He stood there, staring into my eyes with his lifeless ones. He pulled something out of his briefcase and said, “Sign here. In pen, please, not blood.”
? ? ?
After my chat with Mr. Dead Eyes, I went over everything with the guys. I didn’t leave a single part of our conversation out, wanting to be completely transparent with them. They all agreed. I mean, of course, they did. Anonymity for the prospect of fame? Who cares if no one knows who we are? Who cares if we persuade people to enjoy the music? It’s harmless. That’s everything that they said to me, and at the time, I agreed.
We rose to fame quickly. Part of me wonders if it’s because of the frequency thing. Part of me doesn’t give a fuck how it happened. It’s all been pretty surface-level. Our music has created a rise in ticket and merchandise sales, allowing the company to track consumer behaviors and emotional dependence. Or, that’s what we’ve been told. I know there’s something deeper going on here, but I’ve allowed the fame to drag me under. We are well-off, and we get to do what we love. I’d be an idiot to fuck all this up. I do have the occasional itch to dig a knife into flesh, but channeling that frustration into my music has been a decent outlet. That is, until I see her.
The thought ofherbrings me back to the nerves. While sitting in my private room, I look over at the security footage and peek out at the crowd. I like to get a read on things before taking the stage. Different types of crowds bring different kinds of energy, and I like to be prepared. But when I look out this time, it’s not the crowd that I notice.
Standing right in the front row, center gate, is none other than SloanefuckingKeenan.
3
Riven
Why isshehere?
It’s the only thought that’s holding me hostage as our stage manager, Erick, comes in and says, “Hey, Riv, five minutes till lights.”
“Mhm,” I murmur, unable to form any other coherent thought right now. Sloane Keenan is here atmyshow. I know for a fact that she doesn’t listen to us. I know that she isn’t a fan. Her best friend, Lydia Aston, is with her. That must be why,hasto be why, she’s here. The alternative is so much worse, because I know that she’s an investigative journalist for Obsidian Press. I also know that she looks into things like this, like us, likeme. It’s my business to know people like her, who might pose a risk to me and my guys and Sonus. As much as I don’t give a fuck about Sonus, I don’t feel like going to prison.
I looked into Sloane after she popped up on my radar a couple of years ago. She took down this corrupt judge in Hollowcrest, and the story was everywhere. I was looking into the same judge, planning to off him myself. I needed to know the woman behind the words. So naturally, I stalked her. I looked into her family, her friends, her hobbies, and all of her past stories. I watched her for weeks. I had to kill just to stop myself from doing more than watching. Her life was fucked up enough at the time. She didn’t needmefucking it up even more. That’s also when I found her sorry ass excuse for a father.
Sloane’s good at her job. She’sreallyfucking good. And right now, she’s front row atmyconcert. FUCK. How did this happen? After what happened to her father, she vanished from Obsidian’s headlines, and I thought that she was done. Things were quiet from her end. Looking at her now, though, I know she isn’t done. That’s why I’m suddenly fucking nervous. There’s no time for nerves. As Erick said, it’s go time.
The guys and I are all masked and ready to go. We do a quick fit check before going out, making sure that none of us can be visually identified by anyone. My mask is a matte, obsidian black with a sharp jawline and a hollowed appearance to the cheeks. There are two narrow eye slits through which I look out. A single crack runs through one side, down through the eye to the bottom of the mask. Near the temples, there are faintly etched wing patterns that fan out. I’ve named the mask “ruin turned reverence,” and I’ve grown to kind of like the stupid thing. All of us wear black cloaks and black jeans. Everyone except for me wears a black, fitted V-neck T-shirt. Sonus has demanded that I remain fuckingshirtless. Thank fuck the only identifiable tattoo I have is a back piece that no one can see with my cloak on.
I’m trying my bestnotto think about Sloane as we make our way to the side stage, as the overhead lights flicker off. The crowd is crazy loud, like they usually are. My blood hums,and my heart hammers in my chest. I fucking love the thrill of it, the way the crowd strips me bare. Every chant, every raised hand, every shrill scream seeks to tear down layer after layer until there’s nothing left but the music. My mask presses firmly against my face, anchoring me to the role of Vantros, the endless dark. Named after Vantablack, the color that absorbs all light. The fans have resorted to calling me Van, and I hear them shouting the name over and over again. Out here, under the pale blue haze of the fog-drenched lights, I can’t help but feel untouchable.Infinite.
As Reverb’s lead vocalist, I take center stage behind a large, looming microphone stand. Callum, our drummer, is behind me. I turn to him, the golden warped mask he wears glowing under the lights. His mask is adorned with faint numerals over the forehead that appear like ancient script. The area over his mouth is slightly open, as if stuck in a never-ending loop. I’ve named his mask “tormented time,” and he hates it. The fans have named him Graf, short for graphite. He hates that, too.
Raithe is our lead guitarist, my backup vocalist, and my brother. He’s standing to my left. Raithe’s mask is heavy and imposing, with deep eye sockets that give an illusion of emptiness. The lower half of his mask is entirely missing, exposing his mouth. There’s a cracked gilding around the brow that appears worn out. I’ve named his mask “fallen,” which he doesn’t get. I think it’s a fitting mask for him. The fans call him Slate, which he rather enjoys. I’m pretty sure thatSlatehas taken the role of his real-life alter ego.
Malakai, our bassist, stands to my right. He goes by Kai. Kai’s mask is sleek and almost reptilian. There are sharp ridges throughout, giving the appearance of snakeskin. One of his eye slits sits just a little lower than the other, but it’s his mouthpiece that gets me every time. It’s sewn shut with a dark wire in the shape of lips, like a silent scream frozen in time. It’s unnervinglyaccurate for him, and I’ve named it “rebirth.” I don’t think he gets the irony of it. Following the shades of gray theme, the fans have named him Ash.
I look to each of them, nodding once to confirm that we’re all ready. Then, I encircle the mic and bring my gaze down to the floor. The stage lights flicker on over each of us, but I don’t look up, not yet. The chanting of the crowd grows louder now, igniting the fire inside of me thatwantsall of this,needsit. The music filters in, and my voice carries out the first notes. And although I try fucking hard not to, my gaze goes straight toher.
She can’t see me, not really. I’m suddenly thankful for the anonymity that the masks provide. I can see her, though. There she is. Those online photos of her didn’t lie, but they didn’t tell the truth either.
Sloane Keenan is fuckingbreathtaking, a catastrophic ruin.
I have to peel my gaze away from her, unable to trust myself to look a single second longer. I force myself to remember the reason she’s probably here, managing to drag my gaze to the rest of the crowd. I scan all the screaming fans with their hands held high, belting out the words toourmusic. It feels amazing, like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. Well, other than when I have a knife in my hand. And other than when that knife is cutting into the flesh of adisgustinghuman.Focus, we’re done with that life now,I think.
We’re finishing up our mid-album song when my traitorous eyes find their way back to Sloane. She’s got her hands raised, and her full lips are moving along to the lyrics. It strikes me as odd that she would be singing along. I don’t have time to think about it, because I’m distracted by a light sheen of sweat that’s dripping down her neck and onto her upper chest. I track the sweat droplet as it travels down and down, all the way to her …fuck.
No. I shove that thought straight back to where it came from and move to the other side of the stage, making contact with a fan’s extended hand.
The fan cries out, screaming, “Thank you …Thank you so much!” Man, whatarethey putting in these frequencies? I wriggle my hand free of hers and head back center stage, taking a cleansing breath. We’re about to play our last song of the night, although the fans don’t know it yet. Cue the lights inthree … two … one.The lights turn off, and we fake our way off stage.
“Encore! Encore! Encore!” The chant grows like a ritual, swallowing the venue whole.
We make them work for it, give them a few minutes of chanting before we come back out like we never left. The lights flicker back to life, and the crowd expresses their gratitude by blowing out my eardrums. That part, Ido notlove. I stand, stoic as ever, and start the encore that the fans demanded. They know it’s the last song this time, and they don’t disappoint.
I catch sight of Sloane once again. She’s singing along with Lydia, holding hands as they sway back and forth to the rhythm. Lydia looks consumed by the music,lostin it. It’s the typical look that I’ve grown to recognize as the “mind-altering” one. Sloane, however, looks … suddenly determined.Wait, that can’t be right. Why is she staringrightat me? It’s almost like she’s looking straight through the mask. There’s an expression on her face that looks a lot like … anger, or frustration. It certainly isn’t one of adoration and longing like everyone else. Why aren’t the frequencies affecting her like everyone else?
I am truly and completelyfucked.
4
