Page 25 of Bewitched by the Phantom (The Bewitching Hour #6)

Chapter

Twenty-Four

W e wake up to cameras.

By seven, there are literal fucking drones overhead, but no one wants to tell me what those are even for.

They make me feel like we’re in the SIMS and I’m over here opening the fridge over and over again because no one told me what I’m supposed to freaking do.

I’m not a reality star. I should not be recorded this early in the morning.

I’m clearly going to look like the world’s grumpiest lead singer.

Especially after I started flipping off the drones every time they pass over me.

By 8:15, I’ve already said, “no comment,” about eighteen times. I’m not built for this. Not at all. Someone needs to find a body double, stat, so I can pretend I’m not being watched with every move I make.

These last two days of the Battle of the Bands are no longer about music. They’re about attention and virality. They’re about manufactured moments that can be clipped, posted, and spun into views. The final competition will be judged in part by fan engagement more than the quality of the songs.

I hate it.

I’m standing outside the rehearsal room, the bright, mocking sun in my eyes, an iced coffee going warm in my hand.

Behind me, Angels Bleed Mercury are doing a sound check before they launch into their song.

The tension is as thick as molasses as I hover in the room, as if they don’t exactly want me here.

Jokes on them, I don’t want me here either.

From across the makeshift courtyard, Erik steps into my line of sight like he belongs in it.

He has his mask on as usual, the gold glinting in the sunshine streaming down.

His jacket is unzipped to show off his dark shirt deliberately unbuttoned a few extra buttons.

He looks mysterious and suave, and the cameras fucking love him.

So do the fans apparently. Every time he walks past, cameras lift, and the numbers flicker on the screen where we’re given a live count.

He gives them just enough—crooked smiles, cryptic comments, and an occasional growled lyric into a rogue microphone—that they’re eating out of his fucking hands.

Unlike me. I’m pretty sure the numbers only go up with me because of my connection with Erik. They don’t move otherwise. I’m too grumpy and uninteresting for that.

The way he interacts with the cameras should make me roll my eyes.

Instead, my stomach twists violently, a yearning for him rising in my chest that pisses me off.

I’m not a yearner. I don’t do that shit.

But here I am, eating out of the palm of his hand, and so I’m even grumpier when he ends up winking at me.

Raoul, by contrast, has dressed like he’s auditioning for a CW reboot of Rock Star Confidential.

He’d even let someone smudge eyeliner under his lashes this early in the morning.

He’s clearly trying to look good for the cameras, dressed all in white, his blond hair shining in the sunlight.

He looks like a literal angel, like any moment, he’s going to spread soft downy wings and take off into the halo of sunshine around him.

It makes me consciously aware of how less put together I must look compared to these two men.

Fuck. I’d barely remembered to brush out my hair before tying it up in a messy bun.

Speaking of the devil, as I stand there with my watered-down iced coffee, Raoul sidles up beside me, two coffees in his hand and a practiced smile on his face.

“For the queen of Hell Hath Honey,” he says, offering me one of the cups. “Figured you could use something stronger than whatever’s melting in your hand.”

I take it gratefully and toss my other one in the trash. “Thanks.”

He bumps his shoulder against mine and at least three cameras spin to record us. I wince and try my best not to make awkward faces at them. “How you holding up?” he asks.

“I’m not,” I admit before taking a slow sip of my coffee. Hazelnut. I hate hazelnut, but I drink it anyways. “I’m not built for this reality show bullshit.”

He nods and glances at the cameras as if he didn’t know they were there, but I know he’s been cheesing them up all morning.

He can’t pretend with me. He loves the attention.

“This whole thing’s a circus. But tomorrow .

. . tomorrow is ours. You and me? We’ve been through fire before. We come out better every time.”

I don’t answer, my eyes trained on the cameras slowly easing around us in an attempt to capture our conversation.

Raoul talks about fire as if he was there when I was kicked out of my apartment every time.

He acts as if he knows what it was like for me to sink deep into a hole of depression and lose all interest in playing my guitar.

He doesn’t know me, not really. This fake we-went-through-hell-together bullshit is for the cameras, not for me.

“I saw your face when he sang to you,” Raoul adds when I don’t answer, voice low like he’s trying to avoid the mics listening in, but we both know that won’t help. They may miss words, but they’re doing their best to hear. “But I know you, Chris. I know your heart. He doesn’t.”

My jaw tightens. “You don’t know it either, Raoul. Not anymore.”

He exhales hard, his lips parting to argue—but the cameras come in close enough to hear, zooming in on us, and a drone suddenly hovers overhead. Just like that, Raoul plasters on his winning smile, putting on a show despite the conversation we were having.

I shake my head and walk away from him, leaving him there to talk to the cameras and try to bolster the view numbers.

Later that night, when the cameras are mostly down and the majority of the compound is asleep, I find Claudia sitting cross-legged in the common area while she restrings her bass.

The cameras haven’t done too much following of the rest of my band, and that’s part of what pisses me off.

They’re acting like I’m the only interesting one, like only my weird relationship with Erik and Raoul is what matters.

I don’t think they’ve tried to interview Claudia once.

She’s fucking hilarious. If anyone should be interviewed, it’s her.

“You look like you’re contemplating murder,” Claudia says without looking up.

“I might be,” I mutter, collapsing beside her. “Or sabotage.”

Claudia snorts. “We don’t do sabotage, remember? Too classy for that.”

I groan. “Too broke for that, you mean.”

We sit in silence for a beat, the only sound the low, static hum of the amp warming behind us. As I sit there, listening to the hum, I swear I can hear something inside it, a voice, a song, but as I find myself sinking into it, Claudia breaks the tension and draws me back out.

“You gonna be okay tomorrow?” she asks.

I shrug, not really sure of my answer. Will I be okay? I don’t know.

“You’ve got two gorgeous weirdos panting after you, your band is playing ‘Ashes & Reverie’—the literal climax of our entire sound—and you’ve got an army of bloodthirsty fans watching your every move. That’s pressure, babe. Even for you.”

I smile mockingly. “Thanks.”

“But here’s the thing,” Claudia says, tightening a string with expert precision. “At the end of the day, it’s not about them. It’s not even about the cameras or the views or the mask-wearing pretty boy who croons like he’s got a soul, but sold it to the devil long ago.”

I laugh, surprised at her words. “It’s not?”

She shakes her head and looks up at me, her dark eyeliner smudged and unrepentant. “It’s about the music. We’ve been clawing our way to this for years. One more song. One more set. We burn it all down tomorrow and walk out proud. No games. No gimmicks.”

I nod slowly, the resolve kicking into place.

I can feel it now—"Ashes & Reverie”—the song we’ve been saving for the finale.

It starts soft and aching, a slow rise of tension and regret, and then it’ll erupt with something wild.

A desperate, screaming kind of hope, like rising from your own grave.

It’s the song I never thought I’d write, and the only one that ever felt like mine.

Tomorrow, we’ll play it for ourselves.

We’ll play it for every ghost we carry in our hearts.

And then we’re going to win. I refuse for there to be any other outcome.