RoseBlood(57)
Etalon leaned into the leather rested upon his head. He believed every word; this was the kindest, safest touch he’d felt in months. And it was at the hand of a monster. “Will you be my papa?”
Erik’s palm dropped away, and he turned his back, shoulders hunched as if the question pained him. “In time, perhaps. For now, the blood shed at our hands binds us. We will never again speak of our actions this day, unless I precipitate the conversation. Your secrets are mine to keep, and mine are yours. You will hide nothing from me. Swear to that, or turn away and leave me now.”
Thorn ended his violin’s song with a gradual slide of the bow, letting the note carry on a mournful wail through his underground home—the place he’d lived since he’d vowed his loyalty and devotion to the Phantom twelve years ago, a pact sealed by the blood of evil men.
Thorn had never spoken of that day, or of the children they saved and abandoned. In that, he’d been faithful. But he’d kept his visions of a twin flame silent for years, and harbored quiet, unspoken goals that he now knew went against everything Erik needed . . . everything he had waited over a century to possess.
Apprehension crept through Thorn’s blood, chilling him all the way to his bones. He rubbed his forehead, hard enough to pinch the skin—trying to erase his traitorous thoughts of Rune. Should he continue on this path, he would betray the only father he’d ever known. He would lose the accepting and merciful side of that heroic monster he met so long ago, and face the wrath of the scorpion with the Punjab-lasso tail.
13
SONG TO THE MOON
“You are the night, and the night alone understands you and enfolds you in its arms . . .”
Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire
By the time I’ve changed into a dry sweater and jeans, mopped all the puddles, and spot-cleaned the carpet, it’s five till five. The curfew for Saturdays is ten o’clock, with lights-out by eleven, but everyone planned to be back from Paris today by six. I need to look through my findings at the cemetery before they return.
The musical rush I experienced in the theater hasn’t left my system. It’s numbing me to things I should fear . . . to things I should reevaluate. It made me brash enough to hide a note for my maestro in the orchestra pit, asking to see him again. There are so many questions that need answers. I also want to look into his eyes and thank him for giving me power over Renata’s aria. Not the coppery eyes from my dreams, but the deep, brown, soulful ones I saw in the chapel for an instant. The ones that held so much vulnerability. . . so much longing for humanity. The eyes I looked through in memories that are somehow now mine.
I even went so far as to retrieve the book from my nightstand, the one my mom bought to remind me of Dad. I couldn’t stop thinking of how long it had been since the Phantom heard Les Enfants Perdus, our shared fairy tale. I couldn’t stop empathizing with how much he missed his mother. Since the story made him feel closer to her, I wanted him to have it. So I left it in the orchestra pit, too.
Only now, when I’m starting to come back to myself, do I realize that’s another detail that doesn’t fit with the phantom from the novel. His mother hated him.
I stop at the kitchen to grab a plate of crackers, a chunk of cheese, a knife, and a bottled water, still plagued by the intense hunger I sensed in the Phantom as a child. A shiver of bells bounces behind me and I turn to find Diable at my ankles, looking up at my plate. He’s tagged along since I left the theater. He still won’t let me pet him, but seems determined to stay by my side. I get the distinct impression he’s either guarding me, or stalking me.
I pour some milk into a bowl for my jingling shadow, then together we retreat to my room. I place the cat’s treat close to the stairs leading up to the mini-loft.
His lapping tongue and rolling purr drown out the gurgle of my lava lamp as I use the lavender glow to help me slice cheese and make cracker sandwiches, while sifting through the items in the steel tub.
Keeping busy is the best way to block Madame Bouchard’s cruel insinuations from my mind. Considering the impression I made from the very beginning—crashing an audition, stealing the limelight from students who’d been practicing for months, then fainting like a histrionic heroine from some outdated romance novel—it’s no surprise the school’s distinguished voice teacher wouldn’t want me for her lead role. But I would never try out for that part. I want Audrey to have it, more than anything.
Bouchard just doesn’t understand . . . I had something to prove to myself today. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been singing on stage in the dark. It certainly wasn’t for my love of music.
Or was it?
My face flushes, remembering how it felt to be one with the song again. So accomplished, so alive . . . so complete.
And I have the Phantom to thank for it.
My skin grows warmer at the memory of our fantastical dance on stage. Besides the fact that somehow he took his glove back, my senses say it was anything but pretend: the heat of his body, the scent of him, the press of his muscles moving against me, and his violin’s voice in my ear—seductive and empowering. I can see how Christina was drawn to him. In that moment, while sharing in the glory of music, wrapped up in the essence of his genius, the deformity he hides under his mask no longer mattered.
Lifting one of my uniform vests from the tub, I debate how best to fix the torn lapel, trying to get him off my mind. I shouldn’t be drawn to someone who’s over a century old, or to someone I don’t know enough to trust. Yet on some level, it makes sense that I am.