RoseBlood(107)

I struggle to stay standing. She can’t possibly know my plans for the party. “What do you mean?”

“What you said yesterday, before you went out for Renata’s part. That isn’t like you. You had an ulterior motive . . . you’re planning to roll over so Audrey can have the lead. Am I right?”

I sigh. As many secrets as I’m hiding, I can’t resist sharing at least one with Sunny. “Yeah. And it’s working. Jax hates me, and Audrey’s not mad at him anymore.”

Sunny shakes her head. “He don’t hate you. Neither does she. All of us—well, everyone but me—are just confused, that’s all.”

I make my way over to the bed to take a seat at the other end, playing with the ruffled cuffs of my dress shirt. “Well, I’m a confusing person.”

“And secretive.” A weird expression crosses her face as she sees the pile of letters from Christine on my pillow behind her. She grabs them before I can. Her bluish-purple eyes turn to me. “The Christine?”

I scramble for an excuse. “I—I found them.”

“Oh yeah? In the chapel, or on the roof?” Her eyebrows shoot up accusingly on the last word.

The sick nausea pools in my stomach again, and the cod no longer smells appetizing except to Diable, who’s seated himself at the base of the nightstand and is staring up, sniffing the air.

Sunny leans down to open her book bag, the letters snug in her lap. She drags out two familiar tin cans with holes in the bottoms, and a cracked white half-mask. “At first I thought this belonged to Professor Tomlin, since these are the tins he uses in our labs to store solvents and stuff. But why would you be meeting him up there? And why the mask?”

The room tilts topsy-turvy. Etalon must’ve been in such a hurry last night that he left some things behind. But how did Sunny find the secret passage? And how did she unlock the door? “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right.” Sunny’s smug glare stands out against the purple-lit walls, brighter than her red hair. “You were so busy arguing with the Bride of Frankenstein about stealing your aunt’s disposable contacts, you forgot you dropped this, huh?” She places the rooftop key on the bed beside the other items.

My tongue freezes. I piece together the events of my encounter with Bouchard last night, her words to me before she snapped off the necklace: I’ve seen these eyes before. She’s going to want to know about this. Sunny construed that as Bouchard accusing me of stealing contacts. But where would she have been, to see and hear everything?

Then I remember. “You. You were the rustling I heard behind the phantom cutout . . . you were on the stairs—”

“Yep. I’d come out to go to the bathroom and saw the mirror door opening, with you sneaking through. I decided to retrace your steps after you dropped the key.” Sunny unties the string from the letters.

I grapple for them but she jerks away. The papers go flying, sending Diable darting up the spiraling staircase to the mini-loft. I crouch to gather the letters before Sunny can. My brain flips through uncountable scenarios, trying to find one that will explain all of this.

“Whoa. That’s creepy as hell,” Sunny says from where she’s picking up behind me.

My shoulders stiffen as I turn.

Her face is so pale her freckles stand out like specks of mud on a whitewashed fence. She holds up a sketch of the disfigured Phantom similar to the one Etalon showed me on the rooftop. It must’ve been stuffed inside the stack of letters. Brownish-red spatters fleck the background, like aged blood. Sunny’s trembling finger points to the bottom, beside the signature, where Christine scripted the words: Guard your throats and hide your eyes. He’s not dead, you fools. Legends never die.



Seated on his bed, Thorn slipped his feet into his new socks and wiggled them. The colorful faces on the toes appeared to dance in the hazy blue light of his aquarium. He smiled, then shoved his feet into his boots, tying the laces up to his calves, his mind on those moments spent with Rune in the aviary.

He’d read the insecurity in her aura—sensed she was worried he’d think her gift was childish. It was such an intimate and kind gesture. One that made him feel treasured and gave him hope. He’d wanted to share that hope, share that energy she inspired in him.

Holding her in his arms, tasting his name on her lips, had been even sweeter than he’d ever imagined it could be. As were her whimpers asking for more.

And her voice when he played for her? Seraphic, just as Erik always said. Thorn knew they were taking a chance dressing her as Christine. It could backfire, presenting her as the object of Erik’s desire. That’s why Bouchard and Rune’s aunt were there. As backup. He hated putting Rune in danger, but she was stronger than she realized. She would discover that tonight.

He hadn’t told her everything about the ballad. He wanted to spare her the knowledge that Erik often sang it, with tears in his eyes, to the body in the cryo-chamber. Some images were too morbid and tragic for anyone to have to live with. It was enough Thorn would never stop seeing it himself.

He smoothed the hems of his black scrub pants into place over his boots before pulling on the matching top, saturated with the scent of rubbing alcohol. He had to look the part of the surgeon. He’d wear the lab jacket, too, to cover up the ribbon imprint on his arm. That’s the last thing Erik needed to know about.