RoseBlood(108)

Thorn stood, checking his room, assuring everything was in place. He’d already emptied the aquarium of the fish. Freed them in the river from where he caught them; though he’d left the aquarium filled with water and the light on, to keep Erik from noticing the change. All of Thorn’s animal patients were free, and he’d never have to alter another voice. In the chapel was a suitcase holding his scant possessions: clothes, a few half-masks, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, some soap, the fairy tale book Rune gave him, and the Stradivarius.

If he escaped alive tonight, Erik would disown him, or, worst case, chase him down until he’d had his revenge.

The thought not only filled Thorn with dread, it also made his heart sink. Yet, one thing buoyed it: imagining a life that was above ground, with no masks or cellar labs or deadly traps. A life among people who had jobs, who went to dinner and attended the opera houses as guests . . . not eternal ghosts haunting the performers within.

He wanted to take Rune to Paris every morning with sunshine warm on their faces, and let her shop to her heart’s content, or duck into an antique bookstore during a rainstorm and read together all afternoon. Or walk alongside cafés and elegant gardens—holding hands until the sun disappeared, then sit with her in front of the Eiffel Tower all lit up like a beacon—and kiss her face in the glow of yellow light.

To be a real couple. To have real friends. To blend in, except when they were alone and could let their inner beasts out to play.

That telling moment in the sewer twelve years ago kept surfacing like an omen: “You could still have a normal life,” Erik had said. “Your perfect face, flawless features . . . they’ll earn you a place of respect and power in that world. You can blend in, even rule, where I never could.” And Thorn’s na?ve, childish answer: “I don’t want to blend. I want to belong.”

He didn’t belong. Not here. Not anymore. He didn’t belong up there, either. The only place he belonged was with Rune. But since that meant living up there, well, he’d warmed to the idea of blending.

He just wasn’t sure a phantom’s son could have a normal life, with nothing to offer but dark talents and blood on his hands.

A part of him wanted to go back to last night, endlessly relive that quiet, perfect moment in the moonlight garden with Rune, drinking in her delicious white aura, tasting her soft skin, while giving her all the pleasures he’d promised. Because here in the present, a cloud of gloom closed in. Something primal hung on the air—scented with a mix of burned flesh and compost. Regret and death.

The plan he’d made was good, but it wasn’t fail proof. If he knew anything of the man who had raised him, he knew the Phantom was always one step ahead.

Always.

Thorn had put blinders on the day Rune came, too blissfully happy at their reunion to pay attention. But now, looking back, he saw the signs. All along, Father Erik had been aware that Thorn was secretly helping Rune break free from her musical demons. Yet he’d pretended not to notice and let it continue. Now, in these final hours of her freedom, Thorn realized there must’ve been an underlying reason.

Erik had insisted from the beginning that the girl who harbored Christine’s voice would have to want to sacrifice it for the transfer to work. So why would he allow Thorn to help her learn to appreciate and cherish her talent, unless it somehow furthered his cause? It surely wasn’t a virtuous gesture, a change of heart brought about by watching his only son fall in love.

One way or another, Thorn would find out tonight—a knowledge that sent knifelike jabs through his chest.

The elevator’s motor triggered Ange’s answering squawk. Erik was on his way up from the cellar. He’d been in costume for hours, impatient to go. Now that it was time, he would expect Thorn to see him off.

Struggling to steady his raging pulse, Thorn stood and slipped into the lab jacket. He took a shaky breath, raked his fingers through his hair, and looked in the mirror. He thought upon the coverings he’d created to hide behind over the years: clay, porcelain, satin, and copper. Then he schooled his features to a guise of obedient compliance, because tonight, his face was the most important mask he would ever wear.





24



FIRE AND ICE


“Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.”

Robert Frost

The ballroom is abuzz with activity. The colorful auras of fifty students and six teachers mix and mingle, clash and conflict, even more distracting to my eye than the bright and extravagant costumes that range from modern culture to mythological, fairy tale, and classical.

Seated at a table, I nibble on hors d’oeuvres—grilled zucchini rolls with herbed goat cheese, tomato-and-bacon-topped marmalade on bruschetta—in an effort to look nonchalant while keeping the entrance in sight.

The Phantom is late.

Either that or he’s behind the mirrored wall, observing and strategizing. I’m shocked that I’d prefer the latter. Otherwise, something’s gone wrong with Etalon, and that’s unbearable to even imagine. The ribbon tattoo on my arm keeps stinging, as if to validate that fear. It was feeling like this even before Sunny touched it upon my arrival and commented on how well I’d drawn it, and that it was an interesting addition to my Pandora theme, and also, why did I change themes anyway, and where’s the glowing contacts?