Dangerous Dream Read Online Free Page B

applause.
    The Mortal roadie’s head snapped up. He rushed through the wall of bodies toward the front of the club as the ragtag group jogged onstage—a lead singer the size of a linebacker, sporting leather pants and enough tattoos to pass for a T-shirt; a female bass guitarist in a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt, who tripped over the microphone cord; a pretty-boy punk with a blue faux-hawk and a guitar to match; and an Incubus who sat down at his drum kit wearing earplugs. If these were the Devil’s Hangmen, the Devil was slacking.
    Rid glanced at the door. Maybe it was time to bail.
    The drummer cracked his sticks together three times, and the band came to life in one thunderous heartbeat. And if you ignored the subpar drummer, they were actually good—a Pink Floyd Red Hot Chili Peppers mash-up, if you liked that sort of thing. Ridley didn’t, but then again, she didn’t like any bands. Not anymore. She’d trained her ears to tune out all music; it had been her way of dealing with the abuse that was Meatstik.
    The music throbbed, and she spun around, reaching for the ceiling, and danced until she couldn’t think about anything—or anyone—except catching her breath and getting a drink with something sweet in it.
    As she tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned back toward the bar, a weird feeling came over her, eclipsing the noise and the heat and the energy in the club.
    Someone was watching her.
    Ridley rapped her glitter-coated nails on the bar. If someone wanted a good look at her, she’d give the person a minute before she used her Power of Persuasion to convince them to punch the doorman in the face on their way out.
    Payback’s a bitch.
She couldn’t help but smile.
    She turned around slowly, letting her black tank slide up just enough to reveal the edges of the Dark Caster tattoo that encircled her navel. Her gold eyes zeroed in on the edge of the stage immediately.
    The Dark Caster stood perfectly still next to the heavy black curtain that framed one side of the stage. He stared back at Ridley as if they were the only two people in the room. He was almost as tall as the Goliath lead singer, but this guy was no linebacker. He looked more like a Greek sculpture—lean and muscular, with chiseled features and tanned skin that made his gold eyes glow. His dirty-blond hair curled around the collar of the steel gray shirt underneath the fitted black sweater that looked as if he’d been born wearing it.
    He let his eyes wander over Ridley leisurely, drinking her in. From the long pink streak in her hair, over the dangerously low-cut neckline of her tank, to the mile-long bare legs, he enjoyed every inch.
    Suddenly, the room felt hotter and the music sounded louder. Instead of reveling in the attention, Ridley wanted to shrink back into the crowd and disappear—a feeling she had only experienced in the presence of Sarafine, Lena’s Dark Caster of a mother, and Abraham, the ancient Blood Incubus who had trapped her in a gilded birdcage. The one Link and John Breed had killed.
    There was something about this guy that sent her flight instinct into overdrive. This Caster was powerful, and he knew it.
    Ridley’s hands curled into fists at her sides, and she stared back at him intently. She would never let anyone make her feel powerless again. This guy was not Abraham or Sarafine. The days of bargaining for her life were over.
    The set ended, and the band jogged offstage.
    Someone touched Ridley’s shoulder, and she practically jumped out of her skin. “What the—” She spun around, eyes blazing.
    The roadie stood in front of her, his hands raised in surrender. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
    “You didn’t
scare
me,” Ridley snapped as she stalked toward him, pointing a long, glittery fingernail at his chest. “I just don’t like Mortals touching me. It’s a hygiene thing.”
    He backed away, matching her step for step. “Sampson sent me over. The lead singer from the band. I’m supposed to