Page 1 of Devil's Thirst

CHAPTER 1

AMELIE

They watch me,completely entranced.

I feel their stares following me, unblinking with breathless anticipation of my every move. Devouring the subtle twists and turns of my body. They drink up the emotions pouring out of me as though I’m the fountain of youth, providing life everlasting.

The music ensnares me, but no matter how thoroughly I lose myself in the melody, a part of me is always aware of my audience. I have their full attention—hundreds of strangers all captivated by the story I’m telling with my body. Feeling exactly what I feel.

During that moment when I’m on stage, a connection forms between my audience and me. An intimate exchange. They listen with their hearts, and I speak through movement.

I feel alive when I’m performing.

I feel seen.

I love it so much that I prefer to practice on stage, even when no one’s watching. Most of my fellow cast members use the practice hall for independent practice time. I use it as well, but twice a week, I take the opportunity to stay after rehearsals to practice in the theater after everyone else has gone home. Alone on the stage.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Dancing under the lights isn’t the same without an audience, but it’s enjoyable in its own way. I wouldn’t be where I am in my career if I didn’t love dancing, regardless of who’s watching. There’s a peacefulness in dancing by myself. A solitude that I know all too well, which is how I can tell the second that bubble bursts and I’m no longer alone.

I feel it now. Someone else is in the theater.

They’re watching me from the shadows.

The same thing has happened in the past two weeks at each of my private practices. The watcher hasn’t shown themself or communicated in any way. They don’t want to be seen, but I know they’re there.

My love of dancing for an audience contorts to fear when that audience consists of a single unapologetic stare. Most people might assume it’s a member of the janitorial crew who simply wants to enjoy a free show and skip out on a few minutes of work. I wish I could believe that. I’ve desperately tried to convince myself it’s a harmless stranger, but with a past entangled in a grotesque secret society, I know better than to dismiss any unusual occurrences.

Not that knowing changes anything. If they want me, I could do little to stop them.

I don’t want to believe they’d come after me after all these years, but I can’t ignore the likelihood. I know how wretched people can be. After all, my parents were the ones who dragged me into the whole nightmare. They tried to sell my virginity to their secret society when I was only seventeen.

That sort of thing changes a person.

If you can’t trust your parents, who can you trust? And then there was the random kidnapping incident that left me with amnesia for months. At this point, I’m suspicious of everyone, for good reason.

Ironically, my paranoia is also why I haven’t reported the intruder to building security or called the cops. Bringing attention to myself could be just as dangerous as whoever is skulking in the shadows. I haven’t said a word to anyone, though the frustration of remaining silent burns under my skin like an exposed wire. The fact that I should feel obligated to keep quiet out of fear for my safety when I’ve done nothing wrong is a stinging insult I’m sick of enduring.

I continue to move as though unaware of the onlooker while indignation and frustration consume my thoughts until I can’t dance a second longer. I come to a sudden stop and face the darkened rows of red velvet theater seats, my eyes scanning deep in the shadows for signs of movement.

“If you’re going to watch me, I’d prefer if you didn’t hide,” I call out with a confidence I didn’t know I had.

My heart nearly implodes in my chest when the darkness moves.

Slowly, a figure glides into the light from beneath the dense shadows of the mezzanine. I can tell it’s a man from his broad frame, though he’s wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt to conceal himself and has stopped shy of allowing the light to touch his hooded face.

My arms cross over my chest reflexively.

The sliver of optimism I’ve kept alive over the years had more impact than I realized because despite knowing this moment was a real possibility, I’m still shocked that it’s happening. I somehow managed to cling to the hope that the watcher was harmless—a curious onlooker and nothing more. I should have known better.

The energy emanating from the man is pure menace.

His unspoken threat is louder than the music could ever be when he brings a cigarette to his lips and lights it with a click. The cherry at the end blazes bright as he inhales, thoughnot enough to unveil his face. It only sheds light on his cool indifference to the cloud of smoke billowing into the air.

Everything about him should instill fear and does to a degree, but even more so, I find myself brimming with outrage and injustice. How dare The Society send this man to invade my space and taunt me? I’ve done nothing to draw attention to myself. I’ve toed the line and minded my own business for years.

“You’re not allowed to smoke inside the theater,” I blurt defiantly.

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