RoseBlood(73)

“Sunny!” I shout. “Be careful.” What I want to say is: Here there be monsters. Before I take my first step, Jax clutches my fingers in his. I glance upward at his concerned features.

“Don’t get any ideas about going off on your own,” he says, as if reading my mind. “We’re staying together, right guys?”

Quan and Sunny send nods over their shoulders and continue their descent.

Hand in hand, Jax and I stay close behind on the winding staircase, all the while watching the transformation still taking place around us. Lanky figures in skintight, blinking costumes plummet graceful and quiet from the ceiling, twirling on gleaming ribbons in a spectrum of colors. The acrobats swing toward one another and join hands. They form a chain around the revolving chandelier, like luminescent jellyfish worshiping an octopus in the depths of an ocean. Giant brass bells drop down beside them, pealing loud and deep. Silver confetti descends from the mirrored dome, glittering under the black lights. Before the shimmery rain touches our heads, the swirls of paper come to life, fluttering up and up like metallic butterflies, hovering around the trapeze artists and bells.

The instant Jax’s feet and mine meet the floor behind Quan’s and Sunny’s, the bells stop pealing. In the wake of the fading gong, a haunting assemblage of acapella voices drifts from the acrobats—male and female alike—chants worthy of monks in a gothic cathedral.

The eerie hymns nudge that place inside of me . . . those dormant depths I can’t let awaken.

Rune . . . I’m here. Stay in control.

My maestro’s hoarse command, in my head. I stop and turn, searching. It feels as if he’s standing right next to me, but I can’t find him in the multitude of shadowy faces. Trepidation twists in my throat, forming a knot that burns.

“Stay close.” Jax’s insistent hold on my hand drags me closer to Sunny and Quan. The four of us wind through heated, sweaty bodies and ultraviolet adornments: fiber-optic dress shells that look like glowing baskets, animated shirts and shoes like Jax’s, suits made of an electrified fabric that sprays fizzing light into the air, like lit sparklers. Some ravers sport luminescent lipstick and eye shadow or LED jewelry. Others have fiber-optic dreadlocks along with neon body paint curling around their faces, arms, and legs in tribal designs. A woman with flashing orange fingernails moves aside so we can push through.

As we pass, I notice another source of light, something that has nothing to do with rave fashion. Luminous halos appear around each person’s shadowy head, the colors vivid in the darkness: reds, oranges, blues, and greens. Pinks and grays and browns. The frantic dancing of earlier must have burnished their auras to a new level of electric brilliance.

The sight makes my feet drag, as if my boot soles keep sticking in tar.

“Rune.” Jax pulls me close. “Come on, we have to keep up.”

His warm breath lingers on my temple, teasing and tempting. Scenting the primal stir of pheromones beneath his cologne, my nostrils quiver and my mouth waters.

Stay in control.

Beads of sweat tickle my hairline. Hoping to escape Jax’s allure, I put as much distance between us as possible while still holding his hand. A few steps ahead, Sunny and Quan join a cluster of ravers standing midway to the stage where glowing-vested employees gather to keep order. Jax and I are almost there when streams of multicolored smoke gush from metal nozzles lining the ceiling, forming a sulfur-scented cloud between us and our friends.

The Gregorian chants rise above the hissing smoke. The metallic butterflies flutter through the audience and graze our skin and hair, spurring a collective gasp.

The smoke fades to a translucent fog. Returning to the stage, the band members wait by their instruments, each one dressed in a flashing orange costume. They stand at the ready, while the drummer accompanies the chanting with a deep, hypnotic beat. There’s something about him . . . something in his movements that is familiar now that we’re closer. Before I can put my thumb on it, the crowd shuffles in anticipation as the fog parts on center stage and a dais rises from a trapdoor, lifting a coffin into view.

The lid opens. A beam shines down to spotlight a man in a monk’s robe sitting inside. Giant white canvas panels unfurl down the walls. Somewhere a camera clicks on, projecting an enormous view of the coffin’s occupant. His silvery skeletal mask—covering all of his face but his chin and lower lip—fills every screen. I’m struck by minute differences from how I remembered him in his half-mask in the chapel. Yet behind the velvety eyeholes, his flaming yellow irises call to me.

My heartbeat kicks against my sternum.

Etalon?

He seems thinner somehow. During our fantasy dances in the dark, I’ve become familiar with his tall, sculpted body and the strength of his arms. Maybe it’s the distortion caused by fog, or the rave wear shimmering in my peripheral sight, or even the large robe—a grim parallel to the spiritual reverence that’s overtaken the room. Everyone around us begins to sway as the chanting acrobats lower their melodious voices to a hum.

Jax squeezes my hand to get my attention. “I don’t see Quan and Sunny anymore.”

I lift to my toes and spot Quan’s hat in the sea of swaying people. He’s arguing with one of the employees, who, other than his glowing hooded vest, is half hidden by the crowd. Quan shoves at the guy’s chest. The employee—at least a good three inches taller than Quan—takes both of my friends by their arms to escort them out.