Samhain
Act II. The Rose and the Kiss
Supernatural Sex Story: Act II. The Rose and the Kiss - A Halloween concert in a deconsecrated church. A singer fills in for a sick friend, then returns for her own band’s set at midnight. Between the two, a stranger is watching her from the crowd. Some songs are written. Some are only remembered. And on Samhain, the line between the two grows thin.
Caution: This Supernatural Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Mystery Paranormal Oral Sex Halloween
“My name is Jack,” the stranger said, his hands in his pockets and a faint half-smile playing on his lips. “Jack Raven.”
The name sounded perfectly ordinary, with no hint of mystery, yet Veronica found herself smiling. Of course. Jack. After all the dreams, the misty roads and the lanterns, the name slotted neatly into the picture she had already painted in her head. All that was missing was striped stockings and a pumpkin for a head, and she would have to admit that her imagination had run away with her.
“Seriously?” slipped out before she could stop herself.
He tilted his head, waiting for an explanation.
“Sorry. It’s just that I have this song...” She broke off, studying his face again. “It’s a long story. I’m Veronica, by the way.”
“We have a little time,” Jack replied, glancing towards the stage, where another band had just started playing. “If you don’t mind talking, that is.”
He nodded towards the bar, where the drinks were being served. A little farther away, near the entrance, several tables stood empty. The music was quieter there, fading into the hum of conversation, the clink of cups and occasional bursts of laughter. Veronica could do with a short rest before her next appearance. Besides, the stranger made her feel neither wary nor uncomfortable. Quite the opposite: there was something achingly familiar about him, the same inexplicable feeling that had caught her off guard when she first noticed him watching her during the set.
“Why not?” she said. “But just so you know, I’m not drinking anything alcoholic. I’ve got another show tonight, and I’m not going on stage with a fuzzy head.”
“Sensible,” he said, giving a small nod. Even that familiar little gesture stirred something in her memory.
“You’d be surprised how many people disagree,” she replied with a smile. “Especially when they find out I sing in a rock band. Apparently, some people think a rock singer has to be drunk to perform properly.”
“I’m not one of them.”
There was no mockery in his voice, nor any of the automatic compliments people tended to offer when they were trying to charm a woman they had just met. Jack simply accepted what she had said, as though he had expected nothing else. Veronica shrugged and led the way to the bar.
They found a table out of the main flow of people. Jack offered to buy her a coffee, and she ordered a large cappuccino while he chose a black coffee without sugar. Once the waitress had left them alone, Veronica could study him in the softer light. Up close, he seemed younger than he had from across the hall, though something about his face sat oddly with his apparent age. It wasn’t a matter of lines or weariness. There was simply a peculiar seriousness about him, as if he had long ago stopped being surprised by things that still mattered to everyone else.
“Do you perform here often?” Jack asked.
“Here and there. Tonight I’m filling in for Lanewin’s singer, who’s ill. Then, closer to midnight, I’ll be back with my own band.”
“Have you been singing long?”
It was an ordinary question, but something in the way he asked it caught her attention. He didn’t sound like someone making casual conversation or trying to find out more about an attractive woman. His interest was almost methodical, as if he were piecing together a picture and didn’t want to miss anything.
Veronica raised an eyebrow.
“Is this how you always get to know women? Start with where they work, then move straight on to their life story?”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“Not yet. But you’re getting close.”
Jack regarded her so seriously that, for a moment, she couldn’t tell whether he was joking.
“Then I’ll try to be more careful.”
The reply might have sounded ridiculous from anyone else, but there was no teasing in it and no attempt to win her over. He seemed to have taken her warning at face value. Veronica smiled despite herself and wrapped both hands around her warm cup.
“Since you’re so interested, I’ve been singing for as long as I can remember. Professionally, for seven or eight years, I suppose. At first, I took whatever work I could get: backing vocals, studio sessions, gigs with other people. Then the lads and I formed our own band. SilverCast. We’ve just released a new album, and we’re presenting it tonight.”
“Your songs?”
“Ours,” she corrected, brightening. “We write the music together, but I do most of the lyrics. Sometimes someone comes in with an idea; sometimes I turn up with the words and melody already worked out. Then come the arguments, the rewrites and all the other joys of being in a band. But eventually, we end up with something we actually want to play. Usually, anyway.”
“So tonight you’ll be singing your own songs as well as someone else’s.”
“Exactly. I’m helping out friends with Lanewin. That’s part of the job, too. A song doesn’t have to be mine to matter.”
She said it lightly, without feeling any need to defend herself, but she noticed the intensity of Jack’s gaze. For a moment, she had the distinct impression that this was the answer he had been waiting for—not the name of her band, the number of years she had been performing or the story of the new album, but something less obvious.
“You love what you do,” he said.
“Very much. Though it can wear me out sometimes. Rehearsals, recording sessions, gigs, endless travelling. There are days when I dream of spending a whole week without seeing a microphone. Then I walk on stage, hear the first chords, and forget all about it. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“Even when you’re singing someone else’s songs?”
“Even then. A good song doesn’t become any less good because someone else wrote it.” She paused, turning her cup between her hands. “It’s just that your own songs are a little...” She searched for the right word. “Exposing, I suppose. You put more of yourself into them than you ever meant to reveal. And when people listen, you can’t know what they’ll hear. What you actually put into the song, or something of their own.”
“Are you afraid of being misunderstood?”
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