Page 7 of Bewitched by the Phantom (The Bewitching Hour #6)

Chapter

Seven

T he first round of competition comes up faster than I think any of us are prepared for.

The production had already been almost ready during our soundchecks and rehearsals, but even from the beginning to now, so much has changed.

As it turns out, the production team is working with some sort of magic.

Or at least it feels that way when we walk in on competition day and see the literal atmospheric masterpiece they managed to build.

Cameras are everywhere, hanging from every beam and surface, and I have to remind myself not to scratch my ass in case one of them catches it on camera.

That’s not exactly the kind of viral I want to go.

The moment I tell myself not to itch anything at all just in case, everything itches. For fuck’s sake.

“Chill,” Claudia tells me as I start to pace.

We’re in the green room, waiting for our turn to take the stage.

We’re done up in our best, no sweatpants here.

I’m wearing my black leather pants and combat boots, a leather corset, and my hair is perfectly styled around my shoulders so that the green streak is on display. We’ve got this. We’ve got this.

I whirl to Claudia. “We’ve got this, right?”

“Of course we’ve got this,” she replies. “We’re gonna kick ass.”

“Hell yeah we are,” I say, but continue to pace. I can’t stop. There’s so much riding on this performance. We’ve practiced. We’re on our A game. But what if a repeat of the other day happens and I choke? What if I let them all down?

What if that golden-masked bastard of a man throws me off my game again?

“Girl, you gotta chill out,” Lydia says. “You’re gonna stress me out and we all know what happens if I stress out.”

Yeah. We lose our beat. As the drummer, Lydia is our timekeeper. If she fails, we all fail. I need to chill out so Lydia doesn’t choke.

I stop pacing, but it’s an unnatural stop that has me standing there so tense, Claudia raises her brow at me.

“You look like you’ve just taken a dildo up the ass,” she jokes.

I scoff. “I’m trying.”

“Maybe it’s better you pace holes in the floor then,” Vivian says. “At least that’s less stressful than watching you try and lay an egg.”

“You guys are assholes,” I growl, which only makes them laugh. But because we’re a family, I make a chicken wing with my arm and say, “bawk, bawk.” It only makes them laugh harder.

I’m joking back, but my nerves are very real.

This is the biggest show we’ve ever played.

While there’s no audience in front of us, except for the other bands, the crew, and a few lucky fans, the whole world will see this.

This is televised everywhere, and this could be our big break.

Even if we don’t win, we have to be on our game just in case another record label is watching.

Or better yet, we have to make an impression to the rest of the world.

Even if there’s no record deal, in this day and age, just going viral on social media can make or break you.

“Earbuds,” Claudia encourages. “We’re up in three slots.”

I tug my earbuds from where I’d tucked them between my boobs—I don’t exactly have pockets—and press them in my ears.

Turning on my pre-show playlist, I try my hardest to get into it like I normally do.

Listening to this playlist feels wrong somehow, and the more I try to force myself to listen to it, the more my nerves fray.

Claudia watches me carefully, her eyes sharp as she watches me wind myself up. I can tell she’s worried, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s trying to keep her cool.

“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath and turn off the playlist, but I leave the earbuds in so everything is muted.

I start to hum, softly at first before increasing my volume until it echoes in my ears.

It’s the melody from the dream again, the one that’s been haunting me.

My heart rate slows. The shaking in my hands steadies.

A sense of calmness overcomes me but it also feels borrowed, like the sound I’m humming doesn’t exactly belong to me.

“Hell Hath Honey. Two-minute call,” Ted says from behind the curtain.

“Go time,” Claudia says, standing up and clapping me on the shoulder. “You good?”

I nod. “I’m good.”

Raoul appears with his band from the wings, prepared to take our spot while they wait for their turn. He smiles at me, the expression like sunshine in the dark atmospheric backstage.

“Break a leg,” he says, his eyes crinkling. “Not literally, but . . . you know.”

“Thanks,” I say, something in my chest revolting against his sunshine. “You, too,” I hesitate, “but not literally.”

His smile widens, but I don’t stick around to bask in it. We hear the announcer say our name and we step out from behind the curtains and onto the mainstage.

The main performance space in the old power plant is the same area we rehearsed in on the first day, but you’d never know it by looking today.

Fog machines work overtime to add a spooky vibe to everything, the mist falling off the edges of the stage in a way that reminds me of every nineties horror film.

Harsh lighting cuts through the fog and the atmosphere in a strange pattern, casting shadows that seem longer than they should be.

There’s a ghost of industrial decay beneath the repurposed floorboards as we clomp our way onto stage with practiced smiles, and in Claudia’s case, a well-timed tongue sliding across her fake vampire fangs.

It's weird for there not to be a true audience, but the bands who have already gone and the crew that aren’t needed in the back sit in the seats and cheer all the same.

A group of fans hover in their midst, ready to cheer on their favorites.

The vibe in the large, open ceiling room is electric and primal, like something’s about to come unhinged.

It’s us. We’re about to come unhinged.

“We’re Hell Hath Honey,” I purr into the mic. “And this is ‘Lightning and Lace.’”

Claudia’s fingers fly over the bass guitar just as Lydia and Vivian join in with the electric guitar and drums.

We’ve played this song a million times, but here on this stage, right now, we might as well be playing it for the first time. This is it. This is our moment. If we don’t play our asses off, we won’t be going anywhere. If we get eliminated in the first round . . .

The buildup is fire like always. I’m crooning into the mic, seducing the cameras as they move around us, getting the best shots they can amongst the mist. I have no doubt the images are going to look sick. These people know what they’re doing.

I build up to the chorus and scream. “ It’s lace and lightning, a kiss like a knife. You call it a warning! ” I sing. “ I call it a life. ”

Claudia’s and Vivian’s fingers fly over their respective strings, rocking out the only way they know how.

When I grab the mic for the second verse, something tells me that we’re being watched, but not in the normal way.

My eyes scan the crowd, searching for the man I know is the source of the feeling, but I don’t find Erik anywhere.

I can’t see him, but I know he’s watching.

I know he’s there. Like a wire pulled tight, my chest aches with the knowledge, but I try my best to shove that feeling aside as I launch into the second verse.

The spotlights sear golden across the cracked cement and wooden stage, drowning out everything but the beat vibrating beneath my boots. I hold the final note in a rasping scream, then drop into a low crouch as Lidia’s drums roll like thunder behind me.

The small crowd is a blur of limbs, fists, and sweat. All the sound, all the energy, it should’ve been everything.

But then, the lights pulse . . .

. . and the shadows don’t follow.

My breath catches mid-line.

For a split second—maybe less—the silhouetted from of the crowd lags, stretches, dancing to a rhythm just off the beat. They aren’t mimicking the people. They’re . . . independent and elongated, swaying like marionettes cut loose from strings.

And they’re looking at me .

One even lifts its head toward the rafters. No face. Just the dark curve of attention.

I stumble half a step, the mic almost slipping from my hand. Then the next strobe hits, and the shadows snap back into place like nothing happened.

Like they hadn’t just . . . listened .

The crowd roars. My girls behind me didn’t seem to notice. But as I stretch back to my feet, my spine is ice and my voice shakes just enough to crack as I sing the chorus again.

I don’t look up for the rest of the song, too afraid of what I might see if I do.

We hit the final notes, and the small crowd goes wild, and I hope the people watching at home do the same. I’m panting with the final scream, my chest rising and falling, adrenaline crashing against my unease inside my chest.

The lights go dark, and Ted gestures for us to leave the stage. I stumble after the girls, my brain telling me to look around but my neck refusing to move. I don’t know what I saw. It was probably just the adrenaline. Nothing more.

“That was fucking epic!” Lydia gushes. “We killed that!”

“Fuck yeah we did!” Claudia whoops. “That was fucking euphoric!” When I don’t say anything, her eyes snap to me. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I rasp, pushing my hair out of my face. “I just need some air. The adrenaline is kicking my ass.”

She nods. “I don’t blame you. Go breathe for a minute. You did fucking phenomenal. I never heard you hit that note so well.”

I slip away from their celebration, not really having anywhere planned but finding myself climbing a flight of stairs shortly after.

I don’t know where I’m going. I haven’t been up here before, but I keep going until I find myself in an empty room with a large window looking out onto the stage.

It’s hazy from neglect, but that isn’t what has my attention.

It’s the man standing at the window, looking down at the stage.

I scowl. “Are you following me?”

Erik glances over his shoulder. “I was here first, angel.”

“That’s beside the point,” I grumble, crossing my arms. I don’t know why I came to this exact room. Something brought me here, and it pisses me off. “I’ll leave you to your brooding, Mr. Gargoyle.”

He chuckles and the sound stops me in my tracks. “I felt I needed to watch you from here,” he replies. “So, it’s you who led me here. I just kept the beat.”

I narrow my eyes on him, annoyed that his words seem close to how I felt being led up here. “You keep watching me like you own me,” I grunt, stepping further into the room, closing the distance between us.

“No,” he says, smiling behind his mask. “I watch you like I hear you, angel.” He straightens and takes a step closer to me, so that we’re only a few feet apart now. “Like you’re the last note before silence.”

My shoulders tense. “That’s creepy as hell.”

He closes the last bit of distance between us. “That’s honesty,” he whispers.

We’re close now. Too close. My chin tips up so I can look him better in the eyes.

His golden mask catches the spotlight beam every so often and sends little glitter around the room.

Part of me expects him to lean closer, to make a move, but he doesn’t.

He just waits, smiling like he knows I’m just as curious as I am annoyed.

I shove against his chest, splitting us apart, breaking the tension.

He leans in just a little, smiling. “You hit the high notes better than anyone I’ve ever heard, angel.”

I bolt, and I don’t fucking look back. My heart is racing—not from fear, not exactly. I hate that he doesn’t flinch as I rush away, removing myself from the room. I hate that he doesn’t chase after me. I hate that I want to go back and kiss him myself. I also hate that I want to hit him.

I stop in the stairwell, my hand pressed to my chest as I try to calm my racing heart. My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my corset, staring at the flashing message from Phantom.

Brilliant performance , the message says. That’s it. That’s all he gives me.

Grimacing, I shove the phone back into my cleavage and leave the stairwell. Somehow, I feel Erik’s eyes on me all the way down, as if he’s hiding in the shadows. As if he’s waiting for me to step inside the darkness and let him take me.

Crazy thing is, I may just let him do exactly that.