and shin pads; each spike gleamed in the blurring array of overhead lights. The band's leader bled from a self-inflicted wound inside his mouth. Blood ran red and slick from his grisly grin, staining his teeth a vile shade of crimson. With each blasphemous grunt, each unholy shriek from his throat, blood spit onto the microphone and onto those lucky followers in the front row who rushed to get the ideal spot in front of their idol, Devon Illes.
From the dissonance, violence incurred. The frenzied mass tried most adamantly to obliterate every soul in the club with its ferocious flailing of body parts. Still, the music endured. The guitar shrieked and the bass boomed while the insane blast beats of the drums promised to make all necks hurt the next day. Like thunder from an angry storm front, the music rolled over the audience with unmerciful might. Devon Illes smiled broadly now, more disciples for his cause, new fodder for the war about to be waged. He spread his arms out wide, welcoming all into his kingdom and into his family, pleased with the turnout this night. The feeling overwhelmed him. He loved what he did, what he stood for. And when the time was right, everyone would feel the love of this man, Devon Illes.
S he preferred being alone. It was easier that way. No one understood her or her obsession with Black Inversion—and she was fine that that.
With a definite destination in mind, she was on a mission. Backstage. She had—needed—to be there. Sure footed, she continued, not once stopping for any reason, stepping between people, squeezing in and out of the crowd. All the other fans huddled around the main door, waiting like sheep for the band to slither out and join them. The venue beefed up security, heavier than usual, she noticed, due to the overwhelming notoriety of Black Inversion. Across the street from the club, a crowd gathered, shouting random death threats toward the band. They held up crosses and signs condemning the band, their fans, and the club to Hell. Police officers held the mob at bay while allowing them their right to assemble and protest. Devon liked to boast about certain religious allegiances and his inclusion in many devious and questionable activities. These protests did not surprise anybody one bit.
She sauntered by the crowded entryway to the door she discovered hidden in the alley on the side of the venue during her previous recon of the club. No doubt that they would guard this door, too, but she'd be damned if she'd let anyone spoil her well laid plan to see Devon. The security guard, big and burly with a bushy goatee attached to his chin, stood at firm attention, his mass blocking the metal door.
He noticed her coming and looked her up and down, ogling the merchandise with an appraising eye. As well, he should. She had decked herself out in her finest outfit, a tight black miniskirt and white silk stockings—thigh high. On her feet, she had strapped black and silver high heels that wrapped around her ankles and up her calves, raising her up another three inches taller. Her top, a rare Black Inversion t-shirt with artwork from their first album, was custom altered and ripped in all the right places, exposing the curves of her generous bosom.
Not missing a beat, she continued toward the steps that led to the alley door, her shimmering auburn hair flowing like a waterfall behind her. The security guard watched with constant scrutiny from when she rounded the corner until she climbed the steps to the backstage entryway.
"Sorry, babe," the guard said, "off limits. No one allowed 'cept the crew."
"You sure?" She feigned disappointment, batting her eyelashes.
"That's right. So go wiggle your ass somewhere else."
"But I need to see Devon. He's expecting me," she pleaded, hoping to pull off the act. "It's important."
"Yeah, sure. I bet it is. You and every other groupie."
A groupie ? Did he have any idea how important this night was? "How rude! I'm far from a groupie." She
From the dissonance, violence incurred. The frenzied mass tried most adamantly to obliterate every soul in the club with its ferocious flailing of body parts. Still, the music endured. The guitar shrieked and the bass boomed while the insane blast beats of the drums promised to make all necks hurt the next day. Like thunder from an angry storm front, the music rolled over the audience with unmerciful might. Devon Illes smiled broadly now, more disciples for his cause, new fodder for the war about to be waged. He spread his arms out wide, welcoming all into his kingdom and into his family, pleased with the turnout this night. The feeling overwhelmed him. He loved what he did, what he stood for. And when the time was right, everyone would feel the love of this man, Devon Illes.
S he preferred being alone. It was easier that way. No one understood her or her obsession with Black Inversion—and she was fine that that.
With a definite destination in mind, she was on a mission. Backstage. She had—needed—to be there. Sure footed, she continued, not once stopping for any reason, stepping between people, squeezing in and out of the crowd. All the other fans huddled around the main door, waiting like sheep for the band to slither out and join them. The venue beefed up security, heavier than usual, she noticed, due to the overwhelming notoriety of Black Inversion. Across the street from the club, a crowd gathered, shouting random death threats toward the band. They held up crosses and signs condemning the band, their fans, and the club to Hell. Police officers held the mob at bay while allowing them their right to assemble and protest. Devon liked to boast about certain religious allegiances and his inclusion in many devious and questionable activities. These protests did not surprise anybody one bit.
She sauntered by the crowded entryway to the door she discovered hidden in the alley on the side of the venue during her previous recon of the club. No doubt that they would guard this door, too, but she'd be damned if she'd let anyone spoil her well laid plan to see Devon. The security guard, big and burly with a bushy goatee attached to his chin, stood at firm attention, his mass blocking the metal door.
He noticed her coming and looked her up and down, ogling the merchandise with an appraising eye. As well, he should. She had decked herself out in her finest outfit, a tight black miniskirt and white silk stockings—thigh high. On her feet, she had strapped black and silver high heels that wrapped around her ankles and up her calves, raising her up another three inches taller. Her top, a rare Black Inversion t-shirt with artwork from their first album, was custom altered and ripped in all the right places, exposing the curves of her generous bosom.
Not missing a beat, she continued toward the steps that led to the alley door, her shimmering auburn hair flowing like a waterfall behind her. The security guard watched with constant scrutiny from when she rounded the corner until she climbed the steps to the backstage entryway.
"Sorry, babe," the guard said, "off limits. No one allowed 'cept the crew."
"You sure?" She feigned disappointment, batting her eyelashes.
"That's right. So go wiggle your ass somewhere else."
"But I need to see Devon. He's expecting me," she pleaded, hoping to pull off the act. "It's important."
"Yeah, sure. I bet it is. You and every other groupie."
A groupie ? Did he have any idea how important this night was? "How rude! I'm far from a groupie." She
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