RoseBlood(71)
Erik had once told Thorn how rare it was for twin flames to be incarnated on the earth at the same time—for them to be close enough in age and proximity to find each other. “How precious and fragile the bond,” he’d said. “It can be heaven or utter hell.”
If either or both of the twin flames were incomplete people, if they were still learning who they were themselves, the relationship would be fraught with pain and misfortune. At the time, Erik had been referencing his own experience with Christina. But it appeared Thorn was cursed to repeat that tragic performance.
Rune was his soul’s mirror. Each time he looked at her, he saw himself. Her strengths paralleled his: a seamstress, with the talent for taking scraps and making masterpieces, just as he did with broken animals; a kinship with flowers and plants—the quiet, lovely parts of the world that asked nothing from anyone other than to be admired, respected, and appreciated; and a deep, introspective curiosity that sought out powers too strange or frightening for typical people to embrace.
She even shared his flaws, the things he struggled not to despise about himself: the inability to sing without pain, the isolation from being born different, a deep distrust of everyone but himself.
But he had managed to bypass her distrust; he’d healed her pain, by speaking to her with his violin—a violin that he now knew, after experiencing her childhood memories, had a deeper tie to her blood than she could possibly fathom.
He was having trouble reconciling that detail himself, how the instrument had come into his possession at all. No wonder their connection was so strong.
It had been easy to justify taking advantage of their spiritual bond. To tell himself he was helping her on some level. But all he’d really done was make things more difficult for everyone. She came here hating her gift. And he’d opened the door for her to love it.
If she truly had come to love it, how could she possibly give it up when the time came? She had only two days left until Halloween and her imminent appointment with fate in Erik’s cellar lab.
The thought of his father’s plan coming to fruition sliced through Thorn’s gut like the brambly clawed vines that waited downstairs to capture their unsuspecting victims.
He stared at the floor. All it would take was a flip of a switch, and the mirrors would slide open, revealing the club below—his ringside seat. The guests would still see a domed, reflective ceiling from their side. They’d never know he was spying upon them, or siphoning off their terror through black, energy-absorbing tubes that connected the club to this room.
It was an art form, the way Father Erik could enchant an audience, cushion them with billowing chords of operatic splendor, then send them plummeting into the depths of revulsion and dread before they even realized the trapdoors of their subconscious had been triggered.
Thorn ground his teeth, envisioning Rune alone, trapped by an instinct she didn’t yet understand or control, in that surging fray of victims and harrowing energy. He slammed his wine goblet to the table. No way in hell was he going to watch from here.
But he’d promised Erik not to show his face tonight. That much he would honor.
On the drive here, we passed what felt like a half hour in dead silence, other than the sound of the hearse’s motor, our breaths, and the wind streaming through the slightly cracked windows. The dampness of evening sifted in and a slight breeze rustled the loose curls at my neck—an odd, unsettling tickle like the one inside my head, warning me: turn back, turn back, turn back.
Our ride has now come to a stop. The car doors open. No words are exchanged as someone helps me and my friends out and removes the headbands from our wrists. It’s not the driver. Whoever loosens my “cuffs” isn’t wearing gloves. The blindfolds stay in place but my coat is coaxed off my shoulders and tossed into the backseat. Cool night air chills my skin as we’re herded like sheep away from the hearse. The one thing that keeps me from changing my mind is the bone-deep knowledge that my maestro is here, waiting for me. I can feel his anticipation. It matches my own.
“Hey, what about our bags?” Sunny pipes up, causing our escorts to pause. “I got money in there!”
“You have wristbands.” The driver’s nasally French accent answers from behind us. “That’s all the currency you need inside. I’ll keep your personal effects locked in your car. They’ll be here for the trip back to the city.”
Back to the city . . . where exactly are we? Goose bumps erupt on my bare arms, an acutely vulnerable sensation when paired with my blindness.
“Just want to reiterate”—Jax grumbles at my left as we’re nudged forward again—“how stupid this whole plan was, in case it’s the last thing I ever say.”
Sunny snorts from my right, and Quan moans from her other side.
The clomp of several sets of feet keep time with my stiletto heels as, arm in arm, my group is guided along a rough surface that feels like cement. Our direction shifts and we follow a gritty, descending incline, enveloped by a musty odor. Every sound echoes, as if we’re moving through a tunnel.
The unmistakable ping of an elevator greets us and we’re steered into the small space, the air thick with carpet cleaner and foreign colognes. The hum of a motor under our cushioned feet carries us down. As the elevator doors sweep open at our stop, an unrecognizable subgenre of dance music shuttles through my body and hammers my ears. It’s like chamber music meets underground techno rock. My heart pounds in time with the frantic beats.