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Maybe it’sfearbecause they are more than I ever could have dreamed. Both radiate power, danger, and absolute confidence.
The special effects are flawless.
Elias smiles as he steps up to the microphone, tight and controlled but quietly basking in the attention. He always tends to dress more formally in dress shirts or waistcoats. Tonight, his black jacket is tailored, deliciously form-fitting, high-necked, and almost reminiscent of a priest’s robe. Ironic, given the way the shadows dance around him, the smoke-like manifestation of some black magic or power he wields. It appears to emanate from him like a physical aura.
He’s got dark hair and dark makeup smudged around dark eyes, contrasting with his ashen skin. If his ‘character’ were not already self-classified as a demonic entity, he’d make a convincing vampire.
I’ve looked. Closely. Elias doesn’t have outrightfangs, but there’s a sharpness to his canines. Not monstrously so, but I’ve thought about them sinking into my throat.
Where Elias is more refined, with a quiet yet inexorable authority about him, Caelan demands attention with his brash nature and fierce defiance of the world at large. His style is more punk, with combat boots, ripped skinny jeans, and tight leather. He has cropped, spiky hair, a dagger strapped to his thigh, and a wickedly cruel grin.
His eyes glow. Not just from any stage lighting, but cat-like, an inhuman yellow-green with a reflective quality to them. He has pointed ears and too-sharp teeth andclaws. Sharp black nails that make his fingers look elongated and not entirely natural. He doesn’t bother with a guitar pick. He just uses those.
There’s something electric about Caelan. Literally. A demon born of the blackest, fiercest storms. That’s the energy he carries—lightning and destruction, something untamable but terrifyingly beautiful.
“Okay!” Grace yells to me over the roar of the crowd and the music. “They’re still edgy, but they are cool.”
Grace—right, she’s here. Her interruption snaps me back to myself. Somewhat. I offer her what I hope is a convincing grin, but my focus is still elsewhere.
After all, how can I concentrate on anything else when Elias is singing? His voice makes me fucking weak. It’s deep and smooth, perfectly clipped, but there’s also something almost inhuman about it. By design, I imagine. A reverb to it. Some kind of layering. As though the primordial, coalescent cloud of shadows crawling over him had a voice of its own, whispering echoes of every word. It only makes it even more alluring.
When I remember how to breathe again, I sing along, screaming with everyone else, and it starts to feel like a normal concert. And it’sfun. Thrilling, even more of a rush than usual, because the effects are spectacular, the music is captivating, and they are stunning.
I’m terrified and enchanted and terrified by how enchanted I am.
They never talk much. Even when the final song crashes to a close, Elias simply stands and allows the applause, screams, and shouts to wash over him with a small smile and a curt, obligatory thanks. Caelan is less awkward about embracing the way people cheer for him. He slings his guitar around to his back and strolls to the front of the stage. He has a goddamn murder strut, the swing of his hips in those ridiculously tight ripped jeans, and squats down as if to speak directly to the audience. But he only affectionately flips us off, laughs, and then returns to join Elias as they leave the stage.
The lights raise, the volume of the crowd dulls to a lower, enthusiastic hum of chatter, and people start flowing out of the concert hall.
I stand dumbly, not quite processing what happened or that it’s over.
Grace grabs my shoulder and shakes me. “C’mon. There won’t be anything left at the merch table if you stand here. Are you waiting for them to come out again or something?”
“Huh? Oh. No.” I pause, gathering myself. Everything isfine, but there’s still some lingering sense of something. Like feeling the need to shiver, someone walking over your grave, but only as a subtle tension, not enough to prompt the physical response and release it. Even as we walk away, my eyes slide back to the empty stage.
I pause at the merch table, but nothing catches my eye. I already have all their albums, and the rest are the same generic offerings of every band—T-shirts, caps, and posters. None of it has anything more than the band logo, and certainly no images of Elias or Caelan.
As we head past, I explain to Grace that they’re not much for fan interaction. They seem to like their privacy more than most. I understand that. I suppose it would ruin the immersion of their whole concept if they went around out of character. So it’s exceptionally rare for them to do interviews or anything.
“Oh. Mysterious,” she replies, in a teasing sing-song tone, and I laugh. It’s easier to laugh the further away we get. My initial reaction to them feels so stupid now.
The night air as we step outside is balmy, a lot more pleasant temperature-wise than during the day. August in LA can be stifling.
Outside the dramatic arched entrance of the concert hall half the crowd splits off into the parking lot toward the looming stadium nearby, while the other half heads down the main street. There’s a whole conglomeration of food joints, and I gesture in their direction.
“Want to get something to eat? I’ll pay.”
“You don’t have to, dumbass. I know you only work part-time,” Grace replies.
Part-time, and still paying tuition while finishing a master’s degree. I wrinkle my nose at the reminder.
“Whatever. That’s not the point. You gave me a lift all the way up here. I’m not forgetting about the gas money either, by the way, so it’s the least I can do.”
“Burgers, then?”
Not that that narrows it down. There are about three different places to get burgers within a two-hundred-yard radius. But we pick our poison of a junky fast-food joint and head over.
It’s packed with other concertgoers, all with the same idea of late-night snacks, but we eventually order a greasy burger each and grab a booth by the wall to sit and eat.
