, flinging a hand out. Her hand connected with my microphone. And my microphone smashed into my face. Bright lights exploded behind my eyeballs and pain stabbed through me.
“Oops!” she trilled. “Sorry. I was just so into my expressive hand gestures.”
I instinctively clapped a hand over my face and spun around so my back was to the audience. Hot blood dribbled through my fingertips. Fuck.
I stumbled forward. Not sure where I was going, not sure of anything, really, except that blood was pouring through my fingers and splattering down the front of my sparkly dress and the audience sure as hell didn’t want to see that.
The “oh-oh-ohs” soldiered on, pounding into my head with merciless force. They were loud, proud, and all I could hear. I tripped over something and fell to my knees, the skin of my bare legs scraping against the stage.
Pain. Blood. I felt like I was falling and falling and falling, a dizzying concerto of “oh-oh-oh” wrapping itself around me like a vice. My breathing was too harsh, too fast, too everything. My face wouldn’t stop hurting. And the blood pouring out of my nose was thick and vicious and unstoppable.
Shit, shit, shit.
I was dimly aware of a pair of knee socks sidling up to me, their jaunty red stripes like two streaks of blood.
“Pro tip,” the socks whispered. “Never turn your back to the audience. I’m giving you that bit of gosh-dang advice because we’re friends and all.” I turned more fully toward the socks, trying to see Maisy. But everything I could see seemed to be coated in blood.
Then something swooped down at me, something gray and pockmarked with giant claws and . . . and . . . fuck. Holy fuck. It was just like the hand that had leaped out of the piano at Nordstrom. And it was Maisy’s hand.
She was the fucking demon princess.
The claw snatched the sparkly clip out of my hair.
And with that, the “oh-oh-ohs” cut out and the Backstreet Boys cut in and now all I could hear was Maisy’s incredible voice seducing the crowd, their cheers nearly drowning out her amazing performance.
I fisted my hand at my side, trying desperately to call up my fireball. But my emotions were everywhere, scattered bits of feeling littering my psyche. Panic thrummed through me and I tried to grab on to that, tried to use it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t focus.
I was losing. I’d already lost. I’d finally managed to completely and thoroughly tank Aveda Jupiter, superhero. She was gonna kill me. And then Maisy was gonna kill me. And then we were all gonna die.
I was visualizing a scenario wherein San Francisco was now ruled by Maisy Kane, Perky Demon Princess Overlord, and we were all forced to wear ironic knee socks, when all of a sudden, the Backstreet Boys cut out and a familiar strain of plinky piano notes cut in.
“Eternal Flame.”
An avalanche of images smashed into my brain.
Aveda snatching the mic at that freshman year dance, singing with all her heart.
Lucy belting out the song while I stuffed my face with nachos.
Nate lifting me off the ground and carrying me into The Gutter closet and kissing me and kissing me and kissing me.
My breathing slowed, my mind focusing on each of these memories in turn, a spark of something small and sure worming its way through the despair swirling through me.
Think of all the things you’d miss if the world suddenly weren’t there.
That spark pushed me to my feet, forced me to turn and face the crowd. And finally I felt heat start to pool in my hand.
Maisy was standing near the front of the stage, looking most put out at having been cut off from her boy band serenade.
Why wasn’t she singing? How the fuck did she not know The Bangles?
I noticed she was also holding her arm behind her back.
I was not fully conscious of everything my body was doing, but I felt myself rip a piece of fabric from my sparkly hem and bring it to my nose, sopping up the blood. The front of the dress was soaked with the stuff, as if I’d just suffered an explosive chest wound. The crowd regarded me with some strange brew of awe and horror. I must have looked like a monster movie victim.
No, I thought, my brain finally catching up to my body. I’m the fucking monster. And you know what? That’s awesome.
I strode to the front of the stage, planting myself in the center, wiping the remaining blood from my nose. The heat in my hand was ratcheting upward. Any minute now. Any minute.
I turned to Maisy, hissing through gritted teeth so only she would hear me.
“You don’t have to do . . . whatever you’re going to do. If any part of you was ever human . . . I mean, look at all these people. They’re innocent. Just come with me and—”
“No,” she growled.
She backed away from me. I sang directly to her. My voice was not stunning. But it was strong and sure and bolstered by the fact that I was standing there covered in blood. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my friends in the crowd, trying to shove their way to the front.
I put my entire soul into the song. The crowd gave over to awe and cheered.
I felt raw power coursing through me. My hand was getting hotter. It was almost time. If I could just get Maisy to reveal that damn arm.
My little dance circle resurrected itself on the side of the stage, going so far as to make punk-rock devil horns in my direction. During a power ballad.
Fine. If Maisy wasn’t going to reveal the arm on her own, I was going to make her do it. I’d grab it with my fireballed hand and show the world. Then I’d try the singe-and-subdue-her thing. I focused on the adrenaline flowing through me. Then I dramatically extended my right hand and opened it, revealing my perfect fireball.
The crowd cheered. It sounded like one unified voice.
I thrust my hand at Maisy. She darted out of the way and glared at me.
“All right, Super-Bitch,” she snarled. “Let’s play.”
She swung her arm in front of her and slashed at me, her claws ripping through my sparkly skirt.
The crowd screamed. I stepped toward her, my hand outstretched, trying to grab her. But she darted out of my way again, her giant claw waving menacingly in front of her.
“You think that piddly little flame thing is any match for me?” she screamed. “I’m a freakin’ demon princess! My power will destroy you and everyone in this bar! Everyone in this gosh-dang city!”
She turned to the crowd and snarled, then extended her claw outward, slashing at the people next to the stage. Her claw expanded, growing on the spot and ballooning out from her body, giant-size talons threatening to take out an entire section of the crowd. The terrified screams of the crowd got louder and louder, so loud they nearly drowned out the music, so loud the floor seemed to shake, as if the entire bar was about to be upended, as if . . .
Wait a second.
The bar was shaking. The ground was shaking. We were shaking.
“Earthquake!” someone screamed.
The unified voice turned into a panicked mob, pushing and shoving at each other, not sure where to go. I threw myself in front of Maisy and thrust my hand at her again, determined to make contact, determined to get her to stop.
And then my fireball was arcing away from me, shooting up at the ceiling, a bright, beautiful phoenix of color and heat.
It moved.
The fireball smashed into the ceiling, sparks flying, and then careened downward. It landed directly on Maisy Kane. And just like the Tommy Demon, she combusted on the spot.
I looked out at the crowd, but they were still only pa
ying attention to shoving their way toward the exit. The sprinklers chose that moment to activate. Water soaked the mob and they pushed each other harder.
I was rooted to the ground, eyes fixed on the spot where my fireball had just exploded.
How had it moved? How . . .
A raw rush of energy coursed through my veins. I was soaked to the bone and covered in blood and possibly about to be swallowed whole by the shaking earth.
I had just incinerated a demon princess.
And I felt fucking fantastic.
So I started singing again.
I sang louder and louder, and the crowd quieted, transfixed by my literally earth-shaking performance. They stopped shoving each other.
And just like that, the ground stilled. The sprinklers shut off just in time for my last verse. A confused, relieved murmur rippled through the crowd and the cheers started up again as I sang my way to the big finish, high note strong and clear and perfectly executed. As the crowd roared, my gaze swept the stage. There was nothing but one solitary knee sock and my sparkly hair clip.
I scooped up my clip and defiantly refastened it in my hair, then planted a hand on my blood-caked hip.
“Hey, everybody,” I said. “Did you see the part where I . . .”
“Took out an evil demon masquerading as a gossip blogger who just tried to kill us all?!” bellowed Giant Dude. He held up his phone. “I recorded that shit.”
The crowd unleashed a deafening cheer, hipsters and geeks and oldsters united at last. These were my people. This was my city. And I’d just taken it back.
I laughed, that sense of giddy power humming through me. I found Bea and Aveda and Scott in the crowd, arms thrown around each other, jumping up and down in exultation. I saw Lucy clap Rose on the back and flash me a thumbs-up. And then I saw Nate pushing his way to the front, trying to get to the stage. To me. His usual stoicism was replaced by a look of complete panic and his soaked T-shirt clung to his body, his muscular chest fully outlined in a way that bordered on indecent.