Chapter 7: Shadow Play/Here to Stay
The hunger, the fame, the control—it was all consuming her.
Previously in The Devil’s Duet…
In Chapter Six, Raven teetered on the edge of oblivion. The nights blurred into neon-lit chaos, her body moving on autopilot while Lucian pulled the strings. The hunger, the fame, the control—it was all consuming her. And when the music called, she answered, pouring every last piece of herself into Rosebud.
But creation and destruction walk hand in hand, and as her star rises, so do the shadows waiting to swallow her whole.
Now, the past tightens its grip, and Raven will have to decide—does she control the music, or does it control her?
Chapter 7: Shadow Play/Here to Stay
3333 Beverly Ranch Rd, Beverly Hills, CA 1979
The house on Beverly Ranch Road gleamed under a smattering of fireworks as the clock neared midnight and the 1980s fast approached us like a freight train jackknifing on the tracks. Our New Year’s Eve party was packed, a decadent affair spilling out from the glass-lined living room into the manicured lawn, dotted with Hollywood faces, record label heads, and Jefferson’s artist friends. Glittering gold decorations and bottles of champagne gave the house a sparkling glow, softened by a haze of cigarette smoke that lingered above the crowd like a low fog.
Even Lucian showed up at one point, probably to look upon his beloved songbird in her gilded cage. Thankfully he made his presence brief and almost unknown, he gave Jefferson and I a bottle of champagne and then gracefully excused himself.
I wandered through the rooms, a flute of champagne draped from my grasp, feeling slightly detached from it all. The heady success of Playing with Fire and the resulting tour should have made me feel invincible, like I was right where I was meant to be now three hit albums into my career. But there was a hollow gnawing somewhere deeper, a part of me that felt as fragile as the glass between my fingers.
Jefferson was holding court by the fireplace, his laughter louder than the music, his arm draped around one of his industry friends. Our eyes met for a moment across the room, and he gave me a quick smile, one that barely reached his eyes, before turning back to his conversation. Ever since the blinding success of Playing with Fire, a project that was the perfect combustion of our talents, our relationship had become lava, at once explosive, erupting and forged with searing heat but it seemed that after Playing with Fire, the lava that so defined us had hit a cold front and began to cool and harden.
The distance between us felt more real than the dozen or so partygoers in between, as if the quietest truth about us had been dislodged into that space, waiting to be acknowledged.
And, if I were being totally honest, it wasn’t anything done or not done, anything said or unsaid, the truth was that I was a walking time bomb, a living dirty secret, there was no way we ever had been or could have been totally open and honest with each other. I always told myself that we both gave our whole hearts to this relationship but I never realized that there was one corner of my heart that couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to be opened.
I took another sip and turned away, glancing around the room at all the faces I barely recognized, some looking my way with the recognition that had only started following me this past year. They called my name in passing, murmured something about Playing with Fire, asked what was coming next. But no one listened, they all waited to talk. They didn’t wait for answers, only opportunities to speak. Instead, I felt them casting me as something other than myself, another party guest, another body for the night.
Drifting toward the balcony doors, I stepped outside, letting the cool December air settle over me, cooling my skin and clearing my head. I glanced back through the window to see Jefferson, still laughing, his focus a million miles away. I leaned over the railing, letting the breeze whisper over me, wondering if this was the price of all I’d gained.
As the countdown began inside, I heard someone step out onto the balcony, and before I turned, I knew it was him. His hand found the small of my back, his fingers grazing lightly, but I could feel the weight of whatever unspoken words lay between us.
“Quite the night, huh?” he murmured, his voice tinged with something I couldn’t quite place—pride or maybe worry. His eyes searched mine, lingering for a beat longer than usual. I could smell the whiskey on his breath, blending with the musky hint of his cologne, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. Something sharp, something vaguely regretful.
“Quite the year,” I replied, swallowing the bitterness that rose with the words. My own voice felt too small against the laughter and music that floated through the glass doors.
Jefferson exhaled, looking out over the city lights with an unreadable expression. “Are you happy, Raven?” he asked finally, his voice low, almost a whisper, like he was afraid of the answer.
I looked away, feeling the ache of that question. Was I? The thrill of Playing with Fire and everything that followed, the awards, the endless parties, the flashing lights, the headlines, they all felt like they were slipping through my fingers even as they were handed to me. I wanted to tell him yes, wanted to feel the truth of it. But I couldn’t.
The distant sound of fireworks cracked across the hills, and I laughed, bitter and low. “I don’t even know what that means anymore.”
Jefferson looked at me for a long moment, and I could feel him searching for something, an answer, a piece of me he could hold on to. “Maybe… maybe you need to step away for a bit. Slow down.”
A pang of resentment and hurt shot through me. “Slow down? Isn’t this what we worked for?” My voice was sharper than I’d intended, but I felt the sting of his suggestion like a cut. I was the one they were here for. This was my party as much as his.
He looked away, pressing his lips together, choosing his words. “I just… I don’t want to lose you, Raven. Not to this,” he said quietly. “Not to this world.”
My chest tightened, and I felt the familiar itch creeping into my bones, the hunger that grew harder to ignore with every passing night. “You don’t get to say that,” I whispered, trying to steady my voice. “Not now.”
The countdown reached its final numbers, and people inside were chanting along, their voices a chorus, drowning out the silence between us. We watched the fireworks burst against the night sky, casting shadows over the hills and across our faces, coloring our silence in the shimmering gold and blue of a new year.
With a final glance, Jefferson leaned down, brushing his lips softly against my forehead. “Happy New Year, Raven.” His voice was barely audible over the cheers from inside, but I could hear the weight of the words, almost like goodbye. His words and his kiss held an air of finality. It felt like a moment where we both realized that something has fundamentally shifted as the fireworks bursting in the background underscored the idea of something ending even as this new year began.
Montecito Ranch Lane, Summerland, CA 1980
The ocean spread out in front of me, grey, glassy and endless, matching the thick fog that hung low over the waves and enveloped the house. I pulled the frayed collar of my sweater up around my neck and took another drag from the cigarette dangling between my fingers. The salty air burned my lungs with each inhale, mixing with the bitter tang of nicotine. A chill had settled in the air, the dampness sinking into my bones as I leaned against the weathered railing of the porch, watching the tide roll in.
Inside, Jefferson was sitting at the small kitchen table, a notebook open in front of him, though he hadn’t written a word since dawn. He had his guitar propped beside him, half-forgotten as he stared at the blank page.
I could feel his frustration seeping through the walls, thick as the fog pressing in around us. He’d come here to clear his head, maybe to find some spark for his own music that always seemed to be overshadowed by mine. Jefferson’s life was lived in my shadow and my shadow cast darkness over him - but what is it called when darkness covers darkness? Whatever it may be, all he’d found was the echo of his own unmet expectations.
“Any luck?” I asked, barely loud enough for him to hear over the steady roar of the waves.
He looked up, his eyes shadowed. “Not today.” The words came out flat, tinged with something like despair.
I flicked my cigarette off the edge of the porch, watching it disappear into the wet sand below. “Maybe you’re just pushing too hard,” I offered, even though I knew the words sounded hollow. I wasn’t one to give advice on stability—not with the way my own mind felt like a storm-tossed sea these days.
Jefferson let out a hoarse laugh, running a hand through his hair, now streaked with lines of grey that belied the strain of our lives since Playing with Fire although I hadn’t noticed this clearly until recently. “That’s easy for you to say,” he muttered, his gaze shifting to the foggy horizon. “Everything just seems to fall into place for you, doesn’t it?”
A pang of guilt twisted in my chest. Playing with Fire had been a wildfire success and our duet, Siren, was a moderate hit on the album of the same name, but that was nearly 4 years ago - an absolute lifetime in this business of immediacy and unrelenting “newness.” There were also the late nights, the crowds, the endless attention—all the things I thought would fill me had only made the emptiness sharper. And the more I reached for the bottle or the little vials hidden in my bag, the further away I felt from everything that had once grounded me.
I forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Yeah, because I’m such a beacon of stability.” But even I could hear the weariness in my voice as my hunger swelled.
He looked at me, his face softening for just a moment, the hardness in his gaze melting into something like sadness. “Raven… maybe this isn’t about me. Maybe it’s about you. About all of this.” He gestured around him, the beach, the house—everything we had built and everything that had started to feel like it was slipping away.
I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the cold seep in despite the sweater. “I thought coming here would help,” I whispered. “I thought…” My voice caught, the words unraveling like the waves rolling over the sand. I thought this would make everything better.
Jefferson stood and crossed the porch to where I was leaning against the railing. He rested his hands on either side of me, a barrier against the fog and the fear gnawing at me from the inside out. “What are you afraid of, Raven?”
The question hung in the air between us, heavier than the fog. I looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t know… Maybe that all of this was just… for nothing.”
His hand reached for mine, gripping it firmly. “Don’t say that. What we’ve built—what you’ve built—it’s not for nothing.”
“But it doesn’t feel like it’s enough,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. “I thought it would be everything. I thought… I thought I could handle it. But now, I don’t even know if I can handle this.” My free hand went instinctively to my pocket, the familiar bulge of the glass vial pressing into my palm like a secret I couldn’t let go of, at least not in this lifetime.
But that wasn’t the only secret in my pocket, I also was carrying around the secret of what I saw when I closed my eyes every night as I went to sleep; Veronica kissing me on the side of my face as she delicately and softly touched me between my legs, Reagan’s panicked eyes as soon as she realized my teeth were digging into her skin, Veronica’s breast heaving as I drained the life from her body, Melissa’s taste of Americana and the road on the way to her eventual fate.
Jefferson’s eyes followed the movement, his jaw tightening as he realized what I was reaching for. “Is that what this is, then?” he asked, his voice raw. “Is that what it’s come to?”
I pulled my hand back, shoving it into my other pocket. “Don’t make this about that, Jefferson.”
“How can I not?” His voice rose, cutting through the fog. “I came here to find you, the real you, the Raven I thought I knew before everything became about feeding this hunger of yours.”
I stepped away, the railing biting into my back. “And what about your hunger, Jefferson? What about your anger that it’s my name they’re calling, my songs they’re singing? You think I don’t see it?”
His face crumpled, just for a moment, before he turned away, his shoulders tense. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am angry. Maybe I don’t know how to stand in your shadow and pretend it doesn’t kill me a little every time I watch you get everything I’ve wanted.”
It struck me that maybe that fiery defiant streak we had unlocked on Playing with Fire was not actually about me liberating my music with a new sound but Jefferson tapping into a dark undercurrent of rage that sat pulsing beneath the surface.
And then an even more raw truth pressed at me, Marc’s ominous warning came floating into my mind the way the coastal fog had surrounded the beach house, “He will always come to collect. How else do you think this town and this industry survives? This whole town is one renewable source of food. There’s always someone to feed on and someone just as eager waiting to take their place.”
I realized suddenly that Jefferson was becoming my very own Lucian. Jefferson had also given me an insatiable hunger and like the Seekers, I had become Jefferson’s renewable source of energy, I was not a lover, I was just another stepping stone lining the path to Jefferson’s success.
We stood in silence, the weight of his words settling over us like the fog. I wanted to reach for him, to tell him that none of it mattered, that we could walk away from it all. But the words wouldn’t come, and the hunger—deeper, darker than anything I’d ever felt—still twisted inside me, consuming everything it touched.
“Maybe… maybe we should take a break,” I whispered finally, the words barely audible. “Just to figure things out.”
He looked at me, his face etched with a sadness so deep it seemed to echo my own. “If that’s what you want,” he said quietly. And in his voice, I heard the finality, the understanding that maybe this was the moment we would always look back on—the moment we lost each other to the lives we’d built and the dreams that had burned us from the inside out.
I watched him walk back inside, his silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the beach house. And in the darkness I was left in, the rest of 1980 raced by, a gaussian blur of drugs, depression, despair, and buckets of blood tethered to a hunger that only grew with the days and the nights that sustained me and made me feel so god damned full, powerful, and yet so unsatisfied and so very empty.
The El Dorado Hotel, 8800 Sunset Blvd, West Hollywood, CA, 1981
“I think,” Marion said surveying my new apartment at the El Dorado, “That’s the last box,” Marion said dutifully checking off her list with a manifest of all my moving boxes.
Following my move from Jefferson’s home back to my old stomping grounds at the El Dorado, Marion and Roy really stepped up to help me pack and move even buying the beer for the movers although I secretly think they got that for the three of us to enjoy instead.
Roy, Marion and I sat on a simple blanket in the living room eating pizza from King Street Pizza and clinking beer bottles. “Raven St. Clair returns to the Sunset Strip,” Roy said in a mocking radio announcer voice, “What’s next for this blinding beauty?” He asked turning his beer bottle towards me like an imaginary microphone.
“Thanks for asking Roy,” I said with deadpan honesty, “I honestly have no fucking idea.”
The following morning, I woke up and threw open the curtains to the familiar sign of the Sunset Strip, however one major change from the last time I lived here is I no longer had a billboard of myself across the street which bruised my ego some.
I sat in the apartment’s kitchenette with a breakfast of coffee and a yogurt alongside a croissant and a mound of cocaine.
As I ate and snorted my way through breakfast, I tried to play or hum some new melodies as I searched my drawn notebook for any useable idea I could shake out. Many were written in such a stupor that they were unusable. I found myself playing my guitar to an empty room waiting for a ghost of Jefferson to return my music in kind but instead I was courted only by empty silence.
The loneliness crystalized some and I used the blunted edge of my sadness to focus my vision on the task at hand, I felt a jolt of inspiration and pulled my notebook close as I began to scrawl,
Out of the night, we take control,
The city’s ours, heart and soul.
We’re running wild, two queens in flight,
Chasing our dreams in the neon light.
I hear the whispers, I see the signs,
We’ve been living on borrowed time.
They try to pull us down, tell us what to be,
But we’ve got the power, and we’re breaking free.
The streets are talking, shadows in the dark,
But we’re the fire, we are the spark.
No more waiting, no more compromise,
We’ll take the night, under endless skies.
We don’t bow, we won’t break,
Every chance, every risk we take.
We stand tall, under the neon sky,
We’re the ones who’ll never say goodbye.
Fight for the light, we’ll never fade
We’re burning bright its how we’re made
We’re here to stay
As I wrote the notes came rising to the surface as the melody began assembling itself in my mind, my voice carrying through the song buoyed by roiling guitars as it sailed over epic runs and fills.
Even in the silence of the empty apartment, I could almost hear Jackson strumming some notes on his guitar as if he were suggesting some melodies for the song that was rapidly unfurling before me born from my deepest sadness, my deepest darkness but coming to life or rather, coming into the light.
El Sol, The El Dorado Hotel, 8800 Sunset Blvd, West Hollywood, CA, 1981
In El Sol, the El Dorado restaurant, I could feel an air of both elegance and wear, a place that seemed to hold whispers of past glamour, heavy with secrets. Certainly several of my own lingered here.
Golden light spilled from chandeliers, casting soft shadows over the tables. Plush, wine-red velvet curtains framed each window, their folds thick and heavy, like they were trapping a thousand unspoken confessions in their fabric. Polished dark wood tables and chairs added a timeless, almost theatrical feel to the room, each one lit by a small lamp that threw halos of light onto the mahogany finish.
Tonight, I sat in my usual table against one of the luxurious tapestries that adorned the room while Lucian sat ensconced in his usual corner table not far away keeping his watchful gaze forever on me, pressing down on me like the weight of all my unfulfilled desires.
In the days since returning here to the El Dorado, Lucian had reasserted his hold on me by summoning me to his Cordoba suite to feed on unsuspecting ingenues who had fallen under his spell where I would give into my basest desires after a day spent giving into my other basest desires. My nights had become soaked with blood and regret leading to days spent numbing the sins of my nights which clung to my hands like caked blood, so hard to wash away.
The kind waiter brought me a bowl of my favorite gazpacho. I daintily held the spoon in my hand as I lifted the chilled concoction to my lips as the distinct taste of the olive oil and fresh herbs danced on my palette. Given how engrossed I was in my writing lately and the accompanying substances sneaking down to El Sol was rapidly becoming my only source of sustenance and thankfully the chef kindly kept me well fed and the courteous waiters turned a blind eye to how drawn I looked when they would drop off paella at my front door.
As the gazpacho was carefully lifted from the table, chef’s famous Stuffed Piquillo Peppers arrived in front of me bursting with creamy goat cheese, figs, and herbs slathered in a balsamic glaze. As I delicately lifted one to my mouth and prepared to bite into a luxuriously briny hunk of goat cheese, my gaze was drawn to the arch that served as the entrance to El Sol. A glowing girl walked in and beyond my eyes being drawn to her shimmering aura, I could keenly smell her, hell, as she passed through the archway, I could practically taste her.
I never forgot an aura, though and I quickly realized we had met before although there was something about her talent that radiated different from all the others who willingly gave themselves to me like little fish happily swimming into the maw of a shark, she seemed to be magnetically drawn to me. Was I hunting this girl or was she hunting me? I could taste her energy as she approached—fresh, untarnished. The sharp tang reminded me of all I could take. The girl glided over to my table as if she were on ice skates cutting through the crowd as she extended her hand towards me which seemed to unfurl in slow motion.
“Raven,” she said breathlessly, “We meet again,” she continued with an oddly confident familiarity. I looked into her eyes as I saw Lucian shift uncomfortably in his chair.
Continuing her brazen front, she motioned to the chair across from me asking, “May I?”
“Do I…?” I began to ask if I knew her as a hint of confusion flashed as my mind searched for the answer. “Seraphina Jones,” she said proudly and I keenly remembered our first encounter at Osko’s.
Without waiting for my approval Seraphina said bluntly, “I’ve always imagined what a towering superstar with such hunger actually…eats.” Seraphina proclaimed looking at my food in a way that was equally admiring and subtly challenging.
“The gazpacho here is…sublime…” I said making small talk with this waifish girl.
“Cut the shit, Raven,” Seraphina said with a bullish resolve leaning over the table as if she were subtly challenging me, “We both know that gazpacho is not your primary food group,” she said in a way that felt like I was sitting on shards of glass as I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked as I recoiled slightly and prepared to eviscerate this petulant child.
“I know who and what you are, Raven,” Seraphina offered bravely, “And I know that if this restaurant were empty you’d be sucking the life out of me.”
“Bold words,” was all I offered, “If you think you know so much about me,” I said tensing, “Why would you dare tempt me to show you what I could do to you?”
“Because,” Seraphina retorted with a huff, “I think the real question is what could I do to you? Do you really think you’re the only one who lives on both sides of the line?”
Intrigued but rattled I looked up from our stalemate as I saw Lucian approaching. Seraphina turned as he approached and reached out her hand to shake his.
“Lucian Thorne,” she offered, “Seraphina Jones, I’m at Vector Records recording my debut,” she said with a rock solid confidence.
Lucian narrowed his eyes at Seraphina some and as his hand touched hers I saw him recoil as his hand jerked slightly. Was that a visceral reaction I saw? I thought.
Seraphina faced Lucian as I saw him take a half step back. For such a steely gaze, Lucian for the first time possibly ever looked pained but Seraphina kept maintaining intense unbroken eye contact, seemingly silently challenging him with her gaze.
There was something about her confidence that scraped against my nerves. Lucian’s presence had always dulled my edges, made me wary of pushing too far. But here she was, challenging him, challenging me, as if daring me to reclaim something I hadn’t even known I’d lost.
Lucian’s usual smirk faltered as he took her hand. His fingers twitched ever so slightly before he masked it, his mouth pressing into a thin line. I’d never seen him flinch, not once, yet here he was, facing this girl with an expression I could almost call… fear? No, it was something sharper, something more primal.
“Can I invite you to sit with me over here?” Seraphina offered in a way that sounded more like a command as opposed to an invitation, “I’ve got something to propose to you both,” Seraphina asked with an almost sing-songy quality to her voice as she motioned to one of the lounge areas abutting the El Sol bar. Lucian nodded and I quietly agreed by forcing a small smile out of the corner of my mouth.
“What can I get you?” Seraphina asked, “Seven and Seven,” I responded as she asked, “Lucian? Let me guess, a black Manhattan?”
While we waited, Lucian slid up next to me on the small couch. Whispering into my ear he said, “Raven, she is extremely powerful and with her talent, you could become a superstar for the next two decades. You must help me, I must have her soul,” he said to me in hushed tones as I imagined what owning Seraphina’s soul would taste like and how it would open up a new decade of opportunity.
Moments later the waif returned, “Seven and Seven,” Seraphina said handing off the glass to me. “And a black Manhattan,” she said extending the glass to Lucian. As she handed him the glass, their fingers briefly touched and Lucian’s jaw tensed as he sat back in the sofa looking as if his body was being overtaken by waves of anguish. What was it about her that affected him? I wondered as I had never seen him react in such a way to anything.
We sat and drank our cocktails for a bit before Seraphina said, “Lucian, I’ve been such a fan of Raven’s for a while now and as I work on my debut album, I would love to team up with Raven for a duet,” she said looking at me, “And I would be forever honored to be joined by a legend on my first album,” she said in a way that made me proud and also feel incredibly old and ancient at the same time.
“I think we can make something work,” Lucian said running his fingers through his dark mustache, “I like the idea, I will speak with Vector Records first thing in the morning,” he said.
Back in my apartment as the night grew darker, I began work on the bones of a new song, Shadow Play,
There’s a chill in the night, a whisper, a call,
Like footsteps that fade down an empty hall.
I move through the silence, a breath on the edge,
Shadow play, dancing in the dark,
The ghost of a flame, leaving its mark,
Every step is a memory, lost and reclaimed,
Shadow play, calling out my name.
As I laid myself down to sleep, I heard Seraphina’s words echoing in the stillness of the night punctuated by the Sunset Strip traffic, I think the real question is what could I do to you? Do you really think you’re the only one who lives on both sides of the line?
As her words haunted me somewhere deep in the limbo between awaking and asleep, I heard a ghostly voice that could have even been Jefferson calling out to me.
Shadow play, dancing in the dark,
The ghost of a flame, leaving its mark,
Every step is a memory, lost and reclaimed,
Shadow play, calling out my name.
Raven St. Clair - Shadow Play