RoseBlood(72)

We’re led out, instantly slammed with a fusion of perfume, sweat, and the faint sting of sulfur—reminiscent of summers on Fourth of July with my friends. That thought sends me spiraling back to Trig and Janine, and how crazy they’d say I was for doing this. Just like I was crazy when I went to that frat party.

Poor Ben . . .

Jax tightens his arm through mine. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. If he knew what I’d left in my wake in Texas, he’d already be running in the other direction. So would Sunny and Quan. But I’m not going to let them out of my sight. I’m the only protection they have here. I can’t allow anything to happen to them tonight. Tensing my arms through Jax’s and Sunny’s, I link the four of us tight as an escort removes our blindfolds.

It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the contrast of darkness and throbbing, neon lasers. From our bird’s-eye view on the narrow balcony, a pulsating surge of reflective, brightly colored clothes makes the floor appear to shiver under the black lights.

“Holy goat balls of fire,” Sunny says as she looks over the waist-high railings. The shimmers across her face blink in time with the rainbow lights on her wig. “Are you seeing this, Rune?” The question sounds like a whisper under the growing swell as the band onstage at the back wall begins a new techno-dance number.

I home in on the architecture and décor.

“Incredible,” I mumble. I’d know this place anywhere, thanks to all the Phantom research I did online. The infamous opera house. But it’s a grand deception . . . an intricate design crafted upon the walls by skillful strokes of fluorescent paint. Instead of a flat and false representation, the glowing 3-D scene looks as if you could walk straight into it . . . become a part of its baroque resplendence: interweaving corridors, winding stairs, bronze statues of Greek mythos, alcoves and landings, and row upon row of velvety seats. The cleverly executed optical illusion gives the stadium-size space the appearance of stretching on for miles, while accommodating the frenzied movement of ravers who would otherwise trip over any real stairwells, seats, or statues.

In place of the infamous crystal chandelier, a massive, black wrought-iron replica spins at the center of the domed, mirrored ceiling. The scrolling tentacle arms seem to multiply with each rotation like a larger-than-life mutating octopus. Thorns, the size of sewing needles, jut out along the lengths instead of suction cups. At the tips of the tentacles, candle sleeves with black-light luminaries drape the room in phosphorescent splendor.

“It’s a mirror image of the Palais Garnier, gothic-glammed,” I answer at last, talking over the music.

“Exactly my thought,” Sunny answers. “Things just got weird.”

“Just got weird?” Jax shouts to be heard over the music. “Pretty sure I’ve been saying things were weird since we put these overpriced circus rags on my dad’s credit card!”

The volume of the song escalates, as if trying to drown out Jax’s complaints. Electronic keyboards and cymbals swarm my eardrums like audible bees, muffling Quan’s ensuing comments. Beneath the buzz in my head, I hear my maestro’s raspy voice. He’s somewhere in this room. His magnetic force lures me to lean over the balcony’s edge. The compulsion to dive into the sea of bodies and swim until I find him is overwhelming.

I teeter there, tethered in place by my friends’ arms. A nudge between my shoulder blades urges me toward the long, winding stairs that lead to the lower level. I glance over my shoulder, finally getting a look at the escorts who brought us here. The three of them turn and walk back to the elevator. I can’t tell if they’re male or female. All I see are hooded vests—aglow with flashing pinpricks of blue light like my dress’s panels. The fabric appears to be floating without a body, then a laser show ignites, illuminating our platform and their black pants and shirts before dimming once more. At the elevator, the escorts step inside and face me. I can’t make out anything under the obscurity of their hoods, other than glimmering eyes, similar to the Phantom’s.

His words at the chapel revisit: What are we, you mean to say.

These employees are like him . . . like me.

“Wait!” I start forward, but too late. The doors slide shut.

Sunny grips my elbow and forces me to look below. The band has left the stage, and all the dancing bodies freeze in response. A drastic hush falls over the room, coating everything with a chilled muffle, like a fall of snow-encrusted feathers.

The walls on the lower level transform, snapping free and taking on strange shapes—a puzzle being pulled apart and rearranged into something new. The 3-D paintings of stairwells, auditorium seating, and statues interlock, forming grotesque creatures: nymphs and cherubs cracking apart at the torso, so rib cages made of stair steps can fill their hollowness. Red velvet auditorium seats shift upward and rip through the statues’ mouths to mimic bloody tongues. They’re gargoyles now—a convergence of beauty and horror unfolding before our eyes.

The floor rotates, the guests wavering to keep balance, making way for the stage to revolve until it stops in the center. A sign drops down from above with tiny white lights around the borders—a vintage carnival poster, spotlighting a freak-show attraction. Glittery red letters spell out the words: BEHOLD: THE EXQUISITE NIGHTMARE.

“Oh, we gotta see this.” Sunny breaks free from our chain of arms and starts down the stairs. Quan adjusts his hat and hustles to catch up.