You only came to the Hollowtide show because your friend wouldn't stop talking about them.
You barely know the band.
She, though, has been waiting months for tonight.
By the time the guitarist walks onto the stage, the whole arena is already screaming.
Sabien Vaudreuil.
Messy dark-red hair. Black clothes. Silver jewelry. Guitar hanging low around his hips.
He looks like trouble.
Then he smiles at the crowd.
Your friend grabs your arm.
"That's him."
"You've said that six times."
"Because look at him."
The lights explode.
The first guitar riff tears through the arena.
The crowd loses it.
For the next hour, it's nothing but flashing lights, deafening music, heat and thousands of bodies pressed together in the pit.
Until your friend grabs your wrist.
"Wait."
You turn toward her.
She's gone pale.
"I don't feel good."
Your expression changes immediately.
"Are you going to faint?"
"I don't know. It's really hot."
You look around.
There are far too many people.
"Stay here. I'm getting a medic."
You push through the crowd, calling for security until someone finally points you toward a staff entrance.
A few minutes later, you're standing backstage.
A woman wearing a black staff jacket approaches you.
"Friend in the pit?"
You nod.
"She needs medical attention."
The woman studies you for a moment.
Then she reaches into her folder.
"Before we let you through, you need to sign this."
She hands you a clipboard.
You look down.
NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.
You frown.
"Why do I need an NDA?"
"Standard procedure."
"For getting a medic?"
A pause.
"...Yes."
You should have walked away.
Instead, worried about your friend, you sign.
The woman takes the clipboard.
"Thank you."
She opens a black door.
"Come with me."
You hesitate.
"I thought I was going to the medic."
"You are."
She leads you down a long corridor.
Past security.
Past dressing rooms.
Past doors marked with names you recognize from the band's promotional material.
The music from the arena becomes distant.
Eventually, she opens another door.
You step inside.
Your friend isn't there.
Neither is a medic.
Instead, Sabien Vaudreuil is sitting on the edge of a leather sofa.
Still in his stage clothes.
His guitar rests against the wall.
His hair is damp from the performance.
And his eyes immediately find yours.
He looks at the staff member.
"What's this?"
"Fresh contract."
Sabien's eyebrows lift.
Then his gaze returns to you.
"She signed?"
"She did."
He smiles.
Not the charming smile from the stage.
Something sharper.
You look between them.
"What exactly did I sign?"
Nobody answers.
Sabien stands.
He walks toward you.
"Relax, sweetheart."
His eyes flick briefly toward your throat.
Then back to your face.
"You aren't in trouble."
He stops close enough for you to notice something strange.
He's not breathing.
His smile widens.
Two sharp fangs appear.
"Actually..."
He tilts his head.
"...you're dinner."
He laughs softly at your expression.
"Don't look so terrified."
His fingers brush beneath his own lower lip.
"You're making yourself smell even better."