Page 45 of Bewitched By the Phantom
“This is bullshit,” I growl.
“It’s okay,” Claudia tries to reassure me. “We’ve got this. We know this song like the back of our hand. We’re gonna go up there and fucking rock out and take this whole competition.” She squeezes my arm. “We’re gonna win this.”
I nod, taking a deep breath to try and clear the tension in my chest. I’m not even nervous about the performance at this point. I’m just pissed at all the cameras and this song and dance bullshit the label expects us to perform under. It no longer feels like a good career choice to sign with NYX. It feels more like a death wish.
Thirty minutes later, we’re walking onto the stage, prepared to leave our souls on the atmospheric concrete for the entire world to see. The crowd screams louder than the distortion feedback when we step onstage. The lights pulse, the drones hovering overhead like metallic vultures. Cameras pivot in place, making sure to catch all our angles, which means no ass scratching or titty adjustments. There’s no way to do that covertly now.
“Please welcome Hell Hath Honey!” the announcer says, and the crowd gets impossibly louder. With all the chaos, I hadn’t seen Erik or Raoul backstage, and I don’t see them in the crowd now. I don’t know where they’re at this morning, but I’m glad I didn’t have to entertain them after everything.
We stand center stage, our tight black finale outfits shining in the lights. Our makeup is expertly applied, smudged eyeliner under lashes, black lipstick, the works. We look like sexier, badder Hex Girls, like we belong up onstage. My nerves are coiled beneath my skin like a snake, humming with anxiety despite how prepared we are. The electric buzz of all the cameras and the lights only seem to make it worse, my perception of the hum like bugs under my skin. I can’t help but itch at it to try and alleviate some of the tension.
I step up to the mic and grip it with both hands, the small chip on my black nail polish suddenly coming into view. Fuck, I should have doublechecked that before we came on stage. My throat burns with adrenaline as I turn to look at Claudia over my shoulder and she nods, giving the signal that we’re ready. My guitar rests against my back, waiting for the solo I wrote into the song. This is it. This is everything we’ve worked for. We’ll leave it all on this stage. No one will be able to say we didn’t fight for this.
“We’re Hell Hath Honey,” I purr into the mic. “And this is ‘Ashes & Reverie.’”
Claudia’s fingers trail along her bass, beginning the song with a smooth and sad melancholy melody. The drums hit like a pulse too fast to follow, and I lean into the mic and begin to sing.
“I built a home in cinder skies, laid down my heart where angels die. I’ve kissed the fire, called it fate, told myself that love could wait,” I croon soft and low, building the tension.
The crowd seems to hold its breath with the lyrics buzzing around them. I can feel the power in it; how honest the words are. It’s raw and aching. There are no tricks here. No masks. Just us.
“How can I breathe when the darkness trickles in,” I whisper sing. “How can I leave when the world begins again?”
The chorus slams hard with the first strum of my guitar, the beat hitting just at the right time for me to sing, “This is our ashes and reverie! This is what you’ve done to me! We’ve taken our hearts and ripped them out. Now you’ll see what this is all about!”
My fingers work across my strings, building the tension, preparing for the second verse where we start to rise in power, when it happens. I stumble over my notes as, from stage left, Raoul appears.
The spotlight is already hitting his polished boots and shining hair like this had been rehearsed. His mic is hot—toohot. His voice cuts through our music like a blade, like he has someone in the soundcheck booth on his side. His voice drowns out mine immediately.
No rules. Fuck. We’re playing by rules when clearly no one else is.
I glance at Claudia with wide eyes, even as she continues to play, an attempt to gain back control. What the fuck do we do now?
“You don’t have to fall to feel alive,” Raoul sings, his eyes on me rather than the crowd. I notice he makes sure to glance at the cameras though. “You don’t have to burn to rise. Come back to the light, Chris. Come back to me.”
I bare my teeth at him, fury breaking through my panic and confusion. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, teeth clenched between the words.
We try to keep playing, but whoever is in the soundcheck booth has Raoul’s volume set to overpowering, and the cameras follow it all, eating up the drama as Raoul practically begs me in front of the entire world to choose him.
“Of course he’s turning our set into a soap opera,” Claudia growls from behind her bass. “Fucking respond, Chris. Don’t let him take control!”
I turn to face Raoul, my chest tight with anger. When I open my mouth and start to since, my voice trembles with rage and disbelief that he’d stoop this low.
“You say you’re the light, but you’re blinding me,” I sing, letting the words come to mind as I freestyle on top of music that should have been our fucking win. My voice rises, as someone in the soundcheck booth is making sure my lyrics are heard. “A history painted in apologies. I’m not your second chance, not your sweet regret, don’t you dare play me like I’m your safety net!”
The crowd roars with my answer, living for the drama. Raoul’s eyes widen at my lyrics, and where he’d been confident before, his steps falter at the pure rage in my words. But despite all this, despite the fact that my lyrics should end this confrontation, it’s not over.
From the stage right, a hush ripples through the audience like wind through tall grass. I whirl toward the energy, somehow already knowing what’s coming. Erik steps into the light, slow, smooth, in that half-shadowed way that makes him feel carved from the dark itself. His voice is velvet and venom. He doesn’t need volume like Raoul does. He commands attention all on his own.
“You crave the sun, but you dream in the dark,” he purrs into the mic. “Come closer, my love, and I’ll show you your spark. I’ve waited in silence, a breath in your chest. Choose me, and I’ll let you rest.”
My knees nearly buckle with his words as he strolls forward. Raoul matches his steps so that they close in on either side of me. I glance back at Claudia, my eyes wide, and she looks just as confused, just as angry as I am. What do we do with this? Do we play into it and get the views? Do we play the game? Fuck.
Everything inside me pulls me in opposite directions. I’m torn between light and legacy, between shadow and desire. The crowd is losing their minds as these two men close in on me, both begging me to choose them in front of the entire world. A camera drone swoops low for my reaction as I hover in the center of it all, my shoulders tense, my jaw locked.
Claudia’s voice cracks through the chaos behind me. “Sing back, Chris,” she growls. “Don’t let them steal your voice!”
She’s right. If I don’t respond, they win. No matter what’s happening, no matter the choice I’m faced with, I can’t let them overshadow me. I’m Chris Fucking Feral, and I won’t be outdone.
