Page 3 of Siren's Call

I chugged the remainder ofthe beer and crushed the can on the wall.

Viola flashed me a smile. “Getting into thespirit, Liz?”

“You betcha. If I get topunch a manic, lanky jerk in the face, my night will be complete.”I gave her a fierce grin, still riding off the energy of thecrowd.

The folks settled to theirregular chatter while the band dissembled their equipment and madeway for the headliners. No one made any motion to leave, though, sothese folks weren’t Babykiller’s audience. Everyone was here forDiscord’s Desire. If my senses were correct—and they alwayswere—these guys would also be the ones bringing their weirdnessaround town.

Viola eyed me. I knew shewas curious about what was going on in my brain. The girl had asixth sense when it came to my feelings and with the way my jawclenched, I broadcastedtenselike crazy. I was hoping she’d chalk my nerves upto my lack of a job.

When I’d first met Viola,I’d thought she was like me and could see supernatural stuff, butwhen I probed a little, I hit the obvious roadblocks about New Agecrap, energy healing, and all that. However, those factors made hermore open-minded than most when I got caught staring at a hornedfae that no one else saw, or refused to talk shop with thesluagh—spirits of therestless dead—hell-bent on causing problems in the town. Not like Isaw much out here.

Even though the stage wasdark, the shadowy figures drew my attention the second theyemerged. The guys bustled in and out as they set up the stage.Their metallic equipment flashed when it caught thelight.

This would be Discord’sDesire. I sniffed the air, still getting the aroma of sweat andwoodsy fragrance—nothing changed except the lighting, which mingledblues in with the red beams that breezed through theaudience.

Their lead stepped infront of the microphone and did a sound check. “Test, test, one,two, three.” The man had one of those dark, deep voices, the kindthat made men listen and women shed their clothing.

However, his vocals had adifferent effect on everyone else. The room quieted. It went fromchatter, shouts, and hollers to pin-drop silence. I leaned againstthe wall again and crossed my arms over my chest.

This should be different than your averagepunk show.

Four guys stepped onto thestage—a drummer, a bass player, a guitarist, and a vocalist—a usualset for a rock band. My senses were sharp at this point. I’d beenon alert for the strange ever since I stepped in here, butwitnessing my first helping, I wasn’t going to missanything.

What would they be? Fae?Nymphs? Dryads? I’d seen them all and left most towns because ofthem. This was the first place I’d been in for a long time where Ihadn’t had a single sighting.

Tension that had beenbuilding in my chest all day intensified. It wasn’t enough that Ihad to lose my job for unjust reasons but now my peace was at anend—at least if these folks planned on sticking around. Because Irefused to be the crazy person amidst all the normals again, unableto tell anyone about all the weird crap I was seeing.

The spotlight flashed ontothe band and the humidity in the room skyrocketed. Not only that,but the scent changed. Still Old Spice, still sweat, but now adistinctive smell permeated the room—sex. It was as if every personin this room—male, female, straight, queer—got flipped on and thepheromones were suffocating.

I snuck a glance over toViola. Eyes wide, hands clenched, and bracing herself against thewall. Yep, Miss “I’m so sensitive to energies” was inheat.

An annoyed groan slipped from my lips and Iturned my focus to the stage.

The men shifted back andforth between forms like a jigsaw puzzle of half-glamour andhalf-real. Their guises were beautiful, of course. Sharp, angularchins, strong noses, dark, soulful eyes. These men wore drop-deadsexy suits. As I stared at them, the shifting between forms beganto fade, as it always did when I saw them for what they reallywere.

The singer was some typeof fae. Shaggy, dark hair that reached his chin, and his ears werelong and pointed, his teeth sharp. The drummer was a satyr, plantedbehind the Yamaha custom build with his drumsticks in hand. Hishorns gleamed under the spotlight and his eyes danced with wickedpromises of what he’d do if he got you in bed. The guitarist stoodat the ready, straight out ofGQwith silver hair that gleamed, wisps of some auraradiating off him.His appearance was a bit off, though—maybe it was thepredatory gaze he swept over the crowd, or how his teeth appearedtoo perfect.

In the back, theirbassist—who was at least six feet tall—hunched over his bright bluebass. I squinted, trying to discern what he was.

The sleeves ripped off hist-shirt displayed muscled arms, the lean kind a swimmer would have.His dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders, curling around hisears. The greenish hue to his skin could’ve been from the bluelights, but I didn’t think so. He had color that the others didn’tand along his throat, I caught slits opening and closing. Gills?His light-blue eyes roamed over the audience with a hungrycuriosity that made me shiver.

Mr. Sexy Voice stepped upto the mic and the music began.

From the start, the blendof guitar with heavy bass and the slow crescendo of the drumscreated a unique sound. These guys were talented, I’d give themthat. A little more aggressive rock than punk, but it didn’tmatter. Not after watching the crowd’s reaction.

It was as if Discord’sDesire had leveled a pheromone bomb through the place.

The spell was cast fromthe fae’s compelling voice, the guitarist thrusting against hisFender, the incubus’s stare pinning guys down right and left. Andthe bassist—he had to be a siren with the way the plucked notes ofhis bass held the audience captive.

These folks bred offsexual energy and they had a whole basement of humans ripe for thepicking. And hell, every human in the place made themselves as ripeas possible.

With the sole exception of me.

The strains were slow,pumping faster and faster as the crowd began responding. At mostconcerts, fans will get into the music. Guys and girls backingtheir thangs up, or chicks throwing themselves at their dreamboaton stage. Not like this. Forget the players on stage—everyoneresponded to the music as if a climax hit them at the end of everyguitar chord.

Beads of sweat slid down my neck from therise of heat in the room.

A chick near the bargrabbed the man next to her and began making out, her tongue downhis throat and barely stopping for air.

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