When Last Things finally takes the stage, the screaming is so loud that it shuts out the thunder. The guys position themselves. They’re stretched wires. Flying sparks. They look ready to explode.

Anders gives a nod so small only the band and I can see it.

They launch into “Blood Money.” Then “Frozen.” “Come Out and Play.” “Dead Girl.” There’s barely a breath between songs. The music feels as tight and hard as ever, but there’s a new texture to it, something that cuts deep. Anders’s hands move so fast they aren’t hands at all. They’re just a pale blur of sound streaming out of that black guitar.

They play “Hitting Sleep.” Everyone in the room seems to know this one. I scan the crowd. People are jumping in time, combat boots and Converse low tops pounding on the scarred hardwood floors. The Crow’s Nest is one huge, pulsing heart.

Knock knock knock

until you wake me

Pound pound pound

until you break me

There’s another smash of thunder. Closer this time. Even it seems to rumble to Patrick’s rhythm.

And that’s when I see her.

She’s perched on a high stool at the very edge of the opposite side of the room. Tight black pants. Tight black jacket. Sleek, short hair.

She’s older than high school, older than college, but far from old. She’s watching the stage with an expression I recognize. Like Anders is the only real thing in the room.

I let my eyes focus, the way I usually only do when I’m alone in the woods and no one else will see. Because I know what my face looks like when I do this. I know what happens to my eyes.

The room goes gray. There are flashes of light around me, bright beacons burning here and there. But I’m not looking for those.

I stare at the woman.

She ripples with blackness.

It seeps out of her in pools and tendrils. Too much to be held inside. It climbs up the wall. It drips from her feet, pools on the floor. It slithers in and out as she breathes.

She’s one of them.

She’s here to take him away.

Blood surges into my chest.

I keep still. Wait. Wait.

Watch the stage.

Watch her.

Watch him.

Last Things tears through “Bleeding Out” and “Minotaur,” and, finally “Superhero.”

By the time it ends, there’s something in the room with all of us. Something that makes the air as combustible as a gas leak. Something that pulls the crowd’s pulses into its dance.

The woman is sitting perfectly still at her little table. But the music affects her, too. I can see it. The darkness seeping through her is wilder, thicker. It climbs above her, stretching up the walls, reaching toward the stage like vines or veins.

But I can’t move. Not yet.

The sky outside the windows is pure black.

The final chord dies. The crowd screams.

Last Things leaves the stage.

They don’t usually play encores. Everyone knows “Superhero” is the end. But tonight no one leaves. No one turns around to pick up their bag or weaves out between other people’s sweaty bodies. The screaming goes on and on and on. Everyone is on their feet. I can’t see through the crowd anymore. There’s only a wall of bodies between me and the stage.