Pot smoke and stale beer scented the cool air of the California desert, carried to me on a light breeze. Beside me, Holly inhaled deeply through her nose as the corners of her mouth curved upward.
“Ah, how I love the smell of a music festival in the evening,” she declared, eyes rolling dramatically back in her head.
“Unwashed bodies sweating out cheap domestic beer does it for you?” Pierre asked.
We hung at the back of the crowd as Demons on Parade played their encore on the main stage. They were okay, not my favorite. Despite scoring three last-minute passes for the popular music festival, I hadn’t been able to leave the store early, so I’d missed the whole day after the drive from Los Angeles. The only reason we’d wandered over to catch the end of the band’s performance was the next act—Withering Heights.
Until recently, they’d enjoyed more of a cult following. I saw them play at a club on Sunset a few years back and had, admittedly, been a little obsessed ever since. Their first album played on repeat in the store for three weeks, until Holly begged me to mix it up and at least put on their more recent hits. The music was like a siren song to me; I couldn’t get enough.
About six months ago, an influencer used one of their songs on a video that went viral. Overnight, Withering Heights went from a small indie group to the internet’s latest obsession. When a headlining band pulled out of the Sandstorm Music Festival with only a month’s notice, Withering Heights had been called to fill the void. If tickets hadn’t been sold out for months, that announcement would’ve done it in a heartbeat.
Demons on Parade took their final bows. Kravis Wolfe, their drummer, threw his sticks into the crowd, and a woman wearing a string bikini top and riding some guy’s shoulders caught the prize. Then the crowd started dissipating to check out other stages or get ready for another hour at this one. With thirty minutes until Withering Heights performance, most people at the main stage wanted to get more alcohol or stand in the outrageous bathroom lines. My friends and I used it as our opportunity to stake a closer spot for the show.
Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones with that idea.
“I told you this would happen,” Holly said in a sing-song voice.
I took a sip of my eighteen-dollar beer and rolled my eyes. “I got here as quick as I could. Traffic was a nightmare on the 10, and the shuttle out to the festival grounds took forever. I should’ve driven myself.”
“You could’ve come out with us,” Pierre said, French accent more pronounced thanks to the alcohol he’d consumed. He bumped my hip with his. “You just flip that little Closed sign, and voila—no more customers.” He mimed the motion of turning something around.
“Saturday is our busiest day,” I reminded him. “L.A. tourists are my best customers. I literally can’t afford to close on the weekends.”
“Stop hassling Phi.” Holly finished her beer and stole Pierre’s cup from between his hands. She turned to me. “How were sales today?”
Honestly, the daily numbers were only okay. I could’ve lied, but Holly tracked the books almost as closely as I did.
“A lot of lookers, even more touchers, but fewer buyers than I would’ve liked,” I replied. “We’ll be fine. Tight, but okay.”
She threw an arm around my shoulders. “Tight is where I live.”
Pierre snatched the dredges of his beer back and drained the cup. He surveyed the crowd filling in behind us.
“Think I can make it to the drink tent and back before they start?” he asked.
“I’m worried about you finding us again,” I said, sounding entirely too responsible for my surroundings.
His blue eyes lit up. Pierre flipped his backpack around and unzipped the top, reaching inside to retrieve a handful of glow sticks and a retractable pole.
“These will help.” He handed the pack of neon accessories to Holly and the pole to me. “Put one on the end of this, then you can hold it up and I’ll find you.”
Holly ripped the package open with her teeth, then she doled out the glow sticks. I cracked two at the same time—one pink, the other green. I twisted the tubes together and fastened the ends with the little plastic pieces before placing the neon crown on my head.
“It’s very you,” Pierre said, winding his sticks around his forearms. Squaring his shoulders and jutting his chin in the air, he added, “Wish me luck as I brave the horde of heathens.”
“Good luck,” Holly and I chorused.
She used the distraction to reach for my beer, but I wasn’t about to let go of a drink I’d waited in line for an hour to purchase on my nearly maxed-out credit card.
“Settle down, grabby.” I took a gulp of beer. “You and Pierre have, like, a ten-drink head start. I need to catch up.”
More and more people packed in behind us. I half-listened to nearby conversations while Holly told me about all the fantastic shows they’d seen while I was still working. It only made me a little jealous; a few of the bands were ones I would’ve liked to see live, just not enough to bail on work. Holly was amped, though, and I couldn’t bring myself to dampen her enthusiasm. Instead, I smiled and nodded, shoving the concerns about my failing business to the back of my mind.
That can’t happen, I told myself.
On stage, roadies set up the band’s equipment. Holly squealed when Adrian Kane’s drums rolled out. She whipped out her phone and started a live stream, and she wasn’t the only one.
Withering Heights’ lead singer, Jack Torren, was definitely the band’s most fawned over member, but Adrian Kane was the most talked about. Jack indulged his fans—he would sign autographs and take pictures for hours after his shows. He was supposedly an open book and posted everything on social media for his adoring public to consume.
Adrian was different, preferring to keep a healthy distance between himself and the ordinary people of the world. He rarely gave interviews and never without the other band members. He had no verified social media accounts and only appeared in staged promo pictures for their current tour—nothing candid. Ever.
This had led to some less-than-favorable rumors on gossip sites speculating about the reason for his broody and aloof nature, with more than one comment suggesting he had some twisted desires he wanted to hide from the public. The drummer did nothing to curb the talk; he remained silent, which drove the paparazzi wild to spot him.
“Ten-minute warning,” Holly announced, pointing to the timer on her phone’s festival app countdown to Withering Heights’ set. “Should we try to get closer?”
I glanced at the sea of bodies surrounding us. “Not sure we should move. Pierre will never find us if we do.”
“I’ll text him and let him know.” She nodded to the retractable pole I’d tucked beneath my arm. “And we have that. It’ll be fine.” She batted long, sparkly pink eyelashes. “Come on, Phi. You know you want to. You’re, like, their number one fan.”
“I enjoy their music,” I clarified, something I always pointed out whenever Holly made this comment.
“Exactly.” Holly grabbed my hand. “The sound will be better closer to the stage.”
This was not true, technically speaking—there was a lot to be said for sound engineers and their optimal ranges. Still, I really wanted to get a better view, and this was the only show I’d come to see. Holly must’ve realized I was on the verge of relenting; she didn’t wait for a response before plunging forward and dragging me close behind.
The closer we got, the more trouble we had squeezing through other festival goers. A man with no shirt and jorts waved a bottle of Jägermeister wildly. Holly ducked beneath his arm, but he moved when I tried to do the same. He tripped over my boot and fell into me, sweaty skin pressing against my favorite leather jacket. I gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs to get him off me.
“Fuck you!” he shouted as I slid past.
Holly whipped around, but I tugged on our clasped hands and shook my head.
“That asshole is not ruining my night,” I declared.
My best friend grinned and started forward again. Most people would’ve stopped when they reached the wall of bodies packed like sardines. Not Holly—she saw it as a challenge. We ducked and dodged limbs, wedging ourselves through nonexistent spaces. I drew the line at crawling in the dirt or stepping on blankets that had likely been there since early that morning to camp out for the show. Finally, we stopped just fifteen feet from the foot of the stage.
Putting myself at the center of a massive crowd was not usually my idea of fun. On my only trip to Manhattan, I’d ridden a packed subway car and nearly lost my mind.
Music festivals were different, though.
There was something uniquely special about the energy at a festival. Arena concerts were good. Club shows were amazing with the intimate setting. But festivals… they were magic.
“Pierre said he’s on his way back,” Holly said, yelling to be heard.
She cracked the remaining glow sticks and connected them, somehow forming a heart, which we clipped to the retractable pole. Holly thrust it high into the air.
“Hey, asshole! Put that shit down!”
I turned to find Mr. Jägermeister yelling at us from only a few rows back. The jackass waved his bottle around. Just the label made my stomach turn with reminders of Jaeger-bombs on the Vegas Strip for my twenty-first birthday. Four years later, I still couldn’t touch the stuff.
“Aren’t glass bottles prohibited?” I asked.
Holly shrugged. “Security has bigger concerns.” One eyebrow lifted. “I thought we were ignoring the assholes and not letting them ruin our night.”
She was right—I whirled away from him and told myself to let it go. I’d harbored enough guilt about closing the store to be out there. I wouldn’t let dumb shit impede what was sure to be an incredible night.
The stage lights darkened, and my heart skipped a beat. It didn’t matter whether it was my favorite band or one I’d never heard of—I loved this moment at the start of a show. The crowd held a collective breath, the atmosphere more charged than my Visa. It was the quintessential moment when anything and everything was possible before a show started; when I knew I would hear incredible music that caught me in a high that would last for days.
Silhouettes appeared on stage. The roar was deafening, reverberating deep inside of me as I cheered without abandon. I loved every second.
Holly couldn’t contain her excitement, either. She jumped up and down, chanting Jack Torren’s name. A very annoyed Pierre squeezed between two people who didn’t want to move to join Holly and me, three plastic bottles of beer clutched in his hands.
“I have more in my backpack!” he yelled. “They let me buy six, purely because I pitched a fit about the wait.” He handed out the first round of beers as Jack Torren started strumming the opening chords of Withering Heights’ second number one single—Tears for Jane.
The spotlight swelled to include Adrian Kane when he joined in on the drums, and then Jack started singing. The crowd sang along, tens of thousands of people from around the world united by a common passion.
This. This was why I loved festivals.
The atmosphere of so many people setting aside their daily lives to share in an unsurpassed experience… it was impossible to duplicate. We were all linked by a common thread—love of the melodies, the harmonies, the beats, and the words that meant something different to each of us.
Unlike most, I knew all the words, not just the hits and soundbites influencers used on social media. I couldn’t help but feel superior as the band transitioned into the last song from their least popular album that I’d played from start to finish for years.
Okay… maybe I was a bigger fan than I thought.
When Jack reached the chorus, screaming bodies pressed against me from every side. The crowd sang the lyrics loudly and off-key. The energy swept me up as I joined in. When the song ended, Withering Heights went right into a massive hit from their most recent album. This one was slower, with a drum solo opening that dug deep before heading for the crescendo of a chorus.
“Hey! Neon Heart! Put that fucking shit down or Imma come break it!”
Holly rolled her eyes and hoisted it even higher toward the sky. “I’d like to see you try, asshole!” she yelled back.
“Pierre found us,” I pointed out, yelling above the music. “You really could put that down.”
She grinned, and her eyes continued smiling over her plastic beer cup before she responded. “It’s principle, Phi. You don’t want me to—”
I never found out how that sentence ended. At the exact moment Adrian slammed the snare, something struck me in the back of the head. Somebody should’ve yelled timber, because I went down hard.
* * *
I’d never had an out-of-body experience and found myself completely off-kilter. It felt exactly as the name implied. I stood over my body, staring down into my own face. Blood oozed from beneath my head to form a widening pool.
A scream ripped through the still air. Only then did I realize silence had fallen over the crowd—the last echoing peal of the guitar faded in the breeze. People backed away as Holly fell to her knees beside me. Her hands shook as she tried to decide where to touch without injuring me further. Pierre just blinked, either too shocked or too drunk to be useful.
My eyes stared blankly toward the night sky, the spark fading from whisky-colored irises. Horrified, all I could think was: Please, do not let this be the way I die.
“Move! Let me through!” a man shouted.
The crowd parted. Finally, a medic, I thought.
Except, the man barreling my way didn’t have a first-aid kit or any sort of official uniform. I doubted the drumsticks still clutched in his hands were going to do much for my head wound.
I tried to pinch myself but felt nothing. I grew more and more convinced that this was an initiation into the afterlife—like part of the first test was watching how your death unfolded. Of course, in the real version, I couldn’t imagine the drummer from Withering Heights leaping down from the stage to help me.
“Hey! We need a medic!” Jack Torren screamed over his shoulder. “Somebody get a fucking medic!”
Adrian shoved Holly out of the way, and she fell with her hand in the pool of my blood. Her face contorted in horror as she began sobbing. Even if I’d been able to comfort her, my attention was on Adrian. He leaned over my body, blocking my view of myself.
The taste of pennies invaded my mouth. Then everything went black.
* * *
When my eyes opened, I was in a weird dream. Deep, soulful eyes stared down at me from above, irises churning like liquid chocolate. The most amazing taste flavored my mouth, a mix of honey and clove with just a hint of fire. I heard myself moan.
Adrian Kane’s nostrils flared as the rest of his perfect features came into focus. One of his hands was around my jaw, his fingers holding my chin still. He pressed his other wrist to my parted lips. It took my concussed brain way too long to appreciate that it was him I tasted on my tongue.
Panic wove through the haze, and I struggled on instinct.
Adrian gripped my face with bruising force and pressed his body against mine, pinning me to the cushions beneath us.
“Stop fighting,” he muttered, voice calm but firm. “I’m trying to help you.”
I tried to push him away, but when my hands touched his cool skin, I clung on for dear life. Not until more of the fog cleared did I understand what was really happening… I was drinking Adrian’s blood. And it was delicious.
Disgusted by the revelation, my stomach heaved. Adrian finally pulled his arm away and stood, staring down at me with an unreadable expression. I scrambled to sit up, blinking as I took in my surroundings. I was on a black velvet couch directly across from an identical one. Beside me, several large chairs were around a table across from a kitchenette with a stack of dirty dishes on the counter.
“Am I on your tour bus?” I demanded, my brain grasping to put it all together.
Adrian walked over to the small sink and washed the smeared blood from his forearm. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. My heart pounded in my chest from a healthy dose of fear. He finished washing his hands before dampening a towel and handing it to me.
“What’s this for?” I asked uneasily.
“Your mouth,” he said, his smoldering gaze fixated on my bottom lip.
“What’s wrong with my mouth?” I frantically searched for a reflective surface, but apparently the band had something against mirrors.
Adrian fought a smirk. “Nothing. I quite like you this way, but your friends aren’t far from here. I don’t think you want to explain the situation to them.”
Explain the situation? What was the situation? How did I explain something I didn’t understand?
Rockstars were eccentric, but blood-drinking was exceptionally above and beyond. I swiped at my lips, bile rising in my throat when the towel came away stained with crimson smears.
That was when the panic finally set in. Adrian-fucking-Kane had fed me his blood. Either he was part of some Satanic cult, or Withering Heights’ drummer was a member of the undead community. Was he a…
The heat from Adrian’s gaze as he watched me would’ve been hard to miss from the back row at a stadium concert, let alone with him only feet away. Dark hair fell in his face, creating shadows that brought out the dangerous promises in his eyes.
Before I’d learned that he might be a member of some fucked up blood cult, Adrian Kane had held a special place in my heart. His talent on the drums was unparalleled, and his chiseled features made him easy on the eyes.
Don’t meet your heroes, kids.
Now that I knew the truth, everything about him made my skin crawl, including the way he held me captive from across the room.
He broke eye contact first, turning to grab something from a cupboard beside the kitchenette. Adrian held up a beanie with the official Withering Heights band logo on the front.
“Put this on to cover your hair,” he said.
“No thanks, I’m good.” I stood and offered him the towel. “Keep your propaganda.”
Adrian snorted, which might’ve been cute under different circumstances. “It’s just a hat, Ophelia.”
I froze. “How do you know my name?”
He used my shock-induced paralysis to yank the beanie over my head, adjusting it so I could still see. Adrian had a subtle smoky scent up close, his gaze impossibly more intense and mesmerizing. His black tank clung to his chiseled torso, black jeans riding low on his hips. All the years of pounding the drums had clearly paid off because it was his forearms that drew my eye… damn.
Then I spotted a drop of blood he’d missed just below his elbow. My stomach turned. I needed off that tour bus—now. Adrian followed my gaze.
“It’s mine. Do you want a last taste before you go?” Challenge danced across his features.
When I didn’t answer, his expression darkened, and not in a good way. Adrian spun me so fast I was completely disoriented, then he shoved me toward the door.
“Go meet your friends,” he said, reaching around me to grab the door handle. “They’re worried about you.”