It’s late. **hangs head** I’m sorry. This is a concept scene for an UF story-line which has never been much more than an idea.
(c) 2013 Necia Phoenix
It was, I decided, a bad idea to go check out the new nightclub in the Beville district. Unfortunately, I came to this conclusion AFTER I had spent several hours listening to an unknown band whose singer kept searching for, and failing to find, the right note. Their songs seemed to be about love gone bad, and ending in violent acts of necrophilia. Not exactly my cup of tea.
I was preparing to leave when the empty chair at my table was filled by a tall, heavyset blond bombshell called Big Bertha by the locals. Her real name was Theresa. She was a crack shot and if I had my choice, I’d have her at my back in a tight spot. She smiled at me and set down a thin business card.
“Having fun?” She leaned closer so I’d hear her over the whine of cheap speakers.
She grinned. She knew why I wasn’t enjoying myself.
“Just give ’em a few minutes, they’re wrapping up.” She nodded towards the stage, and we both winced when the singer hit a wrong note.
“They can’t be why this club is the buzz…”
“Nope. These guys are just opening act.”
“Opening?” I stared at the horrid mish mash of clashing fabrics and angry colors of hair and makeup. They’d been on stage since before I’d arrived. “I thought the opening acts were supposed to be short.”
“They lost track of time. The real act is Divine Conspiracy.” She leaned back in her chair.
“Never heard of ’em.”
“You have not lived then. Trust me, you hear them and you’ll always compare every other singer to her. They are that good. They will move you to your soul.”
I wasn’t sure I liked Theresa’s grin. I resisted looking back over my shoulder for the guy with the poker aiming for my throat. Theresa wouldn’t do me like that. At least, I hoped she wouldn’t. The band onstage finished and silence, oh that blessed beast, rang for several min as the band hustled their stuff offstage. With the lights dimmed down, it looked like a much classier place than the dingy, hole in the wall nightclub that changed names every four or five months. I heard whispers in the dark, and rustling movements as the waitresses in their slinky outfits made their way around the tables.
A single light shone down on the stage, illuminating a pale female face with blood red, luscious looking lips. The song began and my heart squeezed. There was some old time magic in the music, in her voice. It played along my spine, whispering in my fingertips. I could almost see it. The lead singer was not a exactly a great beauty, over-thin to the point of emaciated, her features too sharp, eyes wide and unnatural looking. Her voice was haunting, alluring, and it carried through the room. I realized then, she had no microphone. I suspected she didn’t need one. I forgot to breathe until Theresa kicked my shin under the table.
“I told you.” She whispered.
I nodded, unable to speak. The words were lost in a haze of impressions, and the songs went from soft and slow, too fast and heavy, the kind of music you’d head-bang too. She got into it as much as her band did, her long dark hair flying as she, her crew, and the audience head banged merrily. My own neck ached to watch it. My years of head-banging were long over. How they managed to keep hair from catching on fire, I didn’t know.
Old time magic, it had to be. The lead singer somehow pulled off elegant and head banger and when the set was over the applause was thunderous. She smiled at the crowd, a beautiful lifting smile. She loved what she did. And the crowd loved her for it. There were shouts for more and the lead singer looked towards my table. Theresa gave a thumbs up, and the band launched into a slower song. Theresa turned back to me and tapped the card. “They’ve got old world connections I thought you’d might be interested in.”
I lifted the card and eyed Theresa. “You think this is a case for VHI*? I’m not with them anymore.”
Theresa laughed at me. “You’re a bad liar, Paul. You, and VHI, are like peanut butter and jelly. Can’t have one without the other. You call Draven, or maybe Jason, have em come down and take a listen.” Theresa stood and patted my shoulder. “And enjoy the music. It’s like a fine wine.”
I nodded, tucked the card into my pocket and leaned back in my chair. The music ended, the singer and band bowed as one. I sat up a bit as the singer stepped from the stage and walked right over to my table. She set something on the table, smiled brightly, turned and walked away, her perfume, light and flowery, lingering in the air in her wake.
It was a cd case with a hand-written insert. Divine Conspiracy written in a neat script and beneath it a list of songs. Home recorded, probably in someone’s basement. But I was excited. I glanced up to thank her, but the stage was empty, the singer gone. I swallowed my disappointment, and looked for Theresa. I didn’t see her anywhere. She was probably backstage. I stood, laid a generous tip down for my waitress, and nodded to the bartender as I left, cd in hand.
I drove home, listening to that magic. Theresa was right. They moved my soul. I reluctantly took the cd out and turned off the truck. I could hear my house phone ringing inside. It was probably Draven needing something. Again. I sighed, and tucked the cd case into the inner pocket of my trench-coat. The music, the magic, still swirled in my head. Time to make plans.
Hope yall enjoyed it.
oops forgot to explain that VHI stands for Vampire Hunter’s Inc. It’s a tie in scene to my current 2 Year Novel project over on Forward Motion.