RoseBlood(20)

“Didn’t I tell you? Just as the old witch predicted. It will take little convincing for her to give it all up, yes?” The silver-and-gray-striped Milano suit, tailored perfectly to Erik’s thin frame, tightened around his shoulders as he tried to stand. He always dressed in his finest clothes on club nights, but today was Sunday. Their weekly sojourns through the underground tunnels and into Paris were reserved for Saturdays. Thorn was surprised to see him in such fine array while working in the lab. He supposed he’d wanted to look his best, in hopes Thorn might’ve been accompanied by Rune.

Lately, Erik’s desperation made him forget his patience. They both knew it wasn’t time yet. They had to tease her out with carefully placed crumbs. Once convinced she couldn’t trust the students and teachers—on the chance they’d think she was losing her mind—or even herself around them for fear of their safety, she’d venture out on her own, seek the truth within the shadows.

Father Erik had too much to do in his cellar lab in preparation, so it was Thorn’s place to lead her down that path. But only she could surrender to the darkness—body, mind, and soul.

And once she did, Erik would have everything he needed, at long last.

Thorn looped his father’s arm around his neck. Years ago, the man’s six-foot-two frame had towered over him. Now, Thorn overshadowed him by two inches. Using his thigh muscles, Thorn lifted them both to standing. Only fitting, after all the times Erik had carried him in his childhood.

“You must take me to her once night falls,” his father pressed, admiring the glow at his chest, beneath his lavender tie and navy shirt, where Rune’s aria fed his heart with a burst of strength. “Let me see the little pigeon for myself. Her aura will be most visible as she sleeps.”

Thorn seated Erik on the chaise lounge and propped his hip against the curved arm on the other end. A refusal flared at the base of his larynx. He didn’t want to spy on her while she was so vulnerable.

The absurd thought extinguished as quickly as it sparked. How laughable, that such a thing would occur to him.

Their kind was descended from hunters . . . renowned for infiltrating darkened bedrooms and wearing the breath of sleeping women like precious pearls upon their flesh, hijacking their dreams and seducing their bodies and spirits—feeding off their passion, need, and fear.

Even if Thorn tried to argue, Father Erik would convince him all was perfect and proper with a hypnotic purr of those celestial and hedonistic vocal cords.

Over the years, Thorn had become acutely aware of his guardian’s manipulations. When he was that eight-year-old boy, Thorn had delivered the ortolan back to the forest that afternoon after being “healed” by Erik. Then he watched as the bird tried to fly but instead floundered on the ground, gasping for breath. Erik had convinced the songbird she was healed . . . but her ribs still pricked through her lungs, and she died just the same.

Nothing could live forever. At least, nothing of the natural world.

Thorn often wondered if he had the strength to refuse his father’s will, now that he knew. But this had evolved to something beyond Erik’s web of persuasion. Thorn owed him his life and purpose, and would do most anything to hear pride and praise on the strains of Erik’s beautiful voice—no matter how maniacal or horrific the request. He wanted to be the son Erik needed.

The man behind the masks was his father in all the ways that counted. And family counted above all else.

So, of course Thorn would take him to Rune, as soon as Erik had digested her song’s energy and could make the trip. They would be silent in their observance; she’d never know they were there. A slight detour from their relaxed Sunday routine of resting in their rooms wouldn’t hurt.

Thorn told himself this, in hopes to stifle the truth: that he himself wanted to see her again, and that later, when he and Father returned home, he would pick up his violin. After two years of sleep, his muse had reawakened.

Tonight, he would serenade Rune in her dreams once more.



It’s his eyes that call to me first—coppery and glimmering. I squint, unsure if they’re real.

Then I hear the music, and there’s no denying the reality, or that I’m meant to be in this place. Meant to see, hear, and feel everything. It’s the only way I’ll be complete and comfortable in my own skin.

I stumble into the pitch-black tunnel without hesitation, following the heart-rending chords of the violin. Literally following the notes. Each pitch dances along the stony wall—a different color—like a laser-light show. My hand traces them, drawn to the tactile delicacies they offer: blistering reds, temperate greens, sun-warmed yellows, and blues as cool and variable as the ocean depths, where cerulean and navy glisten like sapphires on the tails of monstrously fanged fish.

In the distance, I see him: my maestro, draped in shadows. His eyes flash again—two pennies at the bottom of a wishing well. Can he make my wishes come true? Can he help me sing without pain?

A heavy mist seeps down from above and separates us.

A dripping sound echoes, and my feet splash through cold, rising water. I’m momentarily brave, but my courage wanes when the liquid turns black and swallows me up to my neck.

I shiver in the icy waves. My throat constricts. I panic . . . struggle to keep my head exposed. It’s not a tunnel; it’s a box. A box filling with water that reeks of rotting fish and stagnant mud.