by Kat Turner
But Jonnie didn’t answer her plea at first, neither with a change in his body language nor with words. After too much time had passed, she clenched her teeth and berated herself for blowing it. He kissed her neck for a bit, the feel of his lips transitioning from passionate to sweet.
She fought an exasperated sigh as he moved those kisses to her cheek. He dropped two chaste ones on her lips while playing with her hair. Then, in one deliberate motion that made her grimace, he pulled back from her. The rigid length between his legs no longer tantalized her with its promises.
“What’s wrong?” Voice clipped and annoyingly squeaky, she managed her dumb question while he gazed into her eyes. What she could make out in his dark stare was distant, perhaps sad, maybe even maudlin.
He inhaled audibly. Swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. His jaw twitched. “It’s not a good idea for us to fool around. We both know that.”
“Why not?” She played with the elastic band of his pants, spying black ink tattoos that began below his navel and disappeared into regions one could only see if he was fully naked. Two sets of vertical lines, like claw scratches.
Her chest tightened. Other women, the ones who had helped themselves to toothbrushes and wee tubes of deodorant, had seen those cool tats. In the moment she envied those women, greatly and with startling bitterness. For Eve had been rejected where they had not.
He rolled off her and flopped on his back, fixing his stare on the whirling fan. She shifted to her side, waiting for her answer. A flash of headlight briefly illuminated the sharp edges of her almost-lover’s cut-crystal profile.
“You had a dream about me, didn’t you?” he asked at last.
“How did you know?” She watched him watch the fan, the frustration borne of unmet sexual need drizzling away. Low-grade dread took its place. Weird shit was happening, escalating, and she’d be remiss to forget it.
“I walked like a somnambulist. Lay on the couch and transitioned while you stood over me and got on top of me.” He spoke in monotone, like reporting the occurrences in a “just the facts, ma’am” manner would make them less insane.
“So we met in some third place.” She’d read about and heard of such realms. Astral planes, other dimensions. What they were was anyone’s guess. In the domain of the esoteric, there were more questions than answers.
“Right. Eve...” He flipped, moving to face her. Threaded a lock of her mussed hair around his index finger. “What I know is, things are changing. Getting worse. I feel it, speeding up. And I don’t know what I’m capable of. I don’t know how I’m changing, you know? Seems there’s a new, terrible surprise every day now. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“What if the surprises aren’t all terrible? You won’t hurt me. I can tell.” She stroked his arm like he was a lifeline. Like if they held each other they would be safe, ensconced in the escape of passion.
His brows drew together as he searched her face. “What if you’re wrong?” He lowered his voice, playing the pause after he spoke. Possibly trying to scare her, push her away.
“I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.” He looked to the side, his jaw firming like he ground his molars. Jonnie scooted a couple of inches away from her, a physical retreat to mirror the emotional one.
She crossed her arms over her chest, a stew of embarrassment and aggravation eating at her stomach lining. Didn’t he realize they would fare better as a united front, in agreement on how to move forward? “Well, the fact remains that we’re seeing the same crazy stuff now. And I need answers on this mess with Lacey, because whatever is going on, I don’t know if her stalker parents are summoning demons, or screwing around with the occult, or what, but you’re the only person who seems to have broken any ground on this whatsoever.”
Eve bent her thumb in the direction of the room with the clippings. Normally upon spotting those she would have dismissed Jonnie as a crackpot, called herself a car, and beat cheeks out of there. But he obviously had some leads. Making him the only lead she had to resolve the Lacey situation, annoying lust or no. And as much as her neglected sexuality tried to convince her otherwise, they needed to keep the extent of their involvement guarded and on task.
Because although the rejection hurt, he was right. The man was a vampire, undergoing some alteration process, and who knew where that would lead. But any fool could deduce that tempting fate was a bad idea.
The bed creaked as he sat, positioning himself to face away from her. He clenched the edge of the mattress, his straight, bare back moving with his breathing. “I need a cure, you need closure. I might have the means to lead us to both.”
“We’re working together because our goals align, and we can help each other. Simple as that.” She pitched her statement in an overly declarative and formal way in a desperate effort to will it into existence and crush her desire for him in the process.
“Simple as that.” Jonnie hung his head for a second, heaved a sigh, and got out of bed. An ugly dawn had broken quickly, morning light garish on the unmade bed. “Try to catch a nap. I have an interview and some business before sound check at five, but we should try to squeeze in some research. I’ll run out and get us a bit of sustenance for when you wake up.” He chanced her a wary glance. “You want to come see the show, yes?” A note of optimism brightened his voice.
The shy beginnings of a smile crept onto Eve’s lips. It wasn’t smart to get physically intimate with Jonnie, but they could enjoy each other’s company as much as the situation would allow. “Sounds fun.”
“We always hope so.” After proffering her a subdued smirk, Jonnie walked off. A door opened and shut with a squeak, then water sloshed. Floorboards creaked, and the heavy front door opened and closed.
Once he was gone, Eve buried herself in sticky sheets and screwed her eyes shut. Jonnie was one hundred percent correct. With the situation growing both more frightening and less clear, they needed to buckle down and find some solutions, pronto.
Because, as he’d said, who knew what terrible surprise lay in store for them next?
Six
In the small, windowless arena dressing room, with its four white walls and wheeled rack of clothing, Jonnie breathed stale air. Smells of sweat and men’s bath products blended with a residual odor of drying latex paint to knot his already upset stomach.
Brian’s singing voice, though harmonious and in key like always, stabbed icepicks into Jonnie’s ears. So loud, so close.
Heart fluttery, he crouched, opened the mini fridge, and pulled out a third bottle of water. Sighing in relief as he pressed the wet, chilly plastic to his hot forehead, he told himself that it was just nerves. He still got stage fright now and again, especially before playing huge venues like this one. Too bad Eve hadn’t come, but he understood why she’d changed her mind and decided to hang back at his place instead of seeing the show. She wasn’t in the mood for a concert and felt it more pressing to focus on research. Made total sense. Eve was a pragmatist, through and through. Still, he missed her.
Brian stopped the vocal warmup exercises he’d been doing and cleared his throat. “You don’t look so good, mate.”
“I’m fine, just a little overheated.” Understatement of the century. Jonnie cracked the bottle and chugged its divine offering of refreshment. He drained the water in a few gulps, but unfortunately, as soon as it was gone his throat resumed burning like he’d attempted to eat a hot coal.
“You have a rash—Christ, those spots are the size of quarters. I could text one of the nurses.” Concern thick in his voice, Brian reached for a mobile on the top of the stout refrigerator.
Jonnie strangled a bitter snort in his throat. He doubted any of the temporary medical crew on the tour would be able to help.
Only one man could step in to pinch hit. An overwhelming mixture of anger, fear, and dread flooded Jonnie’s veins. Connors, Vampivax, Scarab and demons, and the weird dreams he shared with Eve spun a funhouse in his brain. Unknowns whose mysteries rendered them horrifyin
g.
“I’m fine. It’s about a hundred and twenty degrees outside is all. Christ, are they even running the air conditioner in here?” He stuck his head out of the oppressive, crowded room’s doorway, glancing up and down a cavernous cinderblock hallway where crew bustled about.
Jonnie waved at a young woman wearing an all-access laminate pass. “Have someone crank the cold air in here, will you, love?”
The baby-faced brunette scrunched up her eyebrows and bit her lip. “You want, um, an ibuprofen or something?”
“No, just tell the people who run this place to stop scrimping on the utilities. It’s a bloody sauna.” He fanned the air for emphasis as sweat dampened his underarms, melted his gelled spikes of hair into limp noodles.
She hustled off. He ducked back inside and collapsed on a loveseat, crunching the empty plastic bottle in his fist. The minor act of aggression did nothing to relieve his stress, and he threw the garbage in a recycling bin before looking at his arms. Brian was right. They were mottled, splotchy like he’d broken out in hives. His guts churned. This wasn’t okay, wasn’t normal or right. He was a disaster, falling apart.
Jonnie continued to stare at the blotches. Were they getting worse by the second? Was his face getting hotter? He’d felt fine when he’d stepped outside to sign autographs. No more than thirty minutes in the sun, how in bloody hell had the heat managed to affect him so profoundly?
Next to Jonnie, the seat dropped as Brian sat. A few moments of miserable silence followed. Perspiration leaked down Jonnie’s temples. His skin flared, ached, pulsed—as oppressive and tight as a straightjacket. A wave of dizziness, like his blood sugar had crashed, washed over him.
Brian’s worried blue eyes swept Jonnie’s body.
Crabby and ashamed, Jonnie tucked his shaking hands under his thighs.
Beyond the small room, voices clamored as roadies completed last-minute prep. From the show floor, indistinguishable chatter and streamed Fyre music flowed.
“Do you have HIV? Because if you do, we’d stand by you and support you. I hope you know that.” Brian reached for Jonnie’s arm.
“Don’t be daft.” Lightheaded, he summoned the strength to brush Brian’s touch away with a sweep of his arm. How would his first-ever best friend, the man who’d become the brother Jonnie had dreamed of as a middle child between two sisters, react if he knew the truth?
A truth worse than any disease or condition one could imagine.
“Well, you’re keeping secrets and telling lies. We aren’t stupid, Jon, everyone has noticed the changes.” Brian raked a hand through his short, salt and pepper hair. Planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “If you don’t tell us the truth, we can’t help you.”
“Got a bit of a sunburn. Jesus. You my mum now?” Woozy, he forced himself up off the couch and stalked to the doorway, fleeing the claustrophobic box and Brian’s inquisition but unable to flee the truth Brian sought.
As he marched down the long tunnel, greeting roadies for something to do besides deal with Brian, a firm hand caught his wrist. “Does it have to do with Cara? Because—”
Jonnie broke out of the hold and whipped around, looking at Brian’s brow line to avoid his eyes. The man got to be normal, go on as usual, with his rolled up sleeves and worn jeans, the same costume he’d played in since they convinced the label to let them ditch the school uniforms.
The front man got to go home to his wife and a healthy daughter the same age as dying Cara. He got to go home to his own health. “Drop it, Brian. Okay?”
Instead, Brian stepped closer, invading Jonnie’s personal space bubble. His blue-green gaze hardened to signal the curdling of worry into annoyance. The man was a control freak and hated more than anything to be thwarted. “We’ve come this far. Whatever’s happening, whatever you’re hiding, I don’t want to see it ruin you. Ruin us.”
“Don’t you worry, mate.” Jonnie delivered two condescending slaps to Brian’s upper arm. “I’ll keep right on playing and strutting around up there. The cash flow isn’t going to be drying up anytime soon.” His moronic deflection, some half-arsed attempt to alienate Brian by accusing him of craven motives and lack of integrity, made Jonnie feel even worse.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Brian shook his head. Of course he saw right through the stupid effort to piss him off and push him away.
“Nothing.” He could barely eject the word.
“Suffer alone then, I suppose.” Brian spun on his black heel and stomped down the hall, fists balled and shoulders bunched.
Catching his now-ragged breath, Jonnie pressed his blazing forehead against the wall’s cool hardness, stealing another nip of minimal relief. He swallowed into a swollen throat, wincing against the pain inside. He could ring Connors for a blood change, but surely he didn’t need one already. It had only been two days since Louisville, and the treatments were supposed to last a week.
This so-called progression was occurring in his mind only. Yeah. The show had to go on. He was out of sorts about Eve was all, and the stress had walloped his immune system.
Surely. Of course. He needed to focus now, needed to get in the zone.
Jonnie peeled his face away from the wall and dragged himself down the corridor. He had to concentrate on each step and force himself to keep going. Avoiding staring eyes and whispers, he passed crew and assorted backstage guests.
Enduring another excruciating gulp of thick saliva, he made his way to the heavy black curtain shielding the stage from the seats. At least he didn’t have to sing.
Fans whooped and cheered as the recorded music stopped. There is nothing wrong with you. He mentally repeated the mantra over and over, as if lying about something could make it true.
A burly guitar tech waited in the wings, holding Jonnie’s mint-colored Stratocaster by the neck. The roadie’s lips parted and he shifted on his feet when the men’s gazes met, but he didn’t say anything.
Jonnie nodded once, snatching the instrument from the bloke’s meaty hand. Making a show of defiance as he struggled to prevent the prized item from slipping through his weak, slippery grip, Jonnie slung the strap over his back. The guitar would be his armor tonight. His battle axe.
As he lurched to the white X of masking tape marking his placement on stage, he became aware of the burning sensation in his eyeballs. It was a scabby and chemical burn, like he’d washed his face with acid.
His throat inflamed. For a second, he swore he tasted bleach on his tongue. I’m losing my sodding mind.
Clutching the neck of his guitar like he wanted to strangle it, he stomped to the X and stood in his spot. His feet felt so goddamn heavy, bricks in his shoes dragging him down.
Thom and Brian exchanged cringing glances as Jonnie entered their field of vision. He couldn’t see Jonas behind his drum kit at the back of the stage, but he probably pulled a face, too.
Well, screw them. He could fight this alone, take it on alone. Being different suited him. Besides, Eve would not want to see him this way. She would balk. She would run.
He didn’t deserve someone as kind as her, didn’t get to have a mate. Not with symptoms like this. He was the puzzle piece left over after the picture has been completed.
The rock in the shoe. An aberration without a place in the nice, tidy system.
He would march to the beat of his own drum from now on. Take on the world alone. Pretty fucking rock star. An iron spike of a cramp bit into his midsection, but he sneered like a badass all the same. Nobody had to know his dirty secret.
“Ladies and gentleman!” The PA’s booming, godlike voice blasted over the sound system. Blocked by the curtain, the crowd went wild. Screams and cheers pierced hooks into his eardrums. Jonnie stumbled, an oil slick of nausea spreading through him. Sweat stung his eyes. His entire body was a burn, scorching, hurting. So goddamn hot.
A few feet in front of Jonnie, Brian struck opening chords to “Mercy of the Gods,” a beloved early hit.
“Give your best New Orlean
s welcome to the one, the only…”
Fans yelled even louder, beside themselves, crazed. Had they always been this fucking loud? His scalp sizzled. He swatted at his face as the room started spinning. Slurping thin, unsatisfyingly shallow breaths into collapsing lungs, he looked up in some frantic effort to ground himself.
Mistake.
Above him, the band’s monstrous set piece, two mythical horses pulled by a black carriage, loomed large. All vacant, crazy eyes and toothy mouths, the maniacal stallions, one fiery orange and red, and the other silvery white, glared down at him. No, no, no. Around and around they went, evil as they circled him like members of some twisted carousel.
Up in the rafters, rows of lights blazed to life, turning the stage into an inferno. Jonnie blinked. His mouth went to sand. His head broke off and floated into outer space, where it orbited Earth as a lonely satellite.
“Chariotz of Fyre!” No, no, no. Dread cratered his spirit. He wouldn’t be able to hack it.
Jonnie fumbled at his guitar strings in a feeble effort to complement Brian’s playing, bumbling out a few sour notes before his sweaty hand slipped. Somehow, a sharp edge on the instrument caught his finger pad, slicing it. Pain reunited him with his body. Blood dripped onto the fretboard, and his head spun along with the room.
The curtain fell, pooling on the floor like a lady’s evening gown. At the first sight of the crowd, Jonnie’s vision darkened. His heart clenched in a painful spasm. He was used to facing big crowds of all ages and walks of life packing arenas.
But people didn’t fill the stadium. Each seat held a white squirrel like the one that tried to steal Eve’s breath in their shared dream. Some of them were normal, others flayed and bloody ruins, still others mangy and decomposing.
“Burn the witch,” the demon-rodents chanted in unison. “Burn the witch and make it dead. Burn the witch and cut off its head.”