Page 44 of Bewitched By the Phantom
I don’t answer, my eyes trained on the cameras slowly easing around us in an attempt to capture our conversation. Raoul talks about fire as if he was there when I was kicked out of my apartment every time. He acts as if he knows what it was like for me to sink deep into a hole of depression and lose all interest in playing my guitar. He doesn’t know me, not really. This fake we-went-through-hell-together bullshit is for the cameras, not for me.
“I saw your face when he sang to you,” Raoul adds when I don’t answer, voice low like he’s trying to avoid the mics listening in, but we both know that won’t help. They may miss words, but they’re doing their best to hear. “But I know you, Chris. I know your heart. He doesn’t.”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t know it either, Raoul. Not anymore.”
He exhales hard, his lips parting to argue—but the cameras come in close enough to hear, zooming in on us, and a drone suddenly hovers overhead. Just like that, Raoul plasters on his winning smile, putting on a show despite the conversation we were having.
I shake my head and walk away from him, leaving him there to talk to the cameras and try to bolster the view numbers.
Later that night, when the cameras are mostly down and the majority of the compound is asleep, I find Claudia sitting cross-legged in the common area while she restrings her bass. The cameras haven’t done too much following of the rest of my band, and that’s part of what pisses me off. They’re acting like I’m the only interesting one, like only my weird relationship with Erik and Raoul is what matters. I don’t think they’ve tried to interview Claudia once. She’s fucking hilarious. If anyone should be interviewed, it’s her.
“You look like you’re contemplating murder,” Claudia says without looking up.
“I might be,” I mutter, collapsing beside her. “Or sabotage.”
Claudia snorts. “We don’t do sabotage, remember? Too classy for that.”
I groan. “Too broke for that, you mean.”
We sit in silence for a beat, the only sound the low, static hum of the amp warming behind us. As I sit there, listening to the hum, I swear I can hear something inside it, a voice, a song, but as I find myself sinking into it, Claudia breaks the tension and draws me back out.
“You gonna be okay tomorrow?” she asks.
I shrug, not really sure of my answer. Will I be okay? I don’t know.
“You’ve got two gorgeous weirdos panting after you, your band is playing ‘Ashes & Reverie’—the literal climax of our entire sound—and you’ve got an army of bloodthirsty fans watching your every move. That’s pressure, babe. Even for you.”
I smile mockingly. “Thanks.”
“But here’s the thing,” Claudia says, tightening a string with expert precision. “At the end of the day, it’s not about them. It’s not even about the cameras or the views or the mask-wearing pretty boy who croons like he’s got a soul, but sold it to the devil long ago.”
I laugh, surprised at her words. “It’s not?”
She shakes her head and looks up at me, her dark eyeliner smudged and unrepentant. “It’s about the music. We’ve been clawing our way to this for years. One more song. One more set. We burn it all down tomorrow and walk out proud. No games. No gimmicks.”
I nod slowly, the resolve kicking into place.
I can feel it now—"Ashes & Reverie”—the song we’ve been saving for the finale. It starts soft and aching, a slow rise of tension and regret, and then it’ll erupt with something wild. A desperate, screaming kind of hope, like rising from your owngrave. It’s the song I never thought I’d write, and the only one that ever felt like mine.
Tomorrow, we’ll play it for ourselves.
We’ll play it for every ghost we carry in our hearts.
And then we’re going to win. I refuse for there to be any other outcome.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
The performance day comes with a chaotic rush of cameras and people asking me how I feel about the competition. Today, there’s a larger crowd, people they’d brought in off the street who’d been outside hoping for a chance to catch a glimpse of us. We’ve apparently got a cult following now, and though our location is supposedly secret, someone found us, and now we’re not allowed to go outside the power plant since it’s a security risk. I didn’t get to enjoy my coffee outside today, so I’m already grumpy when the first camera is shoved in my face and someone asks me, “How do you feel about the lead singer of Angels Bleed Mercury?”
I scowl at the interviewer. “Raoul is a great friend,” I try.
“Are you aware he calls you his girlfriend?” the interviewer asks.
I grit my teeth. “No, I’m not. Excuse me,” I say, pushing past them and trying to ignore the herd of people calling my name. For fuck’s sake. This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to prepare for this performance with so much going on?
No one seems to care though. The best I get is a quick, “Deal with it,” from Ted before we’re told we’ll be the first to perform. And we’re given about thirty minutes to prep.
