Page 2 of The Demon's Sinful Serenade
"Thanks, Poppy." I took one, the familiar taste momentarily transporting me back to happier times. "These are still incredible."
She beamed, adjusting one of the quirky pins on her bag. She'd explained once the tiny whisks and silly animals all contained a protection charm glazed into their enamel. Poppy never said it outright, but I'd always suspected her baking had a little extra magic baked in.
I could use a little bit of both.
"So," she said, hopping onto a barstool, "how does it feel to be back on stage?"
"Ask me after I actually play." I started to rub my eyes, stopping short before smearing the eyeliner I'd spent thirty minutes perfecting. "I just need this to work, Pops. I'm out of options."
"Is that why you came home? Because you're out of options?"
The question stung because it was partly true. Silvermist Falls had always been my backup plan, my safety net. The place I'd run from at eighteen, determined to make it big and prove everyone wrong. Now I was back, tail between my legs, playing the same bar where I'd started.
"I came home because I missed your cookies," I deflected. "And because the festival pays surprisingly well for a small-town event."
Poppy's look told me she wasn't buying it. "How bad has it been? Really?"
I sank onto the stool next to her. "Bad. Three venues canceled last month. The one in Seattle claimed I trashed the green room—I didn't. Portland... well, you saw the video."
"That electrical surge was not normal," Poppy said firmly.
"Nothing's been normal since..." I swallowed hard. "I keep thinking I see him," I admitted, voice barely audible over thegrowing bar noise. "In crowds. Backstage. Once in my hotel bathroom mirror."
It was too absurd, and far too melodramatic. Julian was dead. Gone. Whatever was happening to my comeback tour was just bad luck, or karma, or the universe telling me to find a new career.
Poppy didn't look shocked or concerned, just sad. She reached out and squeezed my hand. "Grief does weird things."
Only, it didn't feel like grief. I could recite the stages of grief backwards in my sleep. This felt like punishment.
I fidgeted beside her, suddenly desperate to talk about anything other than my impending performance. "How's the bakery? Still working kitchen magic for the masses?"
"Business is booming. Turns out, monsters have the biggest sweet tooth." She leaned in conspiratorially. "You should see how many cupcakes the vampire coven orders for their monthly book club. They don't even eat them; they just like how pretty they look on the table."
I laughed, the sound rusty but real. This was what I'd missed, normal conversations that didn't revolve around my career trajectory or Julian's absence. Poppy tried, between phone calls and random texts, but the miles still kept us at a distance. All of that fell away the moment we were reunited.
"Remember when we thought the weirdest thing in this town was Mr. Peterson's toupee?" I asked.
"Goddess, that thing looked like a dead squirrel." She snickered. "And now I'm baking wedding cakes for werewolf ceremonies. Life is strange."
The sound system crackled to life, and Vanin's deep voice rumbled through the speakers. "Folks, we've got a special treat tonight. Hometown hero and indie rock darling, River Rathbone."
My stomach lurched. Showtime.
Poppy handed me another cookie. "For luck," she said with a wink. "Go remind them that River & Rath was the best thing to come out of this town."
"Just River now," I corrected automatically, the familiar ache blooming in my chest.
"You were always the heart of it, anyway." She gave me a gentle push toward the stage. "I'll be right here cheering you on."
I grabbed my guitar and headed for the stage, the weight of expectations—mine and everyone else's—pressing down on my shoulders. As I stepped into the spotlight, a smattering of applause greeted me. Some faces I recognized from high school. Others were strangers. A few eyed me curiously, phones ready to document the train wreck they probably expected.
Fuck them, I thought, plugging in my guitar.I've played bigger rooms with tougher crowds.
"Hey, Silvermist," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "It's been a while."
I launched into my first song, one of the new ones I'd written after Julian died. Raw and stripped down, just my voice and guitar. No band to hide behind. No Julian to fill the silences between verses.
By the third song, I'd hit my stride and felt it happening. That magical current between performer and audience when they're with you,reallywith you. Bodies swayed. Heads nodded. Someone near the back whistled after a particularly intense bridge.
