Grace sat at the worn, chipped make-up table, listening to the faint sound of boos reverberating through the backstage area.
She jabbed the CD player. Billy Idol drowned the noise of the displeased audience. Why is he still playing? Why not me? She thought. Idol had been one of her contemporaries, one of the few with whom she identified. Now, twenty years later, Idol was still turning out a few hits, appearing on VH-1 specials, while Grace played to sparse crowds, performing so badly she drove away even her hardcore fans.
Grace leaned over the table, nose nearly touching the mirror. Crow’s feet and dark circles adorned her eyes, lines had begun etching themselves in the folds of her face.
“God, I’m old,” she whispered. At forty-two Grace was not as old as she felt, not nearly as old as she looked. For a burned-out aging rock star, though, she was ancient.
Grace shoved the plastic make-up jars off the desk. They clattered on the concrete floor. She yanked open a drawer, withdrew a half-full bottle of Jim Beam then leaned back and swallowed a mouthful. There was a time when whiskey burned her throat. Now it had little more kick than lukewarm coffee. Many things were once different for Grace. There was a time she was the hottest new star on the rock scene. She grew into a veteran superstar; later concert promoters and music magazines proclaimed her the comeback kid. Now Grace was simply an aging has-been on one more comeback tour.
Her agent -- once she was able to get another one -- came up the perfect gimmick. He called them smaller, intimate concerts where the faithful would come for a close-up look at the new Grace Smith. Intimate, she soon learned, was a euphemism for telling her she couldn’t draw a thousand people to a show. After the first concert dates the number hovered around four hundred, and that was sure to drop after tonight’s performance.
Grace took another swallow from her bottle.
“You‘ll find no answers there.”
Grace jumped to her feet and whirled around. The bottle slipped from her hands, shattered on the cold concert floor.
“Who the fuck are you? How’d you get by the guards?”
The man laughed. He stepped into the light. Tall and lean, the stranger’s face was narrow lined with deep-set wrinkles, his hair a mixture of white and black, moustache and goatee mostly gray. He was dressed in a simple black turtleneck and black pants. His voice was deep, almost hypnotic.
“Come now, Ms. Smith, it’s been quite some time since you warranted dressing room guards.”
The stranger’s lips parted in a thin, mocking smile.
Grace met his gaze.
“Who are you?”
“A fan. And a friend.”
“What do you want?”
“To help. You’re searching, I have answers. I can give you what you want.”
“What do you know about what I want?”
“We all want the same thing, Ms. Smith. Fame and fortune, to be sure, but you’ve had that, learned it to be hollow and meaningless. You yearn for true riches. The simple wealth of youth. You want to be young again, to be young forever.”
“And you can help me with that?” she spat, accusing rather than questioning.
“If you will let me.”
“How?”
“Not now. Let’s just say when you’re ready I will reveal all.”
“What do you mean not now? You sneak in here, talk in some sort of riddles, then ... get the hell out,”
She sat, her back to the stranger.
“Believe me, Ms. Smith, if I explain now you’d banish me from your presence, disgusted. Perhaps you’d dismiss me as some sort of lunatic. You will believe me. Ultimately you will embrace what I offer.”
The stranger stepped across the room, swifter than a man his age should be able to move. He pulled a vial from his coat and placed it on the table.
“Tomorrow afternoon, six hours before your concert, drink this.”
“What is it?”
“For now, call it an elixir.”
She plucked the vial from the table. It was glass, the liquid inside a deep crimson. When she looked back in mirror the only reflection was her own. She stood and turned, but found she was alone.
***
The following evening’s audience was small. No more than three hundred. To Grace, that didn’t matter.
Three hours before curtain call, as Grace is wont to do, she shut herself in the dressing room, music from her glory days blaring. She felt the music move the air, mover her soul, pump through her body with each heart beat. For the first time in years Grace felt alive. Young.
She had taken the elixir, despite fears it could be drugged -- she had fought hard to kick a twelve-year heroin addiction and had no desire to go back to that battle. The thought it could be poisoned briefly flitted about in her mind, but she quickly put down that fear, knowing death would be preferable to her present existence.
What the hell she thought. Grace put the vial to her lips, leaned back and swallowed. The liquid was thicker than she had expected, its taste sickly sweet and a little sickening. She chased it down with a shot of vodka and waited for an hour.
Nothing happened.
Grace spent another hour meditating, a practice she picked up on her third trip through detox.
Nothing.
What’d you expect? she thought. Some lunatic, laughing his ass off right now, thinking of me drinking this shit. Grace grew angry with the stranger for his little joke, angrier with herself for being taken in.
Eventually the anger faded as Grace focused on the looming curtain call. Now, with the final minutes ticking toward show time, she felt as she had eight years earlier, when she and the rest of The Gypsy Travelers prepared for the group’s first reunion tour performance. That had been her first comeback, with the same group she broke onto the rock scene with twenty-two years ago.
She smiled, remembering those days.
The Travelers parted after the tour, but Grace enjoyed another four years as a hot solo act. It became a blur. Again. Despite her promise to enjoy the ride this time, to appreciate what fame and money could bring, she fell into old habits. Grace played city after city, spent nights at party after party.
Then came the crash, the night she was high, walked on staged and cussed out the president, the pope, and Jerry Falwell before passing out. Seven days later she awoke from a coma -- a miracle, her doctor said.
Her career never reawakened.
Tonight none of that mattered. Grace felt more alive, more like a singer, more like a rock star than she had in nearly a decade. The announcer quieted the crowd, called her name and Grace sprinted onto the stage.
She dove in to her opening set, deep voice bellowing the lyrics at a fevered pitch. Diehard Grace Smith fans made up the audience. They had come despite the vitriolic reviews of recent shows, and soon were screaming for more, their fists pumping in time with the music. After ninety minutes, the appointed time for the concert to end, Grace was nowhere near finished. She turned to her band.
“All right boys, that's enough of a warm-up, now let's rock the house,” she called into the mic. The band members glanced at one another, surprise on their faces. So far the daily script for the tour had been play hard for ninety minutes, sometimes less, then get off the stage and the rest of the night belonged to them.
“I said, let’s ROCK THE HOUSE,” Grace screamed. The audience joined in, their cries for more echoing off the walls, the roof. The band members kicked in on their respective instruments. For another ninety minutes they played, the audience cheered, and Grace was in heaven. She forgot about being old, about being tired, about the small but now-rabid audience. For those ninety minutes it was just her and the music, melding together. Finally Grace’s agent, who doubled as her road manager, got her attention from the wings. He was pointing at his watch -- if the band and crew didn’t cleared the building by midnight he’d have to cough up another day’s rent.
She sang two more songs, then exited the stage.
“Damn, that felt incredible,” she screamed as her band mates followed into the wings. Grace hugged each one of them -- another surprise, since she had barely acknowledged their existence during the tour. “Great show guys.” She jogged to her dressing room, shut the door behind her and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, listening to cheers filtering from the concert hall.
“Quite a show.”
Her eyes snapped open.
“How did you ... you weren’t here a second ago,” she said.
“I was, I chose not to be seen. I must compliment you, Ms. Smith, on a stirring performance.” He bowed slightly. “I see you tried the elixir.”
“Yeah, I tried it, so what?” She walked across the room, brushing roughly against the man.
“Come, come, Ms. Smith, I would think you’d be ecstatic with the results.”
“Results? I drank it, nothing happened. I suppose you’ll get a good laugh out of that, making me believe I could find youth again in that damn little bottle.”
“That’s exactly what you found, Ms. Smith. Youth. At least a few hours of that most precious commodity.”
“Like hell. That stuff is about as worthless as--”
“You sang tonight like you were thirty. You even look younger."
Despite her cynicism Grace twirled to the mirror. She leaned close. Sweat glistened on her skin, but even through the perspiration she could see the lines on her face where a tad shallower, the circles under her eyes a bit faded. She faced the stranger.
“What did you give me?”
“Oh, I’m not sure you really want to know just yet. Later, once you begin to truly understand what it means to grow young.”
“What did you give me?”
The man smiled, but remained silent.
Grace maintained a hard stare. As a young rock singer she had been quite naturally defiant whenever a manger or bar owner tried to bully her. She felt the same emotion tonight, another feeling she had not known in years.
“I said, tell me.”
More silence.
“I got all night,” Grace said.
“As you wish. The vial was filled with blood. Human blood.”
The defiance left her body like helium escaping a popped balloon. Grace grabbed her belly, turned to the dressing table and leaned against it for support. Her stomach heaved. Vomit filled her mouth before spilling onto the tabletop.
“You gave me blood?” she whispered. Her body shuddered at the thought. Hand pressed to her mouth, Grace closed her eyes, concentrated hard to keep the bile from rising again.
“So sorry to upset you, Ms. Smith, but you did insist.”
“Who the fuck are you. Where did you get … the blood?“
“A follower of mine helped procure it for me. For you, I should say.”
“Where did it come from? Medical lab? Your own arm? Where?”
“Is that really so important?“
Grace sat, closed her eyes.
“Is that really ... what made me feel so young tonight?”
“Yes. Not just because it’s blood, but because of where the blood came from, and how it was taken.” He reached into his coat, pulled out another vial and set it on the table.
Grace opened her eyes.
“I don’t want that.”
“You will.”
She picked up the vial and hurled it across the room. The glass shattered. Blood trickled down the wall.
“You will want the blood again, Ms. Smith. You will crave it. When you do, I’ll be there.”
Grace put her face in her hands, rested her elbows on her knees. She didn’t move when her agent knocked on the door.
“Grace,” he called through the door. “You’ve got some fans who want an autograph.”
Six weeks on the road and this was the first time fans had asked for her signature. Grace should have been thrilled. Instead, she felt numb. She looked up and found she was alone.
“Grace, you need to come out.”
“Be right there.”
She grabbed a towel and wiped her hands and mouth, took in a deep breath, stood and went to greet her adoring public.
***
Word of her performance spread quickly, and the two following concerts sold out. Seven hundred and fifty the next night, six hundred the night after.
Those were the two worst shows of the tour.
Grace felt drained, emotionally and physically. At the first show she made it through sixty minutes of listless singing, mostly spent standing in a single circle formed by a spotlight, halfheartedly spewing out lyrics. After an hour she put the mic on its stand and walked off the stage. The crowd booed for twenty minutes before gradually make its way from the auditorium. Grace didn’t hear most of the boos over her agent’s profanity-laced tirade backstage.
The second night was worse. After twenty-five minutes her singing degenerated into an unintelligible murmur, barely louder than the music. Forty minutes into the concert boos, hisses and a few well-thrown beer cans chased her and the band off stage.
That evening on the converted school bus turned tour van Grace’s agent told her that he had been forced to refund the ticket money to the auditorium’s manager. He asked if she were doing drugs again, then told her another couple concerts like tonight’s and she would be looking for a new agent.
***
The bus pulled into some nineteen-dollar-a-night dive at three the next morning. As the only female on the tour, Grace had a room to herself. She unlocked the door, walked in, dropped her bags, kicked the door shut and fell face first onto the bed. Within minutes she was asleep.
“Are you ready?”
Grace opened her eyes slowly, not sure if the voice was real or part of a dream. She sat, fear turning her body cold when she saw a person sitting in the corner.
“Who’s there?”
“You‘ve already forgotten me?”
Grace recognized the voice.
The man stood and walked toward the bed. The moonlight filtering in through the blinds cast his body in alternating strips of shade and pale light.
Even in the moonlight Grace could tell he was different. A few flecks of gray marred his mostly dark hair. His voice was the same, yet it sounder younger.
“Are you ready?” He held a vial between his fingers.
The taste of bile rose in Grace‘s throat. She clenched her jaws, closed her eyes, fought the retching instinct. She opened her eyes, fixed a steady gaze on the vial.
“Yes.” As revolting as the idea felt, Grace’s drive for survival was stronger. And Grace knew this tour wasn’t about her career. It was about survival.
The man pulled his other hand from a pocket, dropped a half-dozen vials on the bed.
“Just as before, drink one six hours before you are to take the stage.”
He turned and walked into the shadows. Grace looked down, gathered the glass vessels. When she looked up he was gone.
***
Grace played six shows over the following ten days. Each concert day she followed the same grotesque ritual, swallowing the blood six hours before the performance. The first day Grace struggled mightily, choking down the blood, then focusing all her concentration on holding it in, ignoring the taste of vomit rising in her throat.
The second day was nearly the same, but the concerts were glorious occasions. Grace belted out songs from her past, sounding as strong, as vibrant, as good as she did in her youth.
By the third concert Grace found it easier to ingest the vial’s contents. A quick swallow, followed by a shot of vodka, and it was done with barely a second thought.
By the fourth concert it was no different than drinking a health supplement. That’s all it is, she lied to herself. Just a supplement. No different than an energy drink.
Her manager and band members noticed the difference immediately. By the third show the musicians were playing harder, with more fire and emotion, to match Grace’s newfound energy.
Her fans drank it in. On the first night, in the wake of the most recent disasters, just two hundred and fifty came, but by the end of the show their cheers and chants sounded like a thousand. Three hundred people attended the second show.
Word spread quickly among the faithful Grace Smith admirers. By the third concert one thousand screaming, standing-room only fans packed the auditorium. Over the next three shows, Grace played in houses designed to seat a thousand, and all three nights the house was standing room only.
Grace noticed other things. Increasingly large numbers of teenagers and young adults were scattered among the older fans. After each show, staring into her dressing room mirror, she saw the lines in her face were less pronounced, her skin a little tighter.
Damn, I am growing younger.
By the end of her sixth concert Grace’s agent had booked two interviews -- one with the Seattle Times-Post and one with Hard Rocking magazine.
She did the interviews over a five-day break. The next show was set in Seattle, and the Times-Post ran the story and a photo spread two days before the concert date.
The concert was set for a five-hundred seat dump of a former high school auditorium, but ticket requests skyrocketed with the talk of her latest concerts and the newspaper article. A little last-minute juggling of the schedule, along with a couple of well-placed under-the-table payouts, and Grace’s manager secured a five thousand-seat auditorium. Still a far cry from her days of playing the Kingdome, but the venue was large enough that it might attract a couple of record company scouts.
Grace felt a bit of anxiety the first evening of the break. After twenty-four hours without drinking, she expected the stranger to return. By the second evening, she was in a full-blown panic, holed up in her hotel room, refusing to see anyone, looking in the mirror every ten minutes for signs the wrinkles were returning.
Grace calmed on the third day. She felt as good as she did the night of her most recent concert. Look as good, too, she thought during one of her obsessive trips to the mirror. Better. Damn, I look ten years younger.
Still, Grace grew apprehensive as the next show drew near. That morning, looking into the mirror, Grace thought she saw crow’s feet deepening, the hint of dark circles returning under her eyes. Just nerves, she told her self. Didn’t sleep well last night.
She had been nervous the night before. For the first time in twenty years, her stomach was aflutter the night before a show. Now, with crowd noises filtering into the backstage area, Grace tried to focus. Worry that she had drank no blood played at the edges of her mind, but front and center was the simple fact she would be playing in front of five thousand people. Two record producers had booked seats, her manager told Grace.
She embarked on this tour because she needed money, but now it wasn’t the money she craved. It was her old career. Her old life. This concert would make or break that ambition.
Three hours before the show Grace retired to her dressing room, plopped in an overstuffed chair, then turned on an Eminem CD. She sank into the chair, closed her eyes and focused on the show.
The music stopped. Grace opened her eyes and saw the man’s reflection in the mirror -- hair jet black, face so smooth he could be fifteen years her junior. She stood, walked to him, cupped her hand around his face.
“How?”
“It’s the blood, Ms. Smith. The blood of youth, when prepared properly, is the most powerful antidote in the world. It can heal even the ravages of time.”
“How old are you?”
“Two hundred and eighty.”
Grace knew this to be a preposterous claim, but did not question his words. She stroked his face and stared into his eyes. She could feel the beginning of such change in herself, the vitality of youth returning to her body.
She wanted more.
“Show me.”
“I will. After the concert. Tonight will be a return to the old days -- the crowd will be screaming, pressing against the stage to reach you. At the conclusion of the show look into the audience and find one who is young, whose life force radiates from her. Bring her here after the show. All will be revealed.”
“How will I know the right one?”
“You will know. You have tasted enough of the blood now. Open your mind and look for the one who is young, the one who is most alive.”
Grace nodded, then turned back to her seat. A minute later Eminem was exhorting her to lose herself, to not miss her one shot.
***
Grace paced backstage, breath coming in ragged bursts. Fifteen minutes before the scheduled seven-thirty start she could take no more. Grace jogged onto the stage, screamed for her band members until they joined her, then jumped into her first set.
Two hours later, her clothes soaked in sweat, Grace saw movement off stage -- her agent pointing to his watch. She waved him off and kept singing. At the end of the next song, he walked on stage, whispered in her ear and tried to lead her away from the microphone.
Grace made some joke about him needing her for a “quickie” backstage, then promised she’d be back in ten minutes.
“Grace, love, what are you doing?“
“Giving the audience what they came for.”
“The boys would appreciate a bit of a break.”
Grace glanced at her band mates, all leaning against the wall next to her, gulping water or Gatorade.
“These boys are half my age, they can handle it.”
Grace ran back to the microphone, eliciting a roar from the crowd. They’ll have to drag me off this stage, she thought. She waved to the wings, called the band out, then jumped into the next song.
A half hour later the audience changed. Not the entire assemblage, but here and there Grace saw spots of light, people emitting a glow. She closed here eyes, shook her head, then looked again. The glow was stronger around some, non-existent around others. She glanced at the front row, mostly teenagers smashed against the stage, when she saw her -- a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, clear innocent sweat-drenched face framed in straight black hair that fell to her shoulders. The girl pumped her fist in the air, keeping time with the music. She glowed so brightly Grace had to squint while staring at her.
Grace hurried through the next twenty minutes, then extended her hand toward the girl. The teen grabbed hold, climbed onto the stage as Grace pulled.
“What’s your name, honey?’’ Grace asked.
“Willow.”
“All right everybody,” Grace screamed into the microphone. “Say hello to my new friend, Willow!”
The crowd cheered wildly.
Grace danced through two songs with Willow, pulled her close and pressed her lips to Willow‘s mouth as the final guitar note hung in the air.
“Come on, hon,” Grace whispered while the crowd went crazy.
“Where?”
“Backstage. You want to come don’t you?”
“Hell yeah, but can my friends come?
Grace followed Willow’s outstretched hand toward two others crushed against the stage -- a tall, gangling boy and another girl, shorter than Willow and slightly plump.
Several people tried climbing from the audience onto the stage, prompting a dozen security guards to run out. Grace tapped one on the shoulder, whispered in his ear, watched while he walked over and helped the two up. The pair ran, both giggling as they joined Grace and Willow.
When they reached the stage wings, Grace’s manager grabbed her by the arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Just showing a few kids what it’s like backstage.”
“Don’t do anything stupid. We’re on the verge of finally getting your career back. Don’t fuck it up.”
“God, you worry too much. Just go with the flow. Get the photographers ready, we’ll give’m a good PR shot of the new Grace Smith with the next generation of her fans.” She pulled away and trotted toward the dressing room, her young posse following.
She opened the door and the three happily entered. Grace stepped in behind, then closed the door.
“What have you done?”
The man’s voice rang out, inhumanly loud, echoing off the walls. His eyes glowed red.
“Jesus,” the boy whispered. The shorter girl shrieked, but Willow stood quietly, mesmerized by the sight.
“I brought the girl and her friends.”
“I told you to bring one.”
Grace shrunk from his anger.
“What’s done is done,” he said. “Lock the door.”
As Grace followed his instructions the man stepped to Willow, grabbed her by the shoulders and stared in her eyes. Everyone in the room watched, several minutes passing as he and Willow remained motionless, locked in one another’s gaze.
“Kneel,” he whispered.
Willow obeyed.
He stepped behind her, placed his hands on either side of her face and arched Willow’s head upward, exposing her neck.
“What’re you doing?” the boy asked. He grabbed the man‘s shoulder. “I said what are you doing?”
Too quick for anyone to react, the stranger snatched the boy’s head in his arms and twisted. The boy’s neck snapped, his body thumped against the floor.
The shorter girl screamed.
Pounding came from the door.
“What’s going on in there? Grace?” voices called from the hallway.
The girl screamed again.
The man looked at Grace, eyes ablaze.
“Quiet her or she’ll suffer the same fate,” he said.
“No,” the girl cried.
Grace slapped her face, then backhanded her.
The girl fell against the wall, then crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
“Grace, open the damn door!”
Grace stared at the stranger and the young girl in the center of her dressing room.
“Somebody call the cops,” shouted the voice outside her door. “Now! Grace? Open the door.”
Grace stepped to the door.
“Everything’s okay,” she said.
“Then open the door.”
Above the shouting and banging, Grace heard low mumbling behind her. She turned back to face the room.
He was still standing behind Willow, his hands resting on either side of her face.
“Thantos, Kerkyon, gods of death, gods of blood, I bring to you this sacrifice. I spill this blood for you, return its life to me.”
The man repeated the chant three times, his voice rising with each recitation. The fourth time through he drew a dagger from under his coat, raised it into the air, sliced across Willow’s neck.
The blade parted the skin. Willow gasped, then her body slumped.
The man held her up with a handful of her hair. He lowered himself to one knee, then buried his face in the blood pouring from her neck.
Grace felt her bowels tighten, her stomach churn.
The man drank the blood in quickly, an occasional slurp escaping his lips.
More pounding on the door.
“Grace, the police are here. Now open the door.”
The stranger looked up. Blood stained his face, drops fell from his chin.
“Come.”
Awkwardly, almost against her will, Grace stepped forward.
More pounding.
“Seattle police, open the door.”
A second after the voices came the sound of a battering ram smashing against the door. Yet, all Grace heard was the quiet commands of the stranger in her dressing room.
“Your hands, Grace,” he whispered.
Her arms reached out. He pulled Grace forward, pushing her hands onto Willow’s neck. Grace flinched when she felt the warm, sticky blood on her fingers, but his grip was like a vice, holding her.
The man released Willow -- her head thumped on the floor -- then he pushed Grace’s hands toward her face, forced her fingers to her lips.
“Taste,” he whispered.
Stomach tightening, she suckled one finger. Grace tasted the blood, sucked harder. Her revulsion disappeared. In its place a hunger welled inside her, a desire stronger than any she had ever known. Grace licked her hands, her fingers, fell to her knees and grabbed Willow’s head. Grace drank the blood still pouring from the girl’s neck, sucking at the open wound, then sinking her teeth into skin, tearing the flesh.
The door crashed open. A police officer fell into the room.
“Sweet mother of God,” the second officer whispered. He helped his partner up, then both men stood, not sure what to do. Grace’s manager pushed his way between them.
“Oh, Grace.”
She looked up, face smeared with blood, eyes sparkling. She smiled, her teeth red. Willow’s head lay to the side, her mouth open, eyes lifeless. Blood pooled on the floor.
“Grace, what have you done?” the manager choked, vomited pouring from his mouth.
“It’s okay, Peter,” she said, voice gurgling on the blood in her mouth. “I’m young again. I can always be young.”
Grace rose to her feet, fists raised over her head.
The officers sprang forward. One grabbed Grace’s left arm, the other grabbed her right.
“What are you doing?”
Grace thrashed against the officers. They forced her arms behind her, snapped cuffs on her wrists.
Grace’s manager wiped his mouth, looked back at Grace.
“Peter, don’t let them take me. Don’t. I’m--”
“For god’s sake, you killed the girl. You killed them all,” he said.
Grace stopped struggling. She looked at Willow’s body, glanced at the boy, at the other girl.
“No,” she screamed. “No. You can’t do this. I’ve done nothing. He killed her.” She tilted her head in the stranger’s direction, where he had been standing.
No one was there.
“Listen to me, I didn’t do this,” she cried.
“There’s no one else here, luv,’’ one of the cops said.
“I tell you I didn’t do this. Peter, please listen to me, don’t let them take me.”
The officers dragged Grace from the room. The small crowd gathered -- roadies, security guards, a few fans -- stepped out of the way.
Grace tried kicking the officers. She thrashed against their hold, screamed all the way down the long winding hallway toward the rear exit.
The crowd followed, no one noticing the figure stepping from the dressing room shadows.
The man walked toward the concert hall, then slipped into the crowd, one of a thousand new, young fans of Grace Smith.