Chapter 6: Rot and Chocolate

Unseelie magic tided over the stadium with the force of tsunami coming into shore. I flinched bodily, partly from visceral disgust and partly from astonished admiration. The lyrics rolled, just that one lonely voice, flowing into the dark. It was gorgeous—darkly, silkily, deeply gorgeous. And the magic inside of it was scathing, seething, like ripe rot and h*llish heat wrapped in chocolate.

I felt myself wavering on the spot, and I grabbed Toby's arm for support. I'm sure he mistook it for excitement, because he grinned at me, electrified, as Sy Dage's lonely voice roiled through the air, binding the audience into an invocation of emotive power.

Suddenly, the darkness behind Sy was broken by fresh spotlights, revealing a full band—drummer, bassist, vocalists, backup guitar, strings. The rich sound of the band swelled into life.

A stagehand scurried out onto stage and handed Sy his guitar, which Sy slid on with smooth, practiced ease. The jumotron cameras zoomed in on his fingers as he strummed the first dramatic, melancholy note. His long, slim hands, weighted by many intricate silver rings and traced with a vinework of dark, mystical-looking tattoos.

The crowd went wild.

***

The rest of the concert was a dizzy, nauseous, glorious blur. I was caught between disgust and delight, as the music throbbed with Unseelie magic and the darkly elegant expression of grief, love, and tenderness that the best songs invoked. And Sy's music was good. It was softly despairing and yearning at once. Not one of the song's stories had a happy ending. They were about lovers courting disaster and sometimes finding it. About hauntings in darkly forgotten places. About loss so profound it echoed across centuries.

And wound in with all that beauty was the rotten, hot sear of Unseelie power. I had to gulp down bile more than once, but I refused to look away from this. Because it was wonderful. Beautiful. Grotesque. All at once. I'd never felt anything like it.

***

When the spotlight finally faded, when Sy took his final bow after a second encore, the stadium shook with cheers. Even as the house lights went up and the applause should have died away, it persisted for full minutes more. They loved him. They really did. The magic was so palpable on the stadium air I could almost see it squirming and slithering like smoke.

He had it. He had everything I wanted. And he had gotten it with such ease it made me want to scream and cry and rage.

"What did we all think?"

I spun around.

Sy Dage was standing there, not ten feet away, at the door of the box. He was slick with sweat, his dark tee shirt clinging to his slim, muscular body, as he padded his face and neck with a towel. He looked delighted, on top of the world.

And he really was beautiful. It was difficult not to admire that level of beauty on a mortal face. I bit my lip.

One of the models rushed up to him and kissed him, full on the lips. The second model did exactly the same. I knew immediately, instinctively, that he was sleeping with both of them.

"Glorious!" cried the first model. "Just glorious, baby!"

"Aw, babe, you killed it!" cooed the second. They each seized one of his arms, hanging on like decorous accessories. Sy seemed to take about as much notice of them as he would a jacket he had just slipped into.

The musicians crowded him next, pushing glasses of whiskey his way which he accepted and downed one after the other.

Toby was the one gripping my arm now. He obviously hadn't been prepared for this.

And he certainly wasn't prepared for Sy to shake off his other followers and approach us where we were still rooted by the edge of the box.

I think Toby lowkey stopped breathing for a few solid seconds. Sy walked right up to us, tucked his damp towel under one arm, and waved hello with his free hand. "Hester, right?"

His lovely face was stretched in the phoniest smile I had ever seen. That settled any doubt. He knew exactly what I was. And he knew that I knew what he was. We were NOT going to be friends. But we could still make some pretense of being professional.

"Yeah," I said, returning his smile in kind, with maybe just a little acidic sarcasm added to my voice. "Sy, right?"

He laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. I felt the tangled aftermath power of the show tiding off him. He was a vortex of magic, of disdain, of superiority. A very pretty vortex of magic.

"Yeah, good to meet you too," he grinned nastily. "I hear we're playing together tomorrow. Think we should get a drink, get to know each other first? There's a good pub around the corner, good private booth at the back. What do you say?"

I stared at him in abject horror before I bit my lip hard and got my expression back under control. "I'm, ah—" How could I possibly say no? I'd look like a complete jacka**. In front of these musicians I loved. And the models, who I'm sure had millions hanging on their every Instagram post.

"Yeah," I managed finally. "I'd be happy to chat. Get things straightened out."

"Ooooh, you're that viral girl right? The guitar player?" One of the models fluttered her long lashes at me, feigning interest enthusiastically. "I knew you looked familiar! That was sooooo sweet of you, honey. Can't wait for your show."

She blew a kiss at me. I stared back, nonplussed. "Ah. Thanks."

I wanted the floor to swallow me up. But I was very, very careful not to actually wish for it.

"I'll have my guy get us a car." Sy ignored her, downing the rest of his second whiskey. "Stage door in five, co-star."

It wasn't a question. I couldn't get out of this. The scariest part was…I wasn't sure I wanted to.

Toby stared at me in outright jealousy as Sy turned, waving his farewells.

"Do NOT," Toby whispered with stone-cold seriousness, "f*ck this up."