where to begin. How could she explain that the loss of her memory appeared to have also enhanced her senses? Or was it Nate’s nearness that was having that effect on her? When she was with him, her awareness was on high alert. Was he the trigger that sent her senses into overdrive? Or had this heightened perception been caused by the bump on her head? All she knew was everything felt more. As though adrenaline was pumping out of control through her body, causing colors to be overly bright, scents to be overly strong, sounds to be overly loud.
She didn’t know if it had occurred to Nate to wonder, as she had, why she was in those woods. The most likely explanation was that she had been at that party. Certainly the man called Roko had recognized her. And he was a werewolf. All of the people at that party had been werewolves. Does that mean I’m a werewolf? She believed it was likely. More than likely. Why else would she have been at that party?
But what did it feel like to be a werewolf? Ever since she had stood in the shadows and witnessed the fight, Violet had tried to reach inside herself and answer that question. So far the only response she had received had been silence. If Violet did have an inner wolf, she was in hiding, cowering deep inside and refusing to show herself.
“Ready?” Nathan was pulling a white T-shirt over his head, drawing her back to the here and now.
His expression seemed to ask another question, as though he was attempting to delve into her thoughts. But how could she confide in Nate—a man who killed werewolves in a brutal way—her fear that she might be a werewolf? Ever since she had opened her eyes in the forest and found him leaning over her, she seemed to be living through a dream sequence. Reality had taken a back seat. Except, of course, she had no idea what her reality looked like. It was only when she looked into Nate’s dark eyes that she got any sense of reassurance or well-being. He was what was keeping her going, putting one foot in front of the other, taking that next breath. Without him, she might just give up and crumple into a heap.
Placing her hand in his felt natural. “As I’ll ever be.”
A heavy, thumping beat filled the cramped space while on the screen the camera panned around to capture the ten-thousand-strong audience. Excitement, anticipation and exultation showed on the waiting faces. The person who had made the recording they were watching had perfectly captured the energy pulsing through the crowd. Thick, theatrical smoke rolled like fog from the stage and out into the waiting audience and, within it, colored strobe lights danced in time with the music.
Through the haze, Violet caught occasional glimpses of the giant LED screens at the rear of the stage. Alternating images of fire, close-ups of snarling animals and a stylized symbol that looked like three entwined number sixes flashed up on the screens. At the side of the stage, random explosions went off, shooting orange flames into the air.
As the camera panned the crowd again, Violet noticed the three-sixes symbol on people’s clothing. “What does that mean?” She managed to turn her attention briefly from the mesmerizing images on the screen to Nate.
It was Ged Taverner, lounging in a seat behind her, who answered. “666. The Sign of the Beast.” Violet glanced over her shoulder to see him putting his fingers on either side of his head to make devil horns. His grin exuded confidence. “It’s the band’s logo.”
Violet took a moment to digest that information as she cast a sidelong glance in Nate’s direction. The sign of the beast? Okay, so this band he’s in is not exactly the sweet, wholesome boy band I pictured. As if in response to her thoughts, on screen, the tension built further as the crowd sensed something was about to happen. The lighting shifted, becoming focused on a podium at the rear of the stage that supported a vast, gleaming circular wall of drums. Even above the music, the roar of the crowd filled the air as a lithe, muscled man ran on from the side of the stage and leaped into his seat behind the drums. His chest was bare and his tattooed biceps bulged as he pounded out a furious beat, his blue-black hair flopping forward to cover his face. He exuded raw, brooding vitality, and something more. Even through the screen, Violet could feel it. It was suppressed menace.
“That’s Diablo,” Nathan said. “The best drummer in the world. That’s what he’ll tell you when you meet him. If he speaks to you.”
“Why wouldn’t he speak to me?” Violet couldn’t take her eyes from the artistic thunderstorm Diablo was unleashing before her eyes.
“It will depend on his mood.”
Before she could unpick that cryptic reply, the cameras panned upward, spotlights picking up two men being lowered on twin platforms at either side of the stage. Their fingers flew in a symphony over their respective guitars as they focused intently on their playing.
“On the right, you have Torque. He’s lead guitar. Dev, on the left, is rhythm guitar.”
“Fire and ice.” Ged spoke up again.
Violet saw immediately what he meant. Red-haired Torque was all burning drama and flickering movement. The air around him glowed with life, and he punctuated the sweeping arc of his hand on his guitar so that it was perfectly in time with the explosions at the side of the stage. In contrast, Dev held his body statue still, the movement of his flying fingers the only sign of life. His white-blond hair and pale skin added to the illusion that he was carved from ice.
She watched as Nate, taking up a position slightly to the left of center, and behind Dev, joined the group. She turned questioning eyes to him.
“Bass guitar,” he said, replying to her unanswered question. “Only one person to come.”
With those words, the screen erupted into life. The crowd was in a frenzy as the lead singer strutted onto the stage. Owned the stage. Violet saw the devil horn gesture that Ged had made repeated over and over within the audience as the man on the stage grabbed the fixed microphone stand and rubbed it suggestively against his groin. When he started to sing, his voice ranged from husky crooning to wild screaming. No matter what sound those perfect lips made, he was mesmerizing. Throwing back his red-gold mane of hair, he strutted, crouched and jumped around the stage in skin-tight black leather pants and a flowing white shirt open to the waist.
“Khan.” Nate said the single word as though it explained everything.
There was no doubt about it. Beast delivered a spine-tingling performance. As the number reached its end, Diablo pounded out a crescendo and Nate slid his palm over the neck of his guitar, fingers caressing the frets, the instrument dropping down between his muscular thighs as he lunged. Torque and Dev played back-to-back in the center of the stage, and Khan howled out the final chorus while lying on his back and dry-humping the air.
As the final chords died away and the crowd went demented, Khan leaped to his feet. Tilting his head back and holding his arms wide, he half yelled, half growled, “Guten Abend, Berlin!”
If it was possible, the noise from the audience grew even wilder until Nate pointed the remote control at the TV set and muted it. Shifting in his seat, he viewed Violet’s face. “And that’s Beast.”
“Wow.” She was stunned by what she had just seen. By what he was a part of.
They were seated in a small room off the larger living area of the band’s tour bus. In addition, Violet had seen a kitchen, shower room, two restrooms and a long narrow hall lined with bunks. Nate had explained that they used hotels when they could, but the bus was their home away from home when they were on the road. While they were
