The Third Shot
: Picture this. The crowd is stirring and restless like seagulls on a beach near a stormfront; they know Mizrah's band through a combination of his keen marketing (he insisted that writing and saying - yes, saying - the band's name in all caps was actually a stroke of brilliance) and their talent. They know whom they're waiting for, and they
know
that Yusuf likes to taunt them just a little by dragging out the anticipation...he's like that in love, on the Hunt, on stage. So when the lights dim, and the ominous violin line plays, they fall silent with anticipation...and then
scream
with delight when the three of them emerge from the gloom of the backstage.
Yusuf's voice, dropped low and distorted through SoundAnchor, purrs over the speaker:
Time is running out. Soon, we will make our move. Soon, you will hear us outside your door, clawing at your threshold.
..such a drama boat. Their band sigil flashes to life on the big screen above the stage, illuminating them in the purple fog rolling in from generators under the stage; a wolf's skull, hammered from steel, its jaws closing around the sun.
Delilah, his bassist, looks like she's opted from something beyond the usual jeans hanging low enough to expose pubic hair and tank tops - she probably finally gave in to the others' pressure to dress thematically: a black mesh, sleeveless corselette of leather, chainmail bikini top and a matching skirt of steel links, split up the side to show her long, muscular legs
aaand
no underwear, yep. She's gotten better at bass, doesn't look quite as high, her fingers working the strings with token speed but greater accuracy.
Percy, their drummer, has been hissing streamers across cymbals, thudding that heavy drum with his foot - oh god he's wearing that fully encasing steel helmet again, the crusader-style one with the wolf's skull on top. He must be roasting in that thing, but he's dedicated to his craft like none other you've met; brick-house body clad in a black T-shirt rocking the band sigil, he starts to rock the snare drums - his velocity has increased, he too has gotten more skilled, in better shape. Less of those sugary sodas, perhaps?
Then, of course, there's the impression your packmate - your Man - brings to the stage; his aura lights up your senses, stage presence glorious and englamoured with a bit of (what he insisted wasn't) Werewolf sorcery; everything about him screams
LOOK AT ME
and you know it's one of the many tricks he brings on the Hunt. You'd had a conversation earlier about 'misusing magic'...he assured you that it was no such thing. You weren't Gandalf or Merlin or Fizban (who?); it wasn't even arcane, just 'something science hadn't quantified' he'd stated vehemently, and it's as natural to perform as breathing - or in your case, sneaking, in his case, singing. He's radiant as the North Star, blazing like a steel furnace - like an icon or a hero on stage, your heart knows that if Yusuf Mizrah really wanted to, he could be a hit far beyond The City.
But as long as you're watching him, he seems perfectly satisfied, Isabel.
Again, this type of man...you've never been with his like before, and enjoy staring at him through your camera. The boys in your life were often skinny, tall poetic types...musicians who preferred gently strumming a guitar on the beach, or once a terribly awkward math teacher. A few had been Greek like you, a couple of sweet African American boys, a Cuban...there'd always been a few women in your love life. So...nobody like the ripped, desert-dark Persian rockstar on stage.
The open vest is a good choice; it's hot in here, and the sheen of sweat over his tawny, carved torso is a feast for the eyes; Mizrah hits that little gym of his everyday if he can help it and it shows in the breastplate hardness of his chest muscles; he could have easily played a role in 300's Spartan army, irony aside. Each movement of his arms brings attention to corded, powerful strands of muscle, inked with that single VII tattoo; a pair of leather bracers circled with spikes is classic metalhead attire. You...love his face, with his almond shaped, coal-black eyes, that hawkish nose and terribly confident, roguish smile...he's also glittering with piercings in his left ear. You note that Mizrah is still at least semi-aroused from what you two did back there in the electric room, and those leather pants do a good job of showing it off. The shape of it gleams from shaft to crown, impressions of his studs and ring clear to your practiced eye; look at how proud he is. From the catwalk you run your tongue over your lips as he slings the guitar around his muscular body and plays the same way a gymnast vaults through the air; a boxer throws a punch; how a tiger stalks through high grass. It's a part of his soul, his Drive.
The first chord is almost explosive, blasting the crowd away. You watch as they are whipped into a frenzy by the battlecry of his voice - it's a dangerous force, the chaos of a mosh pit already forming in front of the stage. You remember after your first night with him, the Fever working its way through your body, how you dislocated shoulders and broke ribs down there in a pit of his creation.
He's god-like on stage; a Hunter in his natural habitat, lording his prowess over all he surveys. You know there are other predators here, and they're just as entranced as the Mortals in the audience; it makes them vulnerable, pulled from their Quarry and hiding spots to watch him but he has no interest in them as Prey. He demands his due to the pack that made this possible.
There...Annie had moved down to the ground floor around the edges, no doubt in pursuit of her Prey, and you see her wide-mouthed and staring, watching him rock and howl on stage - she shrinks slightly from him when his eyes land on her. You spot another as well, an amazon of a woman, seated on the 'VIP' deck, straddling a chair in her cut-offs, sleeveless red trucker shirt giving countenance to arms that rivaled Mizrah's. She smiles at him, whooping and roaring amidst her little harem.
He's known for messing with the audience, but tonight his eyes continually flit upward toward you in the catwalk. He knows you're there, and at the end of a particularly raucous song that has the crowd screaming for the next, Yusuf's eyes glint at you saucily. His heaving chest, perspiration shining on his forehead, the muscles in his arms working the guitar...it's just
incredibly sexy
. He was right - Vahn was beautiful and sweet, a great ride and more typical of your ex-boyfriends; Eliza mysterious and sensual, surreal in bed; Yusuf Mizrah, however, stoked your flame like no other man, excepting Ascher, and was unlike anyone you'd taken into your bed, or your heart. You knew what his eyes were telling you, a repeat of his promise that your lovemaking would extend into the deep hours of the night.
His Accursed, supernatural body is virile and potent...you know he's being literal with you when he promises to last through the darkness, and you're ready for it, still
aching
to feel him inside of you again.
You blow him a butterfly-soft kiss from the catwalk, wait for him to finish his last song and bask in the firelight of his performance. When he's done you're absolutely giddy and ready for him, and by the way he looks up at you, so is he. He pulls his guitar off his body and raises it in the air like he's some barbarian war hero, liberating them all from oppression. He shouts: "FUCK THE POLICE!"
The audience, caught up in the moment and frankly mesmerized by the sheer magnetism he possesses over them, parrot him, and the warehouse echoes with a generalized shout of defiance at state-organized violence.
It's time.
You've already got your minions Sally and Ostrok getting the stage ready for the next band...they don't need you anymore, you've done your part, and it's time for you to get your keep. You spot Mizrah up at the bar, sipping that fizzy water he likes and...no surprise, he's talking to a girl - nope, there are her three friends, all flocking around him with their mini skirts and corsets, swept away like baubles in a dragon's lair by his smarm and sheer charm.
You patiently nibble on the tip of your tongue, smiling your enigmatic riddle of a smile. All part of the show, a cute little jab sent your way.
Yes, totally; Yusuf is leaning an elbow on the bartop, watching you with heated eyes, black and ocher like a burning oil well.
Whatever empty subject they're chattering about as a means of flirting with the edges of his smoldering flame, his attention is firmly on you. He watches with laser intensity as you step onto a ladder and slide down smoothly from the catwalk...you'd discovered an entirely new form of grace in this body, and the two of you were still caught up in showing off to each other - months after that first, fateful meeting.
Will he ever get bored of you?
Hm...not yet, by way of his reaction. One of them, some milk-pale blonde girl with pink streaks in her hair, has caught on to the energy crackling between you both, and to your surprise she actually sits in his lap, staring you down with a challenging smirk. Daring, cocky little slut. She has no idea what she's getting into, already over her head.
You're not dissuaded of course...it's so
fun
to watch him, when he puts a finger under her chin, turns her head to him, and you smell the flower of her arousal bloom through their eye-contact. Her composure quavers as he bites her lower lip, kissing her roughly - her body is transmuted into a semi-liquid in his arms and he turns, laying her to sit back on his barstool while her friends alternately scoff, film for TikTok purposes, and express shock when he simply walks away from them without another word.
No talk necessary. You hook your fingers into his, looking at him through the black lights blitzing the air in strange colors, tugging him through the warehouse and giving him that knowing smile. He stinks of that other woman, just as you must reek of Vahn to him. Your smiles mutually widen into wolven grins as you reel him backward through the crowd; you turn, swaying your hips to stimulate those oversexed visual centers of his...leaving a potent trail of your sweat and perfume, your arousal, and Vahn's cum for him to follow and rectify.
Who would dare to stop you? You're on a mission to fuck him, and it takes you through a hallway lined with fading band posters to the parking garage. The both of you laugh like fresh lovers and stop to make out against a wall before you pull him into your car.
You remember trying this once before, after rock climbing, and you wonder why it is you've never had car sex after...it was like there was a dearth of opportunities. That particular session, even if you'd been brought to orgasm on that studded, hard length of his, the hunger pangs had made sex all but impossible until you'd fed, that night, on the flesh of one who'd wronged you.
The memory of that wild pursuit through your ex-boss's yard in the rain, wearing your wolven shapes plays through your head, even as you push Mizrah onto your back seat, and checking to make sure nobody is looking, pull your seed-and-pussy juice stained underwear down, casting them into your purse.
