Brenna Yovanoff - The Replacement

Above us, the curtains opened again and Rasputin Sings the Blues came on.

The Starlight always had at least five bands on the bill, but everyone knew that Rasputin owned the stage. Everybody else just got to use it once in a while.

It wasn’t only that other bands couldn’t compete with the stage act and the magic tricks. When Rasputin played, the music was just better . When they covered a song, it was like their version of it was the only real version.

The lead singer, Carlina Carlyle, strutted onstage with her hair piled in a knot on top of her head. She was wearing a dark-colored dress with a high collar. It looked old-fashioned, except that the skirt was short enough to show her knees, along with about six inches of thigh.

She grabbed the microphone, striking a cool, superhero pose. Her eyes were huge and too-light blue, black smeared around the lids, making her look crazy.

They were covering a Leonard Cohen song. The riff was hard and tight and the drums thumped like someone’s aching heart.

Drew came up to the half wall and leaned next to me, looking out at the pit like it was the most boring thing. “I’m so freaking sick of Leonard Cohen,” he said. “Man, do you have any idea how cool it would be if they did ‘Head Like a Hole’ or maybe some Saliva or Manson? Or the Gutter Twins.”

Onstage, Carlina was singing repent over and over, not like the backup girls on the album track, but snarling it, screaming with her head thrown back. Down in the pit, the crowd was screaming back at her, pounding their fists at the ceiling in time to the beat. Leonard Cohen could be just as hard as Reznor or Manson if you did it right.

They launched into an original track called “Formula for Flight” and Carlina took a cigarette from behind her ear. The first lyric was Burning towers down / Sleeping underground . She stuck the filter in the corner of her mouth, sending the audience into a riot.

Over by the other end of the stage, Alice was laughing with Jenna and Stephanie and some of the other hot girls. They were all wearing bright tank tops and tight jeans. When they danced, they seemed to move in unison, like they’d agreed on the steps ahead of time.

Onstage, the bassist stopped picking the line and stepped into the spotlight, reaching into his pocket for a handful of matches. The clips on his suspenders caught the light like mirrors.

“Light her up!” yelled someone from the crowd.

He saluted and stuck a match between his teeth, lighting it with an easy flick, then holding it out. Carlina put one hand against her collarbone and closed her eyes, bending to the match. He dropped it.

He lit the second one by striking it on his shirt cuff, but when Carlina leaned in, it went out by itself. The third, he didn’t strike on anything, just snapped his fingers and it flared to life.

He held it to Carlina’s cigarette and she breathed in, making the flame waver and gutter. She started to pace back and forth and the lead guitarist followed her, playing a solo that made me think of cracked glass and scrambled wires. He was wearing a black top hat and the shadow of the brim made his face look hard and hungry.

In back, the drummer still kept the tempo, but every time Carlina threw her hips to the side, he’d add a hard double beat on the bass drum. If she arched her back, that got the snare, a sharp rat-a-tat. I was utterly focused on her progress, and so was every other guy in the audience.

She stood in the spotlight while the guitar player circled around her, panting like a dog. She winked and put the cigarette out on his tongue. The whole time, he kept up that same complicated progression, and in the pit, the punk rock kids were slamming like it was the end of the world.

Carlina gripped the microphone and sang the bridge, Going low, going down, going to burn the spires / No one in this sleepy town wants a race of monsters.

Behind her, the guitarist spit out a mouthful of ash, making the solo climb. When the crowd stopped thrashing and started screaming for him, he raised his head, smiling up into the spotlight like he’d just found sunshine.

The chill started at the top of my head and poured down through my chest and arms. I knew him.

The angle of the stage made it hard to see his eyes, and the top hat shadowed his face, but even in the dark, I knew him. I’d seen him on the footbridge. He’d called me out on my dark eyes, sneered at my shaky hands and my blue mouth.

I stood in the crowd, looking up at a scary man with a scary smile.

I knew his secret and he knew mine.

After the Rasputin set, they tore their equipment down, and Concertina came on. The lead singer’s voice was decent, but their arrangements were sloppy, with too much distortion, and without the expert stage presence of Carlina Carlyle, the Starlight was back to being dusty and run-down. Just rented space.

Alice still stood in a little herd with her friends, and I had an idea that I might feel better if I got a drink of water. It would be an excuse to go over to her. I could walk past. Maybe say something, or maybe she’d say something to me. I started for the bar.

The guitar player from Rasputin appeared without a sound. One minute, I was alone, edging my way along the wall toward the fire door. The next, he was right beside me, glowing weirdly under the green exit sign.

He nodded to where Alice stood, smiling like he knew something funny. “She’s lovely. But you need to watch out for girls like that. She might ambush you in the parking lot. Kiss you with that cold iron tongue.”

I took a step back and he grabbed me, catching me by the jaw, digging his fingers into the soft place under my chin. He pulled me close so that my neck was bent at an awkward angle. His breath was hot and smelled like burning leaves.

We stood in the green glow of the sign, staring at each other. His grip hurt, but I let him hold on. Maybe he was camouflaged onstage, but down on the floor, it wasn’t smart to be so exposed. I could pass most of the time, but his eyes were too dark. His teeth were sharp and narrow, crammed close together. I kept still, ready to do whatever it took not to make a scene.

He leaned over me so the brim of the hat shadowed us both. “You’re pale and you’re cold, and you reek like steel.” His voice sounded tight, like the words were getting stuck behind his teeth. “Don’t pretend you’re not infected or that it doesn’t hurt. It’s on your breath and in the whites of your eyes. It’s in your blood.”

I stood there, helpless to look away as he leaned in closer. He tightened his grip on my jaw and whispered hoarsely, “Do you really need a wretch like me to tell you that you’re dying?”

My pulse hammered and I put out a hand to steady myself. The whole building seemed to surge in on me and then roll out again. I just kept my eyes on the guitar player and my hand on the wall. I didn’t want to do anything that might suggest to him that he was right. Dying? The idea was so enormous it was disorienting. I might be sick, but dying ?

Deep down, though, I knew the declaration had some truth to it. I thought about all the times I’d had a bad reaction to a car ride or the steel counters in the science wing, how it was always a little worse than the time before. When you got down to facts, I wasn’t actually supposed to be alive. Under ordinary circumstances, I should have just worn out my welcome, buried years ago like Natalie Stewart.

No. Not like Natalie—like the thing that had been buried with her name.

The air was cold suddenly, and I started to shake. The man hunched over me and smiled—almost kind. His nose was uncomfortably close to mine. “I could change your life,” he whispered. “Come with me tonight and I’ll save you.”