Black Bird of the Gallows(31)

People are still moving. The floor is active, but if I can feel the forced vibe, others can. Deno has worn a frown all night. He monitors the sound output on his laptop, displeased by how loud I’m making things tonight. I usually play a mix of strong beats with spaced-out remixes, but tonight is all in angry techno. Tonight, I am not comfortable in Sparo’s clothes. The makeup itches my eyes. The shoes pinch and make me clumsy. I undo the buckles of my platform boots and step out of them. My breath goes shaky and my head goes giddy from the act of releasing those six inches of height and easing my sore feet to the carpeted booth floor. I feel incredibly naked, curling and uncurling my stockinged toes. My hands move over my tablet, monitoring the music I’m playing. Other people’s music. Other people’s talent and work. And here I am, hiding behind a disguise that, at this moment, feels ridiculous. I have made music. Dozens and dozens of songs, locked away on my hard drive at home. I never play them. If I do, I may have to admit they’re mine. I’d have to do more than play them—I’d have to own them. And myself.

Lacey, folded in a corner of the cramped booth, extends a leg and pokes me in the butt with her toe. She points to the discarded boots on the floor with questioning eyes. I wrinkle my nose and try to communicate through my face that they hurt, but she looks out to the floor with a frown, as if my act of shoe shedding is another sign that something just isn’t right tonight.

I have to agree. Lacey came along for fun, but she is not having any, either. I glance at the time on my tablet: 9:16. Never before have I actively wished for a set to be over. Usually, it’s the total opposite.

Reece is not here. I’m relieved about that. If he wasn’t impressed with the last show he attended, he’d be sorely underwhelmed by this one. When we spoke before homeroom this morning, he told me his hockey coach wanted him to attend the team’s game tonight before playing in the next one. Without him nearby, I’m scanning for Rafette everywhere. I think I see him everywhere. Slipping around corners, walking through crowds. Even at school, turning down corridors, slinking into classrooms.

And so, here I am, playing skull-splitting music to a room of people who mostly know my style well enough to forgive me and come back next week. Artie, the guy who does the lighting for all the sets, has set the room at pulsing red with stabbing spotlights on the dance floor. He’s doing his best to create a mood, but I’m not giving him much to work with.

Tom, one of the bouncers, comes up to the side of the booth and motions to Deno. They talk for a moment, then Deno turns to me.

“Trouble’s brewing in the parking lot,” he tells me. “Tom asks that you ease things up, Sparo. The testosterone runneth over.”

I feel terrible about contributing to any issue the bouncers are having. Tom’s never interfered with a set before. Violence on any night is bad, but on all-ages night, with the place packed with teenagers, a fight would be disastrous.

I bite my lip and switch up the tracks on the fly. Next up will be a chilled-out remix of a Lana Del Rey tune. A tricky little transition takes the beat from hard and driving to slower and melodic.

The song is in line with Sparo’s usual vibe, but the abrupt shift in tone seems to throw the energy off even more. No one is moving, except toward the walls. I watch from behind my tinted glasses. The reason for the sudden shift becomes clear, and it’s not the music I’m playing. A young man is acting strangely. He pulls at his hair, muttering to himself. The patrons have gone tense, on edge. They move away from the man like a school of fish, instinctively sensing that he is volatile.

He makes his way toward my booth, cutting a meandering, weaving path through the parting crowd. My pulse spikes. This has never happened before. Where the hell is Tom?

All at once, the double doors burst open, and a knot of men explodes through. Tom and his fellow bouncer, Justin, are hard at work, trying to break up the fight, but there are more fighters than peacekeepers.

Lacey is on her feet, hand curled around Deno’s forearm. He sends me a sharp look and slashes his hand in front of his throat: cut the set. I couldn’t agree more. With a flick of a few controls, the music abruptly shuts off, throwing The Strip Mall into silence. Artie hits the houselights, and the room goes white and bright.

“Show’s over, folks,” I say. “Time for everyone to just chill.” But the tussle is still raging by the door, and that muttering guy is now right in front of the booth. I rear back as he flattens his hands on the mixers and leans forward.

“It’s coming,” the guy rasps out. His eyes are wide and wild, the whites livid red. “Demons. Coming for all of us. A great wave will swallow us whole. You’ll see!”

Deno shoves Lacey and me behind him and leans over the mixers toward the guy. Despite the fussy hair and glasses, Deno is quite a force when physically threatened. He stands over six feet tall, and despite never working out (that I know of), he’s a muscular dude. “Get lost,” Deno snarls.

I can’t drag my gaze away from the advancing guy’s eyes, though. They’re vacant, lost to some unreachable place. On the side of his neck is a red welt that looks as if it’s been scratched at. It could be a beekeeper’s sting, but I’ve never seen anything like it—red, but with strange white striations radiating out from the center.

Then the guy’s countenance changes completely at Deno’s order. His face twists in rage, and he swipes at Deno. “Did you hear me? We’re going to die. You, me, your girls there.” A demented smile spreads across his lips, which he licks. “Crack your bones and eat the marrow, snap your spines like broken arrows,” he sings, and I’m sure I’ve never heard anything more disturbing in my life.