Dangerous Creatures

CHAPTER 23 Comfortably Numb

Sirensong was on their way to rock the house.

Ridley hadn’t wanted to go back to Sirene. Link avoided her now, like she was worse than Emily Asher, but Rid refused to send him into Lennox Gates’ club alone and unprotected.

So she was Sirensong’s first groupie.

First, and most hated.

This is not how I imagined my “regular” life, Ridley thought.

“I don’t feel so hot,” Necro said. She leaned her head back against the rough stone of the Underground. Her face was pale, and as she closed her eyes, she looked weaker than Ridley remembered.

Floyd looked at Necro sideways. “You want to go back?”

“I can take her,” said Rid quickly, fidgeting in her sixties silver shift dress. She and Necro hadn’t exactly been speaking lately, and it bothered Ridley more than she cared to admit. Besides, Sampson and Link were already at Sirene. Floyd could still make it.

Necro shook her head. “No way am I going to not show for my own gig.”

“What’s that?” Ridley reached for the collar of Necro’s leather jacket. Necro yanked her hand away before she could even touch it.

“Personal space, Siren.” Necro glared.

“Wait, you’re bleeding.” Rid moved Necro’s collar down. Blood was spotting the white tank beneath Necro’s black leather jacket, and Ridley wondered why they hadn’t seen it before.

Necro touched her neck, and her fingers came away a deep, dark red. At least, that was what color Ridley thought it was, though it was more deep and dark than red. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You’re hurt. What happened?” Floyd looked worried.

“Nothing happened.” Necro stared straight ahead, as if she was willing her friends to disappear.

But they weren’t about to, Floyd in particular. “Nec.”

“I don’t know, okay? I went to sleep. I woke up. My neck was bleeding.” Necro pulled a dirty black scarf covered in white skulls out of her pocket. She tied it around her neck.

“Where?” Floyd was somber.

“In the neck, brainiac.” Necro was as grouchy as she was ill.

“Come on, Nec. Where did you wake up?” Floyd sounded anxious.

Rid interrupted. “Um, I’m guessing she woke up in her bed? What the hell kind of question is that?”

Floyd raised an eyebrow. “Necro’s a sleepwalker.”

“What?”

Necro shrugged. “I wake up in strange places sometimes. I think it has to do with being a—you know. Being me.”

No Necromancer ever wanted to say the word, as if death was catching. Not even Necro said the whole word, usually.

She went on. “I have horrible nightmares, I wake up, I feel like total garbage, and I find my way home. Sometimes I stink like smoke. But I’ve never been actually hurt before.”

Ridley shook her head. “That’s not good.”

“No kidding,” said Floyd. She wasn’t joking around anymore.

“It’s no big deal,” Necro said, stumbling down the length of the tunnel. “Really, guys.”

It was a lie. Ridley had told enough of them herself to recognize a lie when she heard one. She wondered what had actually happened. If Necro was anything like her, she’d never tell.

She held out her arm to help Necro walk, but Necro didn’t take it.

They were more alike than Ridley had thought.

It wasn’t even four o’clock. They still had hours until the gig began, but Link and Sampson were already messing around onstage. From the moment Ridley passed through the door—the bouncer offering no complaints this time around—the music crept toward her. The music and, carrying with it, what it meant.

Who she would have to deal with—or what she’d have to say. That she was sorry. That she was worried. That she cared about him. Them.

Not that she would say it.

Not that anyone would listen.

She stood there watching, from the back of the main room, which would stay closed off to the general public for three more hours, as it did every afternoon. The stage loomed on the far side of the cavernous space, lights up and sound system live, as if the show was about to start—which it wasn’t. They still had time to warm up.

Not that they needed it. Things had been pretty warm this past week. At least, that was how it looked to anyone but a Siren. The lines were long and the crowds were raving, and Ridley still had no idea why or how.

She had an idea but was minus the facts to back it up.

It wasn’t because of the music. Link’s musical taste had gone from bad to worse, as if the whole band was infected with it now. Link was trying out new lyrics while Ridley stood there, and when she could make out the words, they were so bad she wished she couldn’t.

“My Chicken Wing / You make my gut sing

You make everything / Really swing.

Dipped in batter / Heart goes pitter-patter

Do your wild thing / My Chicken Wing.”

He continued the set, singing, “Cole Slaw / Get under my craw,” and “Fried Pick-le / Love how you rib tick-le.” Pretty soon there would be no major food groups left to write about, and he’d have to get a new muse. The way things were going, though, Ridley was fairly confident it wasn’t going to be her.

She sighed, leaning against the doorway as she watched her not-quite-boyfriend rock out on the stage. Within minutes, Necro and Floyd would join in, and soon the whole band would be singing about whatever picnic basket of nonsense Link had decided was worth their time.

And a few hours later, for unseen and unknown reasons, the crowd would be eating it up. Wesley Lincoln, formerly of Meatstik, and of the Holy Rollers and Who Shot Lincoln before that, was making it big-time as Sirensong. The hottest new indie act of the Caster Underground club scene.

Wesley Lincoln, a quarter Incubus and the worst drummer in five boroughs, above or below the ground. Him, and his cole slaw, and his fried chicken, and his sweet meatballs.

Ridley shook her head. She should text a picture to Ethan and Lena. They’d never believe this. Lena had already thought Ridley was kidding when she’d told her about it on the phone. Talk about being on the lookout for something out of the ordinary. The success of Sirensong should’ve been the first clue.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” The voice caught her off guard, but she recognized it before she turned to see him.

“Would that stop you from asking?” Ridley looked at Nox.

He shrugged. Not really.

“Why are you with him? Why bother?” Nox stood next to her now, watching the band.

“What are you talking about?” Ridley moved closer to the stage, ignoring Nox as best she could. What she was or wasn’t actually doing was no business of his, she thought.

“Not meatballs,” Nox teased. “I promise you that much.”

Link was prancing around on the stage, playing the air guitar. At least, Ridley thought it was an air guitar. From the looks of it, it also could have been an air accordion or even some kind of air DustBuster.

Ridley tried not to appear openly annoyed, but Nox just laughed.

“Look at him. The big lump of idiot Incubus muscle and Mortal mental limitations.”

She glared at him. “I’m sorry, are you talking about my boyfriend?” My almost-ex-boyfriend. But Lennox Gates doesn’t need to know that.

“Am I? I’m not sure, to be honest.” Nox looked at her over his glass, amused. “Is that what he is? Really?”

“Do you speak English?”

He laughed. “English, not Idiot.” He gestured toward the stage. “Speaking of which, some of his lyrics I find hard to understand.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s funny, because every time you open your mouth, Idiot is all I hear.”

“You and him? That’s not a relationship. If you think it is, Little Siren, you’re in worse shape than I thought. Or should I call you Little Chicken Wing?”

“You could. But then I’d do this.” Ridley slapped him as hard as she could.

Nox winced, rubbing his jaw. “All right. Okay. Truce.”

She ignored him.

“You know why I make you so angry? Why I get right under your skin? We’re two of a kind, you and me.” He dropped his hand. She could see his eyes pulling toward her. She looked away.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Birds of a feather. Peas in a pod. Casters out of the same Dark handbook.” Nox winked. Ridley wanted to hit him even harder than she had before.

“You are so, so wrong.”

“Am I? And here I thought we were so simpatico.”

Her temper flared. “Simpatico? How? There’s nothing likable about you, and barely anything likable about me. In fact, we’re just about the two worst people I know.” It was how she felt about herself lately, and it made her feel a little better to finally be able to say it out loud.

Because it’s true, she thought. And it always will be. No matter how many jobs I get or how hard I try. No matter how badly I want to change.

How regular I want to be.

Nox nodded agreeably. “The worst. Exactly. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot and we were meant to be friends, in our own twisted way. Just like, I don’t know, Link Floyd?”

She swung up her arm to slap him again, but this time he caught it.

Nox shrugged. “We are who we are. I’m a Rolls, he’s a—what does he call it? A Beater?”

“Maybe,” Ridley said as she pulled her hand away. “But if I wanted a Rolls, Mr. Gates, don’t you think I’d just Charm a chauffeur?” She examined her silver nails.

He ignored her. “I own the club, which means I own your little boyfriend, too.”

Ridley twisted the pink streak in her hair expertly. “And if I wanted a club, Mr. Gates, don’t you think I’d just Charm the club owner?”

“Who says you haven’t?” He smiled. “Now that you mention it, who says he hasn’t Charmed you?”

She rolled her eyes. “In your dreams.” Now Ridley’s hand was at her tiny silver clutch, casually flicking the lock, casually drawing her fingers inside.

“Would you like to be?” His voice dropped, dark and husky.

She laughed. There was some new angle to this game, and it wasn’t lost on her. Ridley was an expert at playing the angles. “Why are you trying so hard, Mr. Gates? I’m flattered, but we both know this isn’t about me.”

“You’re a Siren. I thought everything was always about you.”

“No, really. What’s changed since our last conversation? Why don’t you just tell me what you want from me?” Ridley leaned forward. “Can’t take the pressure? Your goons coming for you? Let me guess—I’m not the only person who owes someone a little something-something around here?” She leaned closer. “Maybe you owe a few markers of your own?”

“You have no idea what you’re saying.” Nox was annoyed. “So try shutting up about it.”

Bull’s-eye, she thought.

Ridley reached out to smooth the lapel of his coat with a tiny, victorious smile. “Gladly, Mr. Gates. And here’s a little good-bye for you: Whatever it is, I’m not helping you do it, find it, or get it. If it has anything at all to do with that lump of Mortal mental limitations up on that stage, you can forget it.”

A moment of anger lit his face. “For a Siren, you’re really not all that enthralling.”

“And you’re nobody’s sweet meatball,” she said, patting his cheek. “Poor thing.”

He covered her hand with his, leaning toward her to press his lips briefly against hers. She was breathless, and he took full advantage, biting her bottom lip. A surge of raw energy hit both of them. Ridley pulled away, gasping.

Then she kissed him back, pressing toward him like she was falling. She couldn’t help it. His kiss was like a Cast, and she was the only person Bound by it. Her lips were burning.

I want to slap him, but I want to kiss him. And I want him to kiss me.

As soon as she thought it, Nox pulled away from her, studying her eyes.

“Mmm-mmm,” he said. “Just like I thought. You’re sweet enough for both of us.” Then he stepped through the crowd and was gone.

No.

Ridley backed away, speechless, and fled to the front of the stage, her hand pressed against her lips as if she wished she could rip the kiss right off them.

Too bad she couldn’t.

Too bad she had lost control and kissed him back.

Too bad it was at that precise moment that Sirensong’s lead Linkubus happened to look up from his drum kit, center stage.

Watching your girlfriend—whether or not you’d broken up—kiss another guy always made something in a guy’s head snap, free and clear. Whether you were a Mortal or an Incubus.

Ridley could almost hear it snap, and she could tell from the look on Link’s face that there were no questions left. Not for him.

Link was out.

Ridley’s eyes blurred as she fought back tears. She could see it in Link’s face, even though he wouldn’t look at her.

Even though they hadn’t said a word to each other.

They didn’t need to say anything.

Link’s hand was glowing, as red as blood. The ring. Just like Lena had warned her. Ridley had never seen it that color before.

He wasn’t singing, but he was pounding on the drums as if he wanted to smash them.

Then he did.

“What the—” Floyd backed away as drum skins and metal and drumsticks and cymbal brass went flying.

Sampson dropped the mic stand.

Link picked up the bass drum and hurled it off the stage. The music stopped. He kicked over the keyboard, smashing it to the floor. It was like watching the Hulk on fast-forward.

He was done.

The stage had become a dark place.

But it was Necro who seemed to be feeling it most. When the bass hit the floor, she hit the floor with it, passing out into a crumpled pile of arms and legs and black leather.

Link looked down at his blue-haired bandmate, panting for breath, his voice raspy. “You okay?”

By the time Ridley pulled herself up onto the stage, Necro was out cold. Rid bent down and caught a glimpse of the girl’s neck. The cut was festering, a dark liquid oozing from the wound.

Black blood.