The Immortals. J.T. Ellison
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as a Goth makeup tutorial. It had garnered more than five hundred thousand views so far. It gave him an unbelievable rush to think about all those baby bats out there using his woman as a guide.
They’d have even more to admire him for now.
Raven sat up and put his chin in his hand, watched Fane create the mystical black cloud that made the green of her eyes look like fifteen-carat emeralds. The long swoops of black liquid eyeliner, the deep black M-A-C eye shadow, more liner, five coats of mascara, then the intricate swirls dripping off the edges of her eyes like she was a bedouin princess decorated for her wedding night. A dark princess. The ruler of his heart.
She finished, screwed the top on her liner, then outlined her lips with a burgundy pencil. She dug into her makeup tray and pulled out a deep, deep cherry-black lipstick. He appreciated the symbolism. Fane sometimes had difficulty talking to others, and the black lipstick reminded her that she was the one with the power. He knew she’d imbued it with strength—they’d done the spell together.
She bent over and ratted her hair so it stood out from her head, allowing it to fall in glorious waves nearly to her ass, then finished with a liberal dose of Aqua Net.
When she flipped up and smiled at him, he could barely contain himself. His love. His perfect, perfect love.
“Your turn,” she said, shrugging into her corset. The stays made her waist about the span of his hand.
Raven tried to distract himself from his woman’s faultless form and glossed his face with makeup, disappearing behind the foundation. He never felt so strong as when he was in full Goth mode. He had to temper it down at school a bit—the administration had strict rules about boys wearing makeup. Capitalist bastards. They had no idea how strong he was.
But tonight, in celebration, they were headed to a club. They would feed on the energy of the crowd, be themselves. There was nothing like a good night of clubbing. Subversion had a five-dollar cover in honor of Samhain, and there was a guest DJ in from Los Angeles, a guy called The Baron. Raven had heard some amazing things about his playlist—he always seemed to have the newest bands at his disposal. He supposed that was the whole Hollywood thing—the Nashville Goth scene rocked, but it was still Nashville. Full-on industrial wasteland. He’d been to a couple of clubs in Washington, D.C., that were out of this world. But beggars couldn’t be choosers—traditional Goth was all Nashville could offer tonight. One day soon he and Fane would head out to Los Angeles, would ride the wave of the Goth scene, rising to the top, glorified in their power. Their art would be watched by millions, and they would never be parted. That day was coming. He’d already purchased their tickets—they’d be gone on Monday. Just a few things left to accomplish before then.
In the meantime, they had to make do with what they had. First Subversion, then they’d hit Salvation to cap off the night and meet up with Thorn and Ember. Ember was going to have to sneak out tonight, especially after—
“Raven, love, you need to get moving. I want to get downtown.”
Fane had her hands on her hips, stamping her foot in frustration. The platform industrial boots with buckles up to her knee made her six-foot-four and ethereally spectacular. He smiled at her in the mirror, baring his fangs, running his tongue lovingly along the sharp edges. They’d cost him a pretty penny, but they were so worth it. Fane loved hers just as much—it made biting one another so much easier. Better teeth than the athamé any day. It was so much more real.
He took one last swipe of black shadow under his eyes and turned off the makeup mirror’s light. He grabbed Fane by the hand, danced in a circle in the center of his room.
“Let’s go.”
Blue lights were revolving one street over, but theirs was quiet. Raven felt a rush of excitement, squeezed Fane’s hand. The commotion was for him. Him.
They folded themselves into his beat-up Elantra, Rattything, the Rat, and drove away from the turmoil.
The Rat was feeling feisty tonight, so he let it have its head. Besides, all the Nashville cops were hung up in Green Hills. They took the shortcut through the west side of town to Twenty-first Avenue, then got on Broadway. The streets were hopping tonight, everyone dressed up. It was the one night of the year that he and Fane could walk among the masses and fit in.
And he found that pedestrian. He didn’t want to fit in. He wanted to stand apart, to be different. Different was arresting, exciting. These poseurs, thinking they were being so avant-garde, their individuality cloaked in Halloween getups, were nothing compared to Raven. His ability to be unique was legendary among their brethren.
He turned left on Second Avenue, then scooted the Rat into the parking garage above SATCO, the San Antonio Taco Company. The garage was packed tonight—they had to drive all the way up to the sixth level to find a spot. They bundled out of the car and into the elevator, Fane getting more and more exasperated when they stopped at every floor to let revelers on board. They gawked at her, and she didn’t like it. Raven finally bared his fangs at one idiot dressed as a pirate, and he flipped Raven off and turned around.
They ran across the street, not bothering to go to the intersection, and narrowly missed a car barreling up Second. Choking with laughter at the man’s shocked face, they ran into the club, cloaks flowing behind them. They handed their money to Tony, Subversion’s gargantuan bouncer, climbed the darkened stairway, feeling the bam, bam, bam of the bass line thrumming through the walls.
When they entered the strobe-lit room, Zombie Girl’s “Creepy Crawler” was on the turntable and the energy nearly knocked them off their feet. Raven grabbed Fane’s hand and pulled her through the masses into the center of the dance floor. He dug into his pocket and extracted two little blue pills, ones he’d carefully dipped and kept separate from the rest of the stash. He fed one to Fane, slipped the other under his own tongue. The Ecstasy started working quickly, sending golden warmth through his body.
Then the trip began in earnest. They kissed, feeling the energy rushing between them, coursing through their veins. They swayed and jumped, threw their arms in the air. Raven felt a scream building deep in his chest and went with it, riding the energy, building and building until he let loose with a war cry so intense he realized he had an erection and was inches from coming.
This was what it was all about. This was his place, his life, his world.
He stopped, stood still in the middle of the dance floor, his head thrown back, the music building in his very soul, feeding. As the music peaked, his orgasm built to a crescendo, and he howled. He was a God now.
She watched from the corner of the darkened space. Word had spread like wildfire through her community that a series of murders had been committed, and she knew in her soul that whoever did it was in this room, right now. A few minutes before she’d felt the air change, felt the energies shift. A very powerful spell had been cast, and she began to drain. Someone was feeding, close by. Damn vampires. She snapped back and shielded herself deeper, stronger, felt her strength return. She kept her eyes sharp on the crowd.
He was here. She could feel him.
What he’d done was wrong. It broke all their laws. He would have to be punished.
She sighed. Tonight was supposed to be a sober, somber evening, one of great reflection and inwardness, a night to make contact with the departed and assure them that memories of their lives were still precious. A night to look forward with great anticipation at the dying of the God and the rebirth of the Goddess. She’d conducted her spells earlier, at sunset. Set her altar with a white candle and a black, her athamé, her wand, a small skull, real and very powerful, that she’d purchased at the Pagan Festival at Montgomery Bell State Park a few years back, plus black, red and white ribbons.
She’d snapped sprigs of rosemary off her windowsill during the last new moon, let it dry for full potency, then made a posy with it, braiding the ribbons and winding them around the rosemary thrice, chanting, “Rosemary is for remembrance, tonight I remember those who have passed. Those who have crossed through the veil, I will remember.” She’d meditated about those she’d lost, communed with their spirits. She’d