Page 122 of Haunted Spurs

The Ball of the Damned

Selene

The old barn at Haunted Spurs is unrecognizable.

Production has transformed it into a Victorian nightmare theater. Burgundy velvet drapes hang from the rotting beams, massive wrought-iron candelabras cast a warm, flickering light, and a carpet of artificial fog rolls across the hardwood floor.

The atmosphere is decadent, majestic. Perfect.

We contestants are arranged in a semicircle, shrouded in shadows, while the center of the room serves as the stage for our grotesque, wonderful show.

Emma and Levi are the first to break the ice.

A spotlight cuts through the fog. The music is a slow ballad, driven by heavy drums. Emma is wearing a blood-red velvet cloak over a pristine white corset. She looks like the very incarnation of innocence.

From the dark, Levi lunges out. His Big Bad Wolf costume is feral: yellow contacts, dark makeup around his eyes, and a shredded shirt. They start a two-step that rapidly morphs into a theatrical hunt. Levi tracks her, grabs her, spins her around. Emma doesn't really run away; she lets herself get trapped against the barn's center post.

The beat of the music drops. Levi grabs the edges of his own shirt and rips it off with brutal force, popping the buttons and exposing his chiseled chest. The audience (meaning us and the eliminated contestants) roars in approval. He lunges at Emma, hoisting her up by the thighs and burying his face in her neck beneath the red hood, pantomiming a fierce, ravenous bite that makes her arch backward. Devoured and submissive.

"Not bad for the fire chief," Carolina whispers beside me, blowing on her nails.

It's her turn.

Carolina, Cade, and Cole glide to the center of the stage.

The soundtrack shifts to a dark, sensual indie-rock track. The Vampire Diaries inspiration is obvious from the start. Carolina is wearing a 19th-century black lace gown, her brown hair loose and wild, with a Katherine Pierce glare ready to burn the town to the ground.

The twins circle her. Cade is wearing a black leather jacket, sporting a tormented, dangerous look; Cole is in an unbuttoned white shirt, a sadistic predator's smile on his lips. The choreography is a triangle of pure lust and burning looks. They fight over her, passing her back and forth in an aggressive dance.

Carolina dominates them both. She grabs them by the collars, shoving them back, only to pull herself right back against their chests. The finale is Rated R: Carolina drops to her knees, her back arched. Cade grabs her hair, baring her neck on one side, while Cole leans in on the other. They both sink their teeth into her pale skin. Two streams of fake blood trickle down Carolina's breathtaking cleavage, as she stares down the camera with an ecstatic, diabolical smile.

The cameramen are sweating.

The smoke thickens. The music fades into the majestic, dark, and desperate notes of a pipe organ.

Lucien and Melusine take the stage.

The Phantom of the Opera, but stripped of all romance and reduced to its most perverted essence: obsession.

Melusine is wearing a white silk slip, diaphanous, almost transparent. Her long brown hair barely covers her breasts. A long, thick black satin ribbon is tied tight around her neck like a collar.

The other end of the ribbon is wrapped around Lucien's massive fist.

Her brother is wearing a tailored black suit, no tie, and a white porcelain half-mask covering the right side of his glacial face.

The dynamic isn't a dance: it's pure control. Melusine tries to pull away, silently singing her despair, but Lucien gives a sharp yank on the black satin ribbon. She is pulled violently backward, crashing against his broad chest.

He traps her from behind. A gloved hand slides over her stomach, trailing up to grip her neck right above the ribbon, establishing his dominance.

For the grand finale, Lucien spins her around. He grabs the back of her neck. With a brutal, theatrical gesture, he rips off his porcelain mask, throws it to the ground, and literally devours her mouth in a possessive, desperate kiss, bending her backward.

The hum of nervous applause dies down.

The darkness falls completely. It's our turn.

Ron laces his fingers through mine in the dark. He guides me to the center, toward the set design production put together according to my instructions.

A massive gothic throne, forged in fake black iron and obsidian, towers in the center of the fog.