Page 27 of These Wicked Hearts

“I’m freaking out, man.”

Knox is practically vibrating, and I have to laugh. He’s so strict on us at practice, but he’s basically giggling like a teen going to their first concert.

“They that good?” I like music, but I don’t really have favorites. I just listen to whatever’s on.

Abba is for hockey. It helps center my mind before games. It makes me feel like my mom is with me. Maybe proud of me. I’m not sure. I don’t even know if she knows I play professional hockey.

The feelings I have about my birth mom are all over the place. I hate her and love her. I’m sorry for her and wished she’d been better, while also understanding the systems in place aren’t easy on single moms, let alone teenage moms. Listening to Abba before games brings me back to better memories. Abba reminds me of the perfect sober version of her I had so few moments with. “And there’s the lead⁠—”

“Whoa start again. Sorry.”

Knox blinks at me, unimpressed by the interruption. He lets out a breath. “They are a four-person band. Each member represents one of the four horsemen. They’re anonymous. No one knows who they really are. You have Conquest. He’s their drummer. He wears a black goblin masquerade mask. It has long curved horns that curve inward. Then you have Famine, on bass and backing vocals. His voice is so fucking deep.” Is he swooning? “Then you have War, he wears an owl mask. He’s on keyboard and backing vocals. He also helps write a lot of their songs. Their hit ‘Fighting With and For’ is written by him. It’s the song that put them on the map.”

“Fascinating.”

“Then there’s the lead singer and songwriter, Death. He’s the only one who doesn’t wear a mask.”

“Then how is he anonymous?”

“His entire neck and head is painted to look like a skull. Black sunken eyes. He always wears this black cloak, black paint streaking down his body. He’s so fucking sexy.”

“Under all that paint? How can you tell?”

“It’s a vibe, Atlas. There’s just something about him. Dangerous and hot as hell. I don’t know what he looks like under all that paint, but I couldn’t care less, man. One night with him, damn. That’s all I’d want. He wears black gloves and has the voice of a fucking angel.”

“Wow, you really are into this.”

“You never listened to any of their songs?”

I shrug. “I’ll just have to listen to them for the first time now.”

“Oh, I envy you. My favorite songs are ‘Marcella’ and ‘Kingdom Come.’”

“So, what are we doing with the VIP thing?”

“We get to go backstage and hang out for a bit. Ask questions. A little behind the scenes stuff. I think we get to tour the stage. It’ll be fun.”

“Maybe we’ll see who they are.” I laugh.

“No one knows who they are. Fans have so many theories, but I don’t know. I guess being on this side of fame it just makes me mad. Let them live, ya know. Why does it matter who they are. Why take that away?” The lights go out and fans start screaming.

No, sorry, the six-foot-five hockey player to my right starts screaming. “Oh my god, you’re in for a fucking treat.” He shakes my shoulders.

I laugh, looking forward as the lights begin to strobe. Fans scream at the top of their lungs. Black smoke curls along the stage. It’s now I notice the stage looks like the fantasy labyrinth belonging to one of Hell’s disciples.

The lights shine on the bassist, the wolf masquerade mask concealing his face. He strums his guitar to the backdrop of the crowd screaming. Then another light goes on showing the drummer giving his best on a solo. His goblin mask looks wicked under the lights. Another light goes on showing the keyboardist and his owl masquerade mask.

Then everything cuts out. We’re dropped into a black ocean. I look at Knox and can barely see him beside me. We’re waiting, and anxiety weaves through my lungs. Lone screams echo through the mostly silent crowd here and there. Then music blares, haunting, like walking in the middle of a forest alone with nothing but faint animal noises breaking through the thick fog.

The lights come on.

Everyone loses their fucking mind as a man strolls onto the stage twirling a mic in his hand. He’s far back by the drums and takes his time drinking in the screams of the audience. Then he lifts that mic and starts to sing acoustically.

It’s haunting.

Haunting and deep. His voice is smooth as silk. Sweet and smoky. He comes closer, the black cloak he wears swaying with his lazy movements. I can’t really make out what he’s saying, all I know is the low timbre of his voice fills me with this sadness. He sounds so fucking sad. Yet people are cheering so loud I can barely hear him. Black paint streaks across his chest, making his abs look slick with oil. There are patches of pale skin here and there.

The guitars strum along as he starts to sing a slow song.