Kitty's Greatest Hits

So, Eliot didn’t know anything. Moreover, he was upset about the violence. There was more to him than his image suggested. Kent seemed perpetually anxious. Who wouldn’t be, with kids beating each other up over his music? And Danny—who knew what was going on in his head?

The lights went dark. The smoke came up, and the band was back, pounding its way through another set. The crowd slammed to the music as if there hadn’t been a break. It was like they were on a switch, still one moment, and in the next ramming each other and screaming. Like throwing a bloody carcass in the middle of a pack of wolves. Except a pack of wolves is more organized and has manners.

About fifteen minutes into the set, with the volume and mayhem of the crowd increasing the whole time, Eliot stopped singing. The musicians carried on a few more bars, unaware that his voice was missing from the feedback. Then, Eliot jumped off the stage.

It wasn’t unusual for punk and metal musicians to dive into the mosh pit. But when the others finally stopped playing, I knew something was wrong. Eliot was beating people, grabbing them and shoving them out of the way, hitting them to get their attention and forcing them back.

He was clearing a space in the middle of the floor. The body of a young man lay there, twisted and bloody.

When people saw this, they moved voluntarily. This left a circle of empty floor, the body in the middle, and Eliot crouched beside it, touching the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

Somehow, there was silence when he straightened, scanning the crowd with a hooded gaze, his mouth twisted in a snarl.

“You people are fucking maniacs! He’s dead. Do your puny little brains even understand what that means?” He looked like he might scream, his fists clenched and his whole body tensed. But he just shook his head, like he was shaking free of an insect. “I’m done,” he said. “I’m outta here.”

He stalked off toward the hall that led to the front of the club.

“Eliot!” Kent lurched to the edge of the stage. “You can’t go. We have to keep playing.”

Eliot turned, and this time he did shout. “Why? Look at that—” He pointed at the dead boy on the floor. “What are we doing that can justify that?”

Kent said, “The—the music. You know, we have to stay true.”

“This isn’t about the fucking music!” Eliot brought his fists to his temples, like he was going to start pulling his hair. Danny looked on, his bass hanging limp in one hand.

Kent said, “Just calm down—”

Eliot marched to the stage, reaching it in a few large strides. He grabbed Kent’s guitar and, swinging it by the arm, smashed it against the floor, over and over. Still plugged into the amp, the thing squealed like a living thing, doubling over in hissing feedback. I curled up and covered my ears. Most of the clubbers did the same. Jax didn’t flinch.

Kent screamed, covering his ears and staring at the broken instrument as if it had been his child. “God, Eliot—do you know what you’ve done?”

Eliot stood, splintered guitar in his hand. His feet were apart, his shoulders hunched, and he was breathing hard, a grimace on his face challenging Kent to fight him.

The floor had cleared of moshing kids by this time. I’d assumed most of them had fled the club, not wanting to be questioned about the death. But none of them had left. Two hundred kids huddled around the edges of the floor, clinging to the railings, staring at the unfolding drama with hungry eyes. Pasty-faced Goth chicks leaned forward; leather-clad metalheads bounced in place, like a single guitar chord would get them started again. Paramedics were stalled at the front hallway, unable to push through the crowd.

Straightening, Eliot dropped the instrument and brushed his hands. “I quit.”

He started his exit one more time, but someone blocked his way.

A tall, lithe man with silver hair and sharp features stood in front of Eliot, barring his way. I thought I would have noticed someone pushing his way through the crowd. Surely I would have noticed him if he’d already been here. He was taller than anyone else in the room. Or maybe he just seemed taller.

I crouched on the bar, legs tucked under me, balanced on my hands, ready to run.

Jax cracked his knuckles and frowned at the stranger.

“Who is he, Jax?”

“Bad news.”

“Vampire?” Vampires didn’t come to Glamour—too many groupies. And I thought I knew most of the vampires in town.

“Does he smell like a vampire?”

I straightened a little, lifting my face to the air. I could smell the fresh blood pooling on the floor. My nostrils flared. Vampires smelled dead, preserved, cold-blooded. In a crowd of pounding hearts, I could spot a vampire across the room with my eyes closed. This guy didn’t smell like a vampire. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, mentally filtering out the blood, sweat, and anger of the crowd.

“He smells … different,” I said, confused. I couldn’t put a name to any of the things I smelled in the current the stranger left in the air. “Midsummer. Starlight. He smells like—” I opened my eyes and looked at Jax. My nose tingled, taking in more scents. “He smells like you.”

Jax glared at me.

Jax had been part of the local club scene for as long as I’d known the local club scene existed. He told stories about him and his droogs picking fights with skinheads when he had a blue mohawk, when moshing was slamming, before punk had splintered into Goth and industrial and rave, and before alternative was mainstream.

He wasn’t a vampire, wasn’t a were-creature. It had never occurred to me to wonder if he was anything other than the bartender punk veteran he appeared to be.

The drama unfolded.

“Who are you?” Eliot said.

“You’ve no right to question me. Step aside,” he said in a rich, arrogant voice.

Wrong thing to say to Eliot. He bristled, shoulders bunching and tensing for a fight. Unconcerned, the stranger tilted his head, raised an inquisitive brow—

And backhanded Eliot clear across the floor. He landed hard and slumped like a sack of wheat.

Claws scratched at the inside of my hands. I was scared, and the Wolf wanted out.

The stranger knelt by the dead mosher, dipped his finger in the kid’s blood, and tasted it. Then he stood, faced Kent, and spoke with chilling calm.

“Kent Hayden. You were doing so well. And now—silence?”

“Temporary,” the guitarist said desperately. “Eliot’s temperamental. I’ll get him back, we’ll start again. We have another gig tomorrow—”

“You said the band was with you. You said you spoke for all when we made our bargain.”

“Kent? What bargain?” Danny ventured, his voice cracking.

The stranger only spared him a glance, saving most of the power of his stare for Kent, who was wilting under the pressure. “You know the one. Everyone knows it: The Devil’s bargain at the crossroads.”

The deal with the Devil … you’d sell your soul to play great music … music to die for.

“That explains it,” I murmured. “All the weirdness—Kent Hayden sold his soul to the Devil—” And got more than he bargained for, evidently. This guy was after more than souls. He wanted blood.

Jax said, “Technically, he’s not a devil. He just acts like one.”

“So what are you?”

He shrugged. “Same coin, different side. Kitty—distract him. I need to sneak in the back and get the nail gun.”

“Nail gun—what?”

“Cold iron. Just make a distraction.”

Cold iron—as opposed to hot iron? “How?”

“Keep him talking. You’re good at that.” He pushed through the crowd toward the back door.

Jax was already halfway around the crowd. He didn’t want the stranger to see him. So … I had to do something. But if that guy tried backhanding me like he had Eliot, I was going to Change. When it came to self- defense, I couldn’t hold it back.