Shadows of the Stage

A sneak peak only for our most devoted followers

Chapter 1

Setting the Stage

The music throbbed through her, a physical vibration that was timed perfectly with the deliberate sway of her hips. Her pale hand moved with glacial slowness up her thigh. Each crimson nail seemed to etch itself into her skin, as her fingers traced the delicate curve of her hip. Her hand lingered on her lower back; the silken touch barely disturbed the shimmering green sequins of her bra. Thousands of tiny emeralds caught the stage lights and exploded into bursts of glittering light that danced across the theater’s darkness.

She unhooked the clasp at the back. Her head tilted, her gaze lingering over her bare shoulder as the bra slipped down her arms. The green fabric fell like a discarded whisper, leaving her momentarily bare before she crossed her arms protectively across her breasts. Gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd. The atmosphere thickened with anticipation; the protective shield of her arms had the audience leaning forward in their seats. Her performance was a tantalizing game of give and take. Her hips rolled gently, mimicking the languid ebb of water.

Even in the dim light, the unique character of The Black Cat House was evident. Plush black velvet booths hugged the walls, worn smooth from years of soft conversations and clinking glasses. Smaller, more intimate café tables were scattered across the center of the room, their surfaces marred with the stories of countless nights. Vintage gold wallpaper, faded yet undeniably opulent, showcased a bygone era of glamour. A short set of stairs wound toward the back bar. Security maintained a watchful presence, clad in sleek black uniforms that emphasized their imposing physiques. Servers wore costumes that were as much performance art as uniform—plumes of feathers dyed in vibrant shades of red, gold, and purple swayed gently with their hurried movements and added splashes of color to the dark theater.

The dancer turned to face the audience. Her arms still crossed over her chest, hiding herself yet always remaining in the spotlight. The music swelled as she continued to roll her hips. The audience anticipated the reveal; whistles and cheers echoed around the theater. Her ruby-red lips stretched into a calculated smile, more show than genuine warmth, and she offered her final reveal: rhinestone pasties sparkling in the stage lights. The lights cut out, and she slipped into the darkness of the wings.

Finally shielded from the electric energy of the stage, she slumped against the concrete wall. She took a deep breath and pressed her eyes shut, savoring the coolness against her skin. The hallway that connected the dressing room to the stage entrance contrasted sharply with the lavish atmosphere beyond. It was brightly lit and smelled faintly of damp concrete. The walls were layers upon layers of spray paint, scrawled messages, and crudely drawn images. The floor’s uneven surface bore the imprints of countless scuffed shoes and spilled drinks; visceral history carved into every surface.

The heavy metal door at the hallway’s end hung open to the alley; its rusty hinges groaned softly in the draft. It remained stubbornly unlatched, defying the owner’s repeated attempts to keep it shut. A sliver of cool night air carried the distant sounds of city traffic as it snaked through the gap.

Though the hefty wooden door between the hallway and the theater was padded to muffle noise from inside, the boisterous sounds of the audience still seeped through. It created a frantic thrumming that pressed against her. The audience’s pulses throbbed visibly beneath flushed skin and dilated pupils; it enveloped her in their excitement. Laughter leaked through in raucous waves as inhibitions melted like ice in the warmth of camaraderie. It was a potent siren song she fought to resist.

She could see the darkness in their eyes, the fear they drowned out with bravado. They chose to ignore the danger that lurked in the shadows. They regarded themselves as masters of their world; they hid their prey instincts deep. Alcohol only dulled that instinct further.

Images flickered behind her eyelids like warning signs. Memories of her Maker surged forward. The concrete walls of the club faded, swallowed by the weight of her past.

His long fingers traced lazy patterns down her bare shoulder. A shiver raced up her spine. His touch was a reminder of his unwavering control.

He surveyed the sea of faces and landed abruptly on a young woman near the bar. Her laughter was a little too loud, her eyes a little too wide. A subtle shift in his posture, a tightening around the jaw. Then his thoughts brushed against her mind: her.

It wasn’t a request.

Her own smile was practiced and held no warmth as she approached the object of his desire. She reached out with her mind, and her thoughts became a gentle brush against the woman’s, a thread of curiosity with a promise of something exciting. The woman met her eyes, and her initial apprehension dissolved. It was a delicate dance, a subtle redirection of will. Within moments, she was theirs.

The suffocating confines of their nest were a place of velvet and shadows, where the air stank of shared hunger. There the feast would begin. He would lose himself in it, days blurring into a symphony of torment.

Terror was his sustenance, the spice that made the blood sing on his tongue. Sometimes he allowed her to partake; other times, when her efforts were too slow or her quarry too elusive, his displeasure manifested in a crueler game: he would force the victim to bear witness as he turned his attention upon her.

That memory, and a hundred others like it, formed the stones that built the wall between her and her instincts. The wall that kept her from acting on her forbidden nature. A silent battle raged against the urge to abandon her self-imposed constraints and to let the protective shell crack and release the power simmering beneath. But tonight, like every other night for these long, weary years, duty prevailed.

Without opening her eyes, Jolie felt the tentative approach, the wariness. Maddy, the stage kitten, stood just within her peripheral vision. The backstage wall dug into the girl’s shoulder blades as she edged sideways like a mouse inching away from a predator. Her arms, heavy with discarded costumes, trembled. Jolie could smell the sweat and hairspray that clung to her, along with the delicate scent of fear. Some humans were oblivious to the danger she presented; others were more attuned.

Maddy shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The worn heels of her shoes dug into the cracked floor. Her words softly mumbled. “Miss Jolie Mason.” The name sounded more like a plea than a greeting. She gulped. A desperate flutter of her hand nearly caused the precarious pile of clothing to slip. “Jolie? Um . . . Miss Mason?”

Jolie finally looked up. Her features softened into a smile as she met the girl’s eyes. “Oh, Maddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

Maddy was an anxious knot of short, choppy blonde hair and startlingly bright blue eyes. Her body was a coiled spring, ready to flee. She held the discarded silks and sequins out to Jolie as if offering a venomous creature. She kept a careful, almost comical distance. A tremor ran through Maddy’s slight frame. “It’s . . . it’s all right,” she stammered. “You . . . you were amazing. Absolutely incredible. The audience went wild. You’ll be back on in forty-five minutes.” The words tumbled out in a rush. With a sudden, jerky movement, she threw the clothes into Jolie’s arms. The silks landed with a soft rustle.

Maddy recoiled instantly, eyes wide and pleading. The space between them seemed to expand. Jolie’s lips curled into her friendliest grin, but the young woman appeared to possess a keen sense of self-preservation. She would never realize Jolie was a vampire, but she might tell her friends about the odd woman at work who gave her the creeps. 

“Thank you,” Jolie offered.

Maddy turned with a swish of her purple bustle and scurried back toward the stage. A dull ache grew behind Jolie’s eyes, mirroring the hollowness in her chest. The familiar pressure settled like a leaden blanket. Her shoulders drooped slightly as she absentmindedly twisted a loose strand of hair around her finger. The longing wasn’t new; she’d worn it for years. Resignation settled in her gut. She lived on the periphery, watching from the edges.

Jolie walked with purpose down the dimly lit hallway, heels clicking against the worn floorboards. Muffled laughter and playful banter filtered through the dressing room doorway; each burst of sound clenched her heart with longing. The dressing room was a flurry of activity—sequins and feathers flying as the dancers hurried to prepare for their performances. Jolie wove through the chaos, between suitcases and costume pieces, until she reached her vanity in the back corner.

The club’s luxurious front of house didn’t match the backstage area. Little had been done to upgrade it. Realizing the need for improvements, the owners had hastily provided a vanity for each dancer, a rolling rack for costumes during shows, and a locking trunk for overnight storage of costumes and makeup. While helpful, these additions only added to the clutter on busy nights. There was only one bathroom for all the dancers to share and no heating system. As a result, many resorted to sneaking in space heaters to keep their feet warm during cold nights.

The web of shimmering silks and feathers, the bell-like laughter punctuated by the sharp click of heels, echoed a past she thought was buried deep.

She remembered the early days: the cramped dressing room of her first theater when she was only a chorus girl. She would press her eye to a frayed hole in the heavy velvet curtain, unbothered by the rough fabric scratching her cheek. The stage lights had transformed the already dazzling dancers into goddesses. The yearning had been a physical ache, a hunger that gnawed at her insides.

She remembered the sting of stage lights and the dizzying rush of a thousand eyes fixed upon her, the days when her deepest anxieties revolved around a chance to be on stage. She could almost hear the raw, unvarnished conviction in her own voice. A rueful smile slowly grew over her features. Immortality, once a shimmering promise, now felt more like a prison. It had been the agonizing life with her Maker that dispelled her clinging delusion that this was anything but a curse.

She stood and moved to her clothing rack. She stripped off the remaining pieces of her green costume and slipped into her red ball gown with its flowing rhinestone train. Every decade brought a new city and a new focus: singing, dancing, or costumes to rival Vegas showgirls. In the early years of burlesque, taking off a glove could send the audience into ecstasy. Today, you had to work much harder. Competition for jobs was fierce, and the dancers were as cutthroat as ever. Excessive publicity would be bad for Jolie. She happily took the worst shifts, never made trouble for management, and stuck to the same style she had maintained throughout her career.

The mirror reflected a fleeting glimpse of Jolie’s pale face. Her eyes darted to the riot of colors swirling around her. The other dancers’ laughter tinkled in the air. Each tug of her corset laces felt like a tightening knot in her stomach.

Two months. She’d spent two months in The Black Cat House, two months of observing their effortless companionship from the edges. At first, their glances were sharp and assessing. Now they were simply absent. They moved around her like a lively current that flowed seamlessly around a submerged stone.

Her reflection showed a meticulously crafted facade, a perfect imitation of elegance and darkness. She imagined herself as a character from those pulp novels: a brooding, aloof vampire eternally waiting for her human prince. But Jolie knew better. The books romanticized solitude and inherent otherness. They didn’t capture the gnawing ache of isolation.

Yes, vampires were creatures of shadow and silence. Yes, she embraced that part of her nature. But the darkness she felt now was the cold, suffocating gloom of loneliness.

Her gaze drifted across the laughing group. Their voices formed a melody of inside jokes and shared references. A familiar chill settled in her chest. The air itself seemed to vibrate with their connection, a tangible energy that left her feeling increasingly isolated.

“Jolie, we’re on in ten minutes,” Charles’s voice boomed through the dressing room as he poked his head in. Charles, the stage manager and the owner’s cousin, was known for his tough exterior and his role as the unofficial security guard of the theater. Tonight, his black T-shirt strained over his muscular frame. His beard had grown longer, and the intricate maze of tattoos on his arms was visible beneath the sleeves.

“Thank you, ten,” Jolie replied.

Her reflection was eclipsed by the memory of a woman she used to know, the last person she had considered a friend before the betrayal. Jolie could still see the way her impossibly bright eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. The woman’s face was a snapshot burned onto the back of her eyelids: a cascade of platinum blonde hair sculpted into perfect, gravity-defying waves. Jolie could almost feel the cool silkiness wrapped around her fingers. The memory of her perfume tightened her throat.

A phantom pang rippled through her chest as the memories threatened to overflow. Each year that passed deepened the void between who she had been and who she had become. The flash of betrayal burned in her memory and left only emptiness.

“Jolie, five minutes,” Charles called out, jolting her from her thoughts.

She forced her lips into a semblance of a smile before responding simply, “Thank you, five.”