Page 1 of The Demon’s Sinful Serenade (Silvermist Mates #6)

CHAPTER ONE

RIVER

N erves never fade before a performance. Not after your first gig, your hundredth, or even when you've played stadiums. They just change flavor.

I'd swapped the metallic tang of excitement for the sour bile of dread somewhere between Julian's funeral and the third time a venue manager suggested I seek professional help for my little 'attention whore' problem.

Now, I adjusted the strap of my guitar case and stared at the exposed brick walls of One Hop Stop.

The stage looked smaller than I remembered.

Same scarred wooden floors. Same smell of hops and possibility.

I'd played my first open mic here at sixteen, back when a good crowd meant four drunk locals more focused on their next round.

Back before River they just like how pretty they look on the table."

I laughed, the sound rusty but real. This was what I'd missed, normal conversations that didn't revolve around my career trajectory or Julian's absence. Poppy tried, between phone calls and random texts, but the miles still kept us at a distance. All of that fell away the moment we were reunited.

"Remember when we thought the weirdest thing in this town was Mr. Peterson's toupee?" I asked.

"Goddess, that thing looked like a dead squirrel." She snickered. "And now I'm baking wedding cakes for werewolf ceremonies. Life is strange."

The sound system crackled to life, and Vanin's deep voice rumbled through the speakers. "Folks, we've got a special treat tonight. Hometown hero and indie rock darling, River Rathbone."

My stomach lurched. Showtime.

Poppy handed me another cookie. "For luck," she said with a wink. "Go remind them that River & Rath was the best thing to come out of this town."

"Just River now," I corrected automatically, the familiar ache blooming in my chest.

"You were always the heart of it, anyway." She gave me a gentle push toward the stage. "I'll be right here cheering you on."

I grabbed my guitar and headed for the stage, the weight of expectations—mine and everyone else's—pressing down on my shoulders.

As I stepped into the spotlight, a smattering of applause greeted me.

Some faces I recognized from high school.

Others were strangers. A few eyed me curiously, phones ready to document the train wreck they probably expected.

Fuck them , I thought, plugging in my guitar. I've played bigger rooms with tougher crowds .

"Hey, Silvermist," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "It's been a while."

I launched into my first song, one of the new ones I'd written after Julian died. Raw and stripped down, just my voice and guitar. No band to hide behind. No Julian to fill the silences between verses.

By the third song, I'd hit my stride and felt it happening. That magical current between performer and audience when they're with you, really with you. Bodies swayed. Heads nodded. Someone near the back whistled after a particularly intense bridge.

For the first time in months, I felt powerful again. In control. Like the music was flowing through me instead of fighting against me.

I scanned the crowd, taking in the faces and feeding off the energy.

The tall guy with kind eyes nursing a beer near the window, the dark-haired stranger in a leather jacket leaning against the bar, even the bearded local I vaguely remembered bullying the band geeks in high school…

They watched me with appreciation, with want , and I felt a little flutter of feminine satisfaction.

How long has it been? The last year on tour had been consumed by Julian's jealousy and paranoia, his increasing suspicion that I was sleeping with roadies or sound engineers or anyone who showed me basic human kindness.

Even before his addiction got really bad, his possessiveness had made dating impossible.

And after... well, grief and career implosion weren't exactly aphrodisiacs.

Add in a mysterious stalker, and dating had fallen off my priority list entirely.

I transitioned into an older song, letting the driving beat push away my thoughts. The crowd was mine now, swaying and singing along to the chorus. This was why I'd come back to Silvermist. This was what I'd been fighting to reclaim.

Then the feedback hit.

A shriek of electronic noise tore through the speakers, so loud and sudden that half the crowd covered their ears. I yanked my hands away from the guitar, but the sound kept coming, building to an almost unbearable pitch.

Above my head, one of the stage lights flickered.

"Look out!" someone shouted from the crowd.

I dove sideways as the heavy fixture crashed down, missing my head by inches. Glass scattered across the stage, and the feedback finally cut out, leaving only shocked silence and the hammer of my pulse in my ears.

No. Not here. Not now. Not when I was finally feeling like myself again.

" Shit ." Vanin's gravelly voice came from behind the bar. He was over the top and beside the stage in seconds. "Are you hurt?"

I shook my head, too stunned to speak. My gaze fixed on the broken light fixture, the twisted metal where it had been attached to the ceiling.

That wasn't an accident.

My stalker had followed me home.

"Just a little technical difficulty, folks," Vanin announced to the crowd as he helped me to my feet. "Show's over for tonight. Drinks on the house."

The distraction worked. The crowd's attention shifted to the promise of free alcohol, though people still murmured and pointed. Vanin planted his hands on his hips and glared between the fallen light and its preferred location, muttering about incompetent installers.

But I saw the doubt in his eyes. The same doubt I'd seen in venue managers across three states.

Poppy pushed her way to the stage, face pale.

"I'm fine," I said before she could ask. I wasn't fine. I was terrified and furious and so damned tired of looking over my shoulder. "Just... rattled."

"That's it," she said firmly. "You're staying with me tonight."

I shook my head. "Your place is too small, and I'm not kicking you out of your bed."

"Then we'll figure something else out, but you're not staying alone."

Vanin cleared his throat. "Look, I'd offer my security guys, but they're all vampires. Daylight hours..." He shrugged apologetically.

I nodded, understanding. Silvermist's supernatural population kept different schedules than the human residents.

"But there are some merc monsters who moved to town about a year ago," Vanin said thoughtfully. "Fire demons or something."

"Ifrit," Poppy corrected primly. "The Kadhan clan. They're specialists."

"Specialists in what?" I asked.

"Problems that regular security can't touch." He lowered his voice. "If someone's really targeting you, they'd know how to deal with it."

I wanted to argue, but exhaustion washed over me. What did I have to lose at this point? My career was hanging by a thread, my reputation in tatters. If fire demons were what it took to get through the festival alive, so be it.

"Where do I find them?"