In spite of the questionable source of our backstage passes, my pulse jumped with excitement when we rounded the next corner and the building opened into a long, wide hall with a cavernous ceiling. Equipment was stacked against the walls—soundboards, speakers, instruments, and lights. People milled everywhere, carrying clothes, food, and clipboards. They spoke into two-way radios and headset microphones, and most wore badges similar to ours, though theirs read “Crew” in bold black letters.
Security guards in black tees and matching hats loitered, thick arms crossed over their chests. Background dancers raced across the open space in all stages of the next costume change, while a woman with a clipboard pointed and rushed them along.
No one noticed me and Nash, and I could tell Tod had gone non-corporeal again by the silence of his steps. We headed slowly toward the stage, where light pulsed and music thumped, much too loud for any of the backstage racket to be heard out front. I touched nothing, irrationally afraid that sneaking a cookie from the snack table would finally expose us as backstage-pass thieves.
In the wings of the stage, a small crowd had gathered to watch the show. Everyone wore badges similar to ours, and several people held equipment or props, most notably a small monkey, wearing a collar and a funny, brightly colored hat.
I laughed out loud, wondering what on earth America’s reigning pop queen would do on stage with a monkey.
From our vantage point, we saw Eden in profile, now grinding in skintight white leather pants and a matching half top. The new song was gritty, with a crunchy guitar riff, and her dancing had changed to suit it; she popped each pose hard, and her hair swung out behind her. Guys in jeans and tight, dark shirts danced around and behind her, each taking her hand in turn, and lifting her on occasion.
Eden gave it her all, even several songs into the performance. The magazines and news stories hyped her hard work and dedication to her career, and the hours and hours a day she trained, rehearsed, and planned. And it showed. No one put on a show like Eden. She was the entertainment industry’s golden girl, rolling in money and fame. Rumor had it she’d signed on for the lead in her first film, to begin shooting after the conclusion of her sold-out tour.
Everything Eden touched turned to gold.
We watched her, enthralled by each pose she struck, mesmerized by each note. We were under such a spell that at first no one noticed when something went wrong. During the guitar solo, Eden’s arms fell to her side and she stopped dancing.
I thought it was another dramatic transition to the next song, so when her head fell forward, I assumed she was counting silently, ready to look up with those hypnotic, piercing black eyes and captivate her fans all over again.
But then the other dancers noticed, and several stopped moving. Then several more. And when the guitar solo ended, Eden still stood there, silent, a virtual vacuum sucking life from the background music.
Her chest heaved. Her shoulders shook. The microphone fell from her hand and crashed to the stage.
Feedback squealed across the auditorium, and the drummer stopped drumming. The guitarists—both lead and bass—turned toward Eden and stopped playing when they saw her.
Eden collapsed, legs bent, long, dark hair spilling around her on the floor.
Someone screamed from behind me in the sudden hush, and I jumped, startled. A woman raced past me and onto the stage, followed by several large men. My hair blew back in the draft created by the sudden rush, but I barely noticed. My gaze was glued to Eden who lay unmoving on the floor.
People bent over her, and I recognized the woman as her mother, the most famous stage parent/manager in the country. Eden’s mom was crying, trying to shake her daughter awake as a member of security tried to pull her away. “She’s not breathing!” the mother shouted, and we all heard her clearly, because the crowd of thousands had gone silent with shock. “Somebody help her, she’s not breathing!”
And suddenly neither was I.
My hand clenched Nash’s, and my heart raced in dreadful anticipation of the keening that would rip its way from my throat as the pop star’s soul left her body. A bean sidhe’s wail can shatter not just glass, but eardrums. The frequency resonates painfully in the human brain, so that the sound seems to rattle from both outside and within.
“Breathe, Kaylee,” Nash whispered into my ear, wrapping both arms around me as his voice cocooned my heart, his Influence soothing, comforting. A male bean sidhe’s voice is like an audio-sedative, without the side effects of the chemical version. Nash could make the screaming stop, or at least lower its volume and intensity. “Just breathe through it.” So I did. I watched the stage over his shoulder and breathed, waiting for Eden to die.
Waiting for the scream to build deep inside me.
But the scream didn’t come.
Onstage, someone’s foot hit Eden’s microphone, and it rolled across the floor and into the pit. No one noticed, because Eden still wasn’t breathing. But I wasn’t wailing, either.
Slowly, I loosened my grip on Nash and felt relief settle through me as logic prevailed over my dread. Eden wasn’t wearing a death shroud—a translucent black haze surrounding the soon-to-be-dead, visible only to female bean sidhes. “She’s fine.” I smiled in spite of the horrified expressions sur rounding me. “She’s gonna be fine.” Because if she were going to die, I’d already be screaming.
I’m a female bean sidhe. That’s what we do.
“No, she isn’t,” Tod said softly, and we turned to find him still staring at the stage. The reaper pointed, and I followed his finger until my gaze found Eden again, surrounded by her mother, bodyguards, and odd members of the crew, one of whom was now giving her mouth-to-mouth. And as I watched, a foggy, ethereal substance began to rise slowly from the star’s body like a snake from its charmer’s basket.
Rather than floating toward the ceiling, as a soul should, Eden’s seemed heavy, like it might sink to the ground around her instead. It was thick, yet colorless. And undulating through it were ribbons of darkness, swirling as if stirred by an unfelt breeze.
My breath caught in my throat, but I let it go almost immediately, because though I had no idea what that substance was, I knew without a doubt what it wasn’t.
Eden had no soul.
2
“WHAT IS THAT?” I whispered frantically, tugging Nash’s hand. “It’s not a soul. And if she’s dead, how come I’m not screaming?”
“What is what?” Nash hissed, and I realized he couldn’t see Eden’s not-soul. Male bean sidhes can only see elements of the Netherworld—including freed souls—when a female bean sidhe wails. Apparently the same held true for whatever ethereal sludge was oozing from Eden’s body.
Nash glanced around to make sure no one was listening to us, but there was really no need. Eden was the center of attention.
Tod rolled his eyes and pulled one hand from the pocket of his baggy jeans. “Look over there.” He pointed not toward the stage, but across it, where more people watched the spectacle from the opposite wing. “Do you see her?”
“I see lots of hers.” People scrambled on the other side of the stage, most speaking into cell phones. A couple of vultures
