I don’t tell Meg I’m going out. I’ve barely seen her this past week. She’s been distracted, and with good reason: She and Gabriella are officially dating now. I’m thrilled about it, but it feels like I’ve lost someone else.
I leave the New Orpheum at nine o’clock. Before I start my car, I sit in the dark and read through the casting email again, noting the rehearsal times. It’s a heavier rehearsal schedule than I was expecting. I’ll have to switch around some of my shifts at the bar or drop them altogether, which will mean fewer tips. The chorus part is a paid gig—not much, but almost enough to cover expenses—ifI didn’t have the private loan that I took out to pay the estate lawyer.
The email states that in a month, we’ll be hosting a preview performance of the musical for some potential patrons, investors, and critics. That seems way too soon, but who am I to judge the timeline of the theater business? I guess the upcoming showcase is the reason for the intense rehearsal schedule.
My brain is so preoccupied with logistics that I barely remember the drive into downtown Nashville. I come to my senses in a parking space along a dark street with neon lights glowing up ahead, marking the beginning of Lower Broadway and its dazzling nightlife.
I flip down the visor, check my makeup in the mirror, then slide out of the car and lock it. I didn’t bring a large bag tonight, just a small crossbody one with the bare necessities.
I wander past the bars and restaurants, waiting for something to draw me in…a laugh, a scrap of melody, a cheerful roar of voices. Thiscity is all about instinct, about flowing with the mood, submerging yourself in the music, following the whisper of the Nashville magic.
Or, you know, going wherever the drinks are cheapest.
I know the magic when I hear it—the rippling twang of a bass guitar plucked by skillful fingers, the melodic croon of a male voice, lighter than the Angel’s, but with a pathos that tugs at my soul. I turn, boots striking confidently on the sidewalk as I stalk into the tiny pizza parlor. There’s a stage to the left, strung with soft golden lights. Blue neon letters behind it spell out the words “Tupelo Pie,” and the phrase melds itself with the image of Raoul de Chagny, perched on a worn barstool, cradling a guitar.
A couple of guys flank him—percussion and another guitar—but I barely notice them. I’m entranced with the gleam of the lights on his coppery hair, with the dark fringe of his lashes, and with the tiny crease between his brows as he bends over the guitar like a diligent lover. The long fingers of his left hand slide along the instrument’s neck, pressing just firmly enough in all the right places, while his right hand flicks gently yet decisively at the strings.
The way I want tobethat guitar right now…
He’s singing. His voice is warm, lilting, exquisitely sorrowful, an aching delight.
Every cell in my body unites in thundering urgency, my hunter’s instinct entangling eagerly with my music-worshipping soul.
He’s the one I want tonight. Ineedhim. I won’t be able to think of anyone else or pursue anyone else.
Fuck my life, fuck the parents who condemned me to this existence, and fuck Raoul for being the ultimate prize, the delicious sustenance my primal brain craves.
I try to turn around and walk out the door, but I physicallycan’t. With growing dread, I realize that I haven’t just waited too long. I’vepassed the point of no return. My inhibitions are being drowned, submerged beneath the ravenous craving that floods my mind.
Inside, the predator is awake, but outwardly, I still know how to behave. I sway with the music, I smile, and I drift ever closer to the stage until Raoul looks up and notices me.
His green eyes light up, and he strikes a wrong note.
Oh, he’s so fucking doomed, and he doesn’t even know it.
Somewhere in the back of my head, my rational voice is yammering,Don’t do this, don’t wreck this, there’s no way you’ll get away with feeding from him, he’ll find out what you are, and everything you’ve worked for will be lost.
But I don’t listen. I stay put and smile at Raoul until his number is over. While the crowd claps, while he lifts his hand and grins and thanks them, I head for the exit, glancing back at him over my shoulder. The look I give him is unmistakable—the look every woman gives a man when she wants him to follow her for salacious purposes.
Once I’m outside in the cool air, I suck in a shattered breath. He’ll follow me, I know it. There’s an alley a few steps away—the perfect spot.
Don’t do this. You only take strangers, never people you know, never men who would be missed, who would remember it, who could find you. Don’t do it, it’s too risky, you’re not thinking clearly…
I snarl at myself, fangs emerging. Too late to back out now.
At the corner of the alley, I wait for Raoul to emerge. When he does, he’ll see me here, and he’ll follow me into the dark.
But before he appears, a pair of arms wraps around my body and yanks me backward into the shadows.
I don’t scream. My whole body trembles with a vicious, violent joy, because this attack is an excuse tokill.
The stranger drags me deeper into the alley, my back to his chest. I struggle just enough to fool him, and I wait for the right moment.
The moment his grip loosens, I spin around, fangs bared. My senses collect the information I need in a split second—tall man, black coat, white mask. Lightning-quick, I leap on him, my legs ensnaring his waist. I seize a fistful of his black hair, jerk his head to the side, and plunge my fangs into his throat.
His blood hits my tongue like a rich, hot tidal wave, and my eyes roll back. I can’t help the guttural hum of delirious satisfaction that rolls through my chest. I swallow and swallow, taking several gulps before I realize that something’s wrong.
This blood—it’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted. Like the bold flavor and fizzy sting of soda when you’ve been drinking water for days. Like cocaine when all you’ve ever had is a joint. His blood buzzes in my throat, thrills in my stomach, and races along my veins. My brain is expanding, unfolding throughout the whole universe, streaking into kaleidoscopic realms that keep opening up to me in dazzling glories of shape and color.
