RoseBlood(29)

With that he turns and follows the trail Audrey took into the corridor, leaving me to stumble over his words as I stare openmouthed at Katarina.

Christina Nilsson. I ran across the name during my Phantom research online. That was the stage name for the real-life Swedish soprano—Kristina Jonasdotter—rumored to have inspired Gaston Leroux’s heroine. So that means Kat is practically related to Christina’s fictionalized counterpart, Christine Daaé. And she was invited here because of that relation, by a mysterious benefactor who no one has ever seen, but who redesigned this opera house. A reclusive architect, just like the phantom from the books.

Paired with all I’ve seen since I’ve been here, this can’t be a coincidence, and there’s no longer any doubt in my mind.

I am in a horror story.



Thorn adjusted his half-mask, hidden behind the mirrored wall that led to the grand foyer. The furred silhouette of gray at his feet rubbed his ankles—collar jingling softly—impatient to get the task underway.

The subtle droning of lectures drifted down from the third floor, where the juniors attended classes, and the scent of coffee, cinnamon, and buttery croissants indicated the seniors were still breakfasting in the atrium. All the teachers were preoccupied, as was Rune’s mother, which should’ve left the first floor abandoned and ripe for the plucking. But two students had just wandered down.

Audrey and Jackson. She was crying next to her dorm room door, and the boy was comforting her. Thorn had watched their dance long enough over the past year to know how deep their feelings ran. Long enough to know he envied them . . .

What would it have been like, to have such typical problems growing up? To have people your age to learn with, argue with, talk with?

Thorn sighed and bent down to pet Diable. The cat was a good friend, no question, but it wasn’t the same. It also wasn’t only Erik’s lifestyle to blame for Thorn’s isolation. Honestly, in the beginning, Thorn had been too fragile to be around anyone but the clandestine man who’d saved him.

During their first two years together, Erik taught him how music could heal a broken soul. He taught Thorn to play through his pain on an Andrea Amati violin. He showed him how the instrument could speak to the heart, like Thorn’s own voice once had, before his vocal cords were damaged. How it could replace what was taken from him, and make him whole again.

So grateful and eager to find a new outlet for his songs, Thorn had practiced twelve hours each day. Then, on his ninth birthday, Erik rewarded him with two gifts. It had been a surprise, to have the event remembered at all. Erik wasn’t fond of birthdays, having never had anyone celebrate his. Erik’s own mother despised the date he was born because of his deformity, and her disdain grew with each passing year.

So when Erik had Thorn take a seat in the underground parlor and offered the gift-wrapped boxes, Thorn knew it was a special occasion. And special it was, for it was the only birthday he and his guardian would ever celebrate.

Thorn had started to open the bigger present first, small fingers eagerly plucking at the paper and ribbons, but his guardian took it back and handed over the littler gift. “Open this one first.”

Thorn did, and was struck mute at the shiny medical instruments that rested on a sheet of cotton inside the box.

“They’re scalpels.” The lower half of Erik’s face brightened on a smile. “You’re always bringing home wounded animals. You’ve shown great compassion. It’s time I taught you how to be a proper doctor to them. Would you like that?”

Thorn’s chest swelled with pride. “Yes! Oh, Father, I will make you proud!”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Erik tilted his head, offering the bigger gift once more. He held it between them when Thorn reached for it. “I’ve given you back your songs, just as I promised. Have I not?” The eyes behind his mask glittered with emotion.

Thorn nodded. “Yes, Father Erik.”

“Then one day soon, you will return my generosity, and help me acquire the songs I need, just as you promised.”

“I will.”

Erik’s gaze drifted to the cellar lab, then back to Thorn. “All right then. Open the gift.”

Inside the box was a violin wrapped in red velvet: a black Stradivarius, as elegant as any lady, and formed of wood as glossy and fathomless as ink. Thorn’s heart soared at the beauty of it, and he itched to play. “Thank you,” he said, trying to sound as grateful as he felt. “But, there’s no bow . . .”

Erik stepped back until he was on the far side of the room, his fingers burrowed into the folds of the dressing jacket he had draped over his thin shoulders. “Ah, but there is. Just hold out your hand.”

Setting down the instrument, Thorn did as he was told, palm turned upward. A light flashed inside Erik’s jacket, then illuminated Thorn’s fingertips—a transfer of warm energy that seeped through his veins and lit them up in response. As the heat and glow diminished, the coolness of a long, graceful bow replaced them, balanced atop Thorn’s palm as if put there by Erik himself, although he was still across the parlor.

Thorn’s mouth gaped. “Show me, please. Show me how to do the magic trick!”

Erik laughed—a beautiful resonance that echoed through their home, wrapping Thorn in happiness until he laughed, too.

“In time, child, I will show you.” Erik crossed the room and took a seat beside Thorn on the chaise lounge. “You’re very special. We all are. We have the ability to manipulate matter via energy. However, this specific trick can work only among others of our kind. It’s a symbiotic exchange. I have many magical things to show you. But right now, I’d like to tell you a story.”