“Did she speak?” Slayer asks.
“Yes. She said, ‘I’m okay.’ And then, my Lola?—”
“Your grandmother?”
“Yes. Lola appeared and put her hand on Hilary’s shoulder. They both looked at me, said goodbye, and disappeared.”
“They vocalized the wordgoodbye?” Slayer asks.
“No,” I say, trying to recall clearly. “There was no verbal communication. I just sensed what they were saying. But then three days later, I saw Hilary again.”
“Her ghost?”
I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t her ghost. It wasn’t anything like that. It was more the sensation of her being with me.”
His eyes stay on mine.
“It’s like when someone you love enters the room. You just know they’re there, even before you turn around to see them.”
“I understand what you mean,” Slayer says. “But why are you telling me this?”
“Because Mrs. Tyson is still with you. I can’t see her, but you’ve known her your whole life. That connection doesn’t end with her passing.”
We sit quietly for a moment. He gives me a long hug.
“She wants you to succeed with your new album.” I look into his eyes. “You’ll do it for her, won’t you?”
Slayer nods.
I hear a soft knock at the door. Milo enters a moment later. “Time to go, Slayer. Final sound check is finished. Rafe’s already up there.”
We rise, and Milo escorts us through the narrow stone corridors of the ground floor. "Break a leg," he tells Slayer.
Milo and I watch as Slayer walks to the stage in the arena's center to the sound of thunderous applause.
Sterling wasn't kidding when he said Slayer was popular in France.
"Well, he's off to a good start," says Milo, sounding impressed. "Now, let's hightail it to our seats."
He pulls me through more stone corridors. "We have our own private box,” he explains. "It's where they used to keep the caged tigers before a gladiator fight."
"Historical note or are you trying to tell me something?" I ask.
Milo just laughs. Sterling is already present when we walk in. He’s sitting in a deluxe red-velvet, movie-theater-style seat in the small stone room. He smiles and waves at me before turning his attention back to Slayer.
From this ground-floor perspective, the rows of fans in bright summer attire on the upper tiers resemble a colorful toss of confetti. A smattering of reds, purples, and yellows shimmering across the seats.
The stage is modest compared to the Slayer pyrotechnics I’ve seen before. But everyone here knows this isn’t about the old Slayer anymore.
For three years, they’ve read articles. For three years, they’ve been told not to expect what once was. So they’ve come to witness what comes next.
I turn my attention to the stage, watching as Slayer and Rafe begin something people might call a song.
But it’s more like some avant-garde musical shamanism. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. I’m not even sure that term fully encompasses it.
Listening more closely, I can hear Slayer’s brilliance at work. If I had to describe it, I’d say it’s part vocals, part sonic architecture. On stage, under the spotlight, Slayer isn’t singing so much as conjuring.
Conjuring a feeling. An emotion.
