#chriist

Hellhound didn’t usually play in clubs, not for snobby reasons, just that they ended up overcrowding a club, and the establishments got cranky. But for a place as big as this, they were comfortable enough to play and still have room. Ciar liked it, liked the packed feel of sweaty bodies all dancing and singing in unison to their songs, the pulsing of the guitar and drums that seemed to replace his heartbeat, the tight, vibrating strings replaced nerves.

He was alive onstage, in a way he wasn’t off. It didn’t matter who they played for, Ciar loved it, and his band loved it. It was easy to lose himself in the songs and the feedback from the crowd.

Usually. Tonight was different. He felt it the second Yeshua entered the club. A piercing behind his eyes that almost made him tumble off the stage. Ciar clutched the mikestand, losing his place in the chorus, frantically looking out for him.

Him. The one Ciar feared and was curious about, above all angels and demons and gods. The anointed one. Ciar’s bitter enemy, though they’d never met. He swallowed and cleared his throat, he found his place again, making it seem as if he just wanted to hear the crowd sing. Pale eyes still searched the semi-dark club for him.