Page 99 of Fatality on the Field

By the time the team trots off for halftime, we’ve demolished most of the food and I’ve smiled more than I have the entire week. I wish it could be like this all the time, but that’s not reality. We all have jobs and lives, so this kind of occasion isn’t one that can happen every day. However, when we get shit under control, I swear to everything unholy, I will get my guys together to visit our new friends and have fun rather than be bogged down in shit at this damn college.

Loud sounds echo through the stadium and I look down, tilting my head at the beginning of the halftime show. It appears like it’s going to be a production on a scale I didn’t think this campus was capable of. The marching band is playing an overly-enthusiastic rendition of some rock song, the cheerleaders are building pyramids higher than should be legal, and then the visual effects begin. Giant, iridescent projections of the teams’ mascots, illuminated by what has to be spells darting and swirling to create constellations of color over the field.

It’s so fucking over-the-top that it makes even the Super Bowl halftime shows look like amateur hour.

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until Jolene’s fingers tap a staccato on my wrist. “Aren’t you enjoying this?” she asks, her voice bouncing with genuine delight as she watches through the magic glasses.

“Yeah,” I say, “but I just didn’t expect something, so… elaborate and choreographed. Slade, you didn’t have anything to do with this, right?”

My siren shakes his head. “They wanted me, but I’ve been too busy. I did some consulting on the band’s arrangements a couple months ago, but that’s it.”

Jolene spins in her chair to face him directly. “You sing, though, right? And play instruments? My steamy and dreamy docs said you were a music major, I think.”

Iggy, who until now has looked like he might doze off in a food and bourbon coma, perks up as Slade smiles brightly.

“I do a little of everything. Because of my… familial leanings, I started with voice, but by the time I was old enough to join a band, I was experimenting with pretty much anything. Music is how I relate to the world, more often than not.”

Jolene claps in delight. “I love that. There are so many things I can do, but I can’t carry a tune in a fucking basket. I’ve hired teachers and taken classes… Nothing works. It’s my Achilles heel, I suppose.”

“I probably can’t do half of the things you’re good at, either,” Slade says, his cheek pink as Iggy squeezes his arm proudly. “We all have strengths and weaknesses. It’s like a symphony, you know? All the pieces come together to make a beautiful song that isn’t nearly as good without every player. You need the winds, the brass, the percussion, the strings… all of it… to make the notes touch people’s souls.”

Iggy chuckles and leans in, “He’s being modest about how good he is, by the way, but he’s also right. Families are a bit like symphonies, too, I’ve learned.”

I’ll be damned; the professor is on fire today.

Cheers erupt as the halftime show concludes and we all turn to look at the field. A shower of confetti is released that’s so dense, it almost blocks the field from view for a minute. The stadium lights dim, and as the cloud of paper settles, a creeping grayness lingers at turf level. It’s not smoke, but not quite fog. I’m just about to mention it when Jolene leans in, her eyes bright with the kind of excitement only the uninitiated can muster.

“Is this a special effect? Because it’s amazing.”

Unfortunately, the animals have all gone still. The harpy eagle’s head is fixed on the far end of the field and its feathers are ruffled. The dogs and cat are at attention, not even one ear twitching. The monkey hoots softly, as it locks onto Jolene’s forearm with a white-knuckle grip.

This is not good.

I scan the box to see Kaspar standing rigid and forward with his arms at his sides. The tips of his fingers are splayed and the skin over his knuckles is pale. He’s watching the mist as it rises, but his eyes keep darting to the suite entrance.

At first, no one below us moves. The crowd below has a weird hush—nobody on the stadium crew is rushing to clear the mist, and the crowd, instead of the usual roar, has gone flat-line quiet. I’m straining to hear anything at all when a shadow—immense and slow moving—falls over the opposite side of the stadium. There’s a collective intake of breath from every supernatural in the box, as the temperature drops a solid ten degrees. Des, who has been sleeping under my collar, suddenly snaps alert, her tongue flicking in annoyance.

Channing doesn’t miss a beat—she’s up at the window in seconds. “It’s everywhere and spreading,” she says softly.

That’s when the mist rises to press up to the glass and the mood in the box does a hard pivot from exclusive viewing party to squadron at ready. The only sound is the weird static of a crowd holding its breath as they try to parse whether what’s happening is part of the halftime spectacle or the prelude to something that’s going to ruin their day.

Jolene frowns as she says, “Is this a lighting trick? Are we about to see something wild?”

She looks at me, then Channing, searching our faces for a clue, but we don’t have one to give her.

Our box’s glass starts to fog, not from temperature but from something in the mist—tiny droplets or spores or fuck-all knows what, but whatever it is, it’s gumming up the view with an oily iridescence. Lights outside stutter and blur, then blink out one by one until the field is illuminated only by the ambient glow of the upper-tier banners. Then, the shadow comes.

It blots out the light in a way that isn’t possible, unless what’s above the stadium is huge enough to terrify even me. For a split second, the entire place is painted in a dim violet that makes skin look sallow and bloodless. It’s cold, with a chill that I can feel deep in my gut. Des hisses from her coil, rattling a warning at the thing above us.

Kaspar is first to react. He moves between Jolene and the glass in a smooth, predatory lunge. His arms spread, blocking the entire front of the box with his body as he looks at the sky. I see his jaw ticking with the math of incoming threats and possible responses; it doesn’t seem like he’s excited about the prospects.

Wolfie and Prez stand, moving to Jolene quickly to make certain she’s not going to take off the glasses because we’re freaking out. I get the sense they probably work as a team when shit goes down for more than just the medical emergencies. They move like they are joined at the hip.

They didn’t need to worry, though, because my best friend’s already ahead of the game. Channing angles her body toward the suite entrance, her eyes darting from the unemerged time bomb to the door to the box. She doesn’t need to say anything—Presley sees it and gives her a sharp nod when he gets her drift.

“Magpie?” Presley says in a calm, smooth tone. “I think you should let Channing take you to the bathroom before the show ends. You don’t want to miss any of the second half.”

Jolene snorts, giving him a derisive look. “It’s fine. I don’t need to go, but I appreciate the thought.”