Page 1 of The Demon's Sinful Serenade
CHAPTER ONE
RIVER
Nerves never fade before a performance. Not after your first gig, your hundredth, or even when you've played stadiums. They just change flavor.
I'd swapped the metallic tang of excitement for the sour bile of dread somewhere between Julian's funeral and the third time a venue manager suggested I seek professional help for my little 'attention whore' problem. Now, I adjusted the strap of my guitar case and stared at the exposed brick walls of One Hop Stop.
The stage looked smaller than I remembered. Same scarred wooden floors. Same smell of hops and possibility. I'd played my first open mic here at sixteen, back when a good crowd meant four drunk locals more focused on their next round. Back before River & Rath was anything more than scribbles in a coffee-stained notebook.
Now, it was my last hope.
The bar had started to fill. Locals mostly, with a few tourists who'd wandered in for craft beer and found live music as a bonus. Vanin moved behind the bar with a grace that belied his massive orc frame. He glanced up, recognition lighting his eyes.
"The prodigal returns," he called, setting down the glass he'd been polishing. "Looking good, Rathbone."
"Liar." I dropped my guitar case by the tiny corner stage and approached the bar. "Thanks for letting me do this warm-up gig. I need to shake off some rust before the festival."
"You kidding? Having you play here is good for business." His tusks glinted when he smiled. "People still brag about seeing you 'before you were famous.'"
I snorted. "Well, they can see me 'after I was famous' now."
"Temporary setback," Vanin said with a certainty I wished I felt.
He knew about the 'technical difficulties' that had plagued my comeback attempts, of course. Everyone industry-adjacent or with a minor interest in gossip had heard the stories. The runaway cart of gear in Seattle. The sound system that caught fire in Portland. The microphone that shocked me so badly in Tacoma that I'd spent the night in the ER.
Coincidences, the venues had insisted.Bad luck. Old equipment.
No one believed me when I said someone was sabotaging my shows. Why would they? A washed-up musician claiming persecution after her bandmate's overdose and her subsequent meltdown? I was just another cautionary tale of fame gone wrong, making shit up to stay relevant.
I turned to survey the room, counting the tables, eyeing the lighting rig, calculating sight lines. Old habits from the road. "Mind if I set up early? I want to check everything twice."
"Knock yourself out. Just don't actually knock yourself out. Paperwork's a bitch."
I flipped him off affectionately and headed for the stage.
An hour later, I'd checked every cable, tested every connection, tuned and retuned my guitar. The pre-show jittershad morphed into full-blown anxiety, and I kept glancing at the door, waiting for Poppy to arrive.
I checked my phone. No texts. No missed calls. My stomach knotted.
She's just running late. She wouldn't bail. Not Poppy.
A burst of laughter from the front made me jump. I gripped the neck of my guitar tighter, fighting the urge to pack up and run. The Silvermist Music Festival was my last chance—myonlychance—to prove I wasn't the unstable, difficult artist the gossips whispered I'd become. Disappearing before a gig would only fuel that inferno.
The back door swung open, and Poppy bustled in, her auburn hair escaping from beneath a colorful scarf. Relief flooded through me.
"I'm late, I know, I'm the worst!" She rushed toward me, balancing a bakery box and her oversized purse. "The first batch of snickerdoodles staged a revolt in the oven."
I couldn't help but grin. Some things never changed. Poppy had always run on her own timeline, governed more by the whims of yeast and rising dough than any clock.
"It's fine, you're here now." I helped her set down her things.
"Here." She shoved the box toward me. "I made your favorites for good luck, like I used to before..." She trailed off, her eyes darting away from mine.
Before Julian died. Before everything went to shit.
I opened the box to find perfectly arranged rows of snickerdoodles and peanut butter cookies dusted with sea salt—the ones she'd always bring backstage when River & Rath played local shows. The ones Julian would devour by the handful, claiming they were better than any drug.
Not better enough, apparently.
