As the number of autograph seekers finally died down, there were only a few people left. One was Pennywell, leaning against a marble pillar a hundred feet away, looking bored but eternal, as if he could wait another ten thousand years if necessary without a change of underwear. One was Kim, who was locked in animated conversation with a couple of TPU guys who looked, to Claire’s eyes, like liberal arts students. She kept casting glances at their little group, and Claire figured that any minute she’d kick her holding-pattern boys to the curb and make straight for Shane.

The last person, though, was a human—an older guy dressed in a black tailored leather jacket and jeans—kind of like business tough, if there was such a thing. He had great hair, and one of those nice, even, white smiles people had on TV shows—and a tan.

“Michael, great show,” the man said, and leaned over to shake Michael’s hand. “Seriously, that was out of the park. My name is Harry Sloan, my daughter, Hillary, goes to school here. She wanted me to come and check you out, and I have to say, I was very impressed.”

“Thanks,” Michael said. He looked a little tired, no longer the mighty god of guitar that he’d been onstage, and Claire thought he just wanted to get this done and get home. “I appreciate that, Mr. Sloan.”

Mr. Sloan produced a business card, which he slid across the table toward Michael’s hand. “Yeah, here’s the thing. I think you’ve got real potential, Michael. I work for a major recording company, and I want to take a demo CD back with me.”

There was a moment where they all stared at him, and then Michael said, blankly, “Demo CD?”

“You don’t have one?”

“No. I’ve been—” Michael didn’t know how to finish that sentence. “Busy.” Busy getting killed, then being made into a ghost, then turning into a vampire. Fighting wars. Et cetera.

“You really have to get in the studio, man, right now. I’ll set it up—there’s a good place in Dallas. I’ll book the time for you if you tell me dates. But I want to take your stuff into our next discovery meeting. I think we can really do some business. Think about it, will you? First thing is to get that demo CD done. Call me.”

He held out his hand again, and Michael shook it. He looked pale, and a little vacant, Claire thought. Mr. Sloan flashed them all that Hollywood smile again, slid on a very expensive pair of sunglasses, and left.

“He can’t be,” Eve said. “It’s a joke, right? Monica’s idea of a joke or something.”

Michael held up the business card. Eve examined it, blinked, and passed it to Shane, who passed it on to Claire.

“Vice president,” Claire read. “Oh. Wow.”

“It’s not a joke,” Michael said. “There was an article about this guy in Rolling Stone about six weeks ago.” Michael slowly got to his feet, and it really hit home. “He wants to sign me. As a musician.”