Chapter 7: Blood Slave

"Blood Slave! Blood Slave! Blood Slave!"

I heard the chanting before I reached the end of the corridor. They were so loud, so demanding, so wildly unaware of how infuriating it was to have them screaming for something they were going to get anyway. If not for the need to keep peace with the other factions and creatures of the night, I’d silence every single one of them. Permanently.

"Blood Slave! Blood Slave! Blood Slave!"

Lowering my eyelids, I sought my center, a peaceful middle ground inside myself where it didn’t matter that I was a dhampir or the only surviving daughter of the most dangerous vampire in history; the place where all I needed was a microphone, my guitar, and my brothers to survive. For the next 90 minutes, I was just Fallon: vocalist and guitarist in a wildly popular, yet undefinable band forcing the globe to kneel.

I longed for my pre-show high, that adrenaline rush that once kept me going all night long. I loved performing, but the high vanished years ago. Without Memphis, the excitement just wasn't the same.

The lights on the stage dimmed, eventually going completely dark. My repaired instrument was thrust into my hands and I was shoved toward the stairs. I growled under my breath. If the crew kept manhandling me, someone was going to lose an arm. Or a throat.

Nash and Zane glared at each other from opposite corners of the backstage area, each tucked and poised to leap over the curtain. They were both suckers for a big entrance.

Kade waited at his own private staircase, cut into the back of the stage, beneath the curtain. He was the first one on board every night, and his job was to provide a solid, anxiety-inducing backbeat for our entrance. Our fans loved the illusion.

Kyon shuffled his feet at the staircase opposite me, shadow boxing over his bass. It was his way of warming up. Not that he needed it. The man had more energy than the rest of us combined.

It was all so damn predictable, none of us needed to be ushered or guided anymore. We all knew the drill better than we knew ourselves. That was another reason I hated being manhandled. We did the same d*mn thing every night.

Staring straight ahead, I rested my arms on the neck of my guitar and watched Kade through my peripheral vision. His gloved hand dropped to his side, fingers splayed. One by one, they rose and curled into a fist. When his thumb drew up, he snatched his sticks from his boot and stealthily took his place behind the drums. Much like the Jaws theme, his beat began slow and unassuming.

The sea of faceless fans roared and then fell silent. They, too, knew what was coming. Granted, they all believed it was smoke and mirrors, wires and harnesses that created the magic they were about to see. I was okay with that. The fewer humans that suspected the truth, the better. My lips cracked in a devious grin. Idiots. They were all idiots.

When Kade’s beat picked up, two dim spotlights came alive with an echoing thunk and directed at the center of the stage, slightly offset from Kade and the drums. I caught Kyon’s eyes and he winked. My grin deepened. Together, we dematerialized and reappeared within the illuminated circles, holding the same poses—our arms crossed over the instruments that hung from our shoulders and our chins tucked into our chests.

The beat increased again, becoming more threatening and alarming.

My heartbeat was naturally faint—half speed compared to a human’s, which was fitting since I was only half human—but it pounded in my chest. I was never nervous before a show, never. That rhythm, though. Got me every d*mn night.

Just as it started to feel like my heart was going to burst through my sternum, a whoosh of air blasted my lengthy, multicolored hair into my face. Nash landed effortlessly in front of Kyon, Zane in front of me. Without stopping, Kade downshifted and counted us in.

Lights flashed from all sides. Green, white, red, yellow. Zane ripped through the opening licks of "Give In To Me." As quickly as it came, the powerful intro fell into a sultry tune, something reminiscent of a jazz club in the fifties or sixties, with a modern twist.

Nash was an incredible song writer, even if the majority of his lyrics were sexual in nature. I loved our music, except when it made me think of Memphis and all the things we'd done to each other. And Anthony, and all the things I'd like to do to him. It was frustrating beyond belief. Both cases were matters of wanting things I couldn't have, and it f*cking sucked.

The seams of Nash’s ripped blue jeans stretched to their limits around his sinewy thighs as he moved to the microphone stand. His bloodless, greedy palms embraced the mic. My superior, flawless vision allowed me to see the translucent veins in his hands. He needed to feed, desperately. Judging from the predatory manner of which his eyes scanned the front rows, he’d be doing just that after the show. It wasn’t just another concert for Nash. It was a hunt.