About Demonic Harmony
by Rob Knight
25 pages / 6500 words
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Shy is happy to feed off the crowds who come to his
band’s concerts. Their energy literally feeds his soul. Then he meets new
guitarist Seth, whose very touch gives Shy more harmony than a screaming
horde of fans. Seth has even more secrets that Shy, however, and might be
more dangerous than anything Shy has ever faced.
Shy loved the screams from the crowd. He loved all of those blurred
faces staring up at him, the heat of the lights and the press of bodies.
He even liked the smell of all of that humanity, sweat and perfume and
leather and a sort of sexual need brought out by the pounding rhythm of
What he loved the best, though, was all of the reaching hands, straining
up toward him, wanting him to touch the waving fingers, or to bump the
closed fist. In fact, one might say Shy fed off that touch.
That and nothing else.
He hated how he'd survived before he'd discovered the music industry.
He'd been a skinny husk of a guy back then, barely scraping by on the
brush of strangers' bodies on the subway, or on the occasional pick-up
at a bar. He'd left more than one human exhausted and half-dead without
meaning to at all, just from soaking up their energy through his touch.
Now he had thousands of people to sip from.
It was halfway through his set, the crowd was pumped, and it was time
for a snack.
He took off his guitar and handed it to Johnny, his oldest crew guy who
knew better than to let their fingers brush. Then he grabbed the mic off
its stand and skirted around the guitarist filling in for pregnant
Shanna. He couldn't remember the guy's name, but he clapped the man on
the back with his free hand.
A jolt of pure fucking electricity hit him in a rush, something sharp
and rich and... He actually stumbled, then played it off like a
weird-assed dance move. What the living fuck?
Good thing for him that he knew these songs better than he knew his own
name, wasn't it? It was guaranteed to hit the papers when a guy forgot
the lyrics to the number ones.
His palm tingled, and he totally forgot to go slap hands with the crowd
for a few seconds. He covered that up by shaking his ass, and the roar
of the crowd rose a decibel.
Shy looked over at lead guitar, bending and rocking his hips as he did.
The man was fun-sized, arms covered with the ropy muscles of someone who
picked twenty hours a day. Besides that, all Shy could see was the mop
of wild, curly red hair.
He'd never really looked. The band approved all new additions; Shy had
very little to do with it.
He was gonna have to get to know this guy.