RoseBlood(76)

I nudge Diable affectionately with the toe of my cowboy boot. He wraps his front claws around the worn leather, gnawing it with sharp little teeth. He sits up with a start. His large ears perk tall. Paired with his flicking whiskers and tail, it’s a sure sign he either hears Etalon in the walls, or a mouse or rat somewhere. I really hope it’s Etalon. I haven’t heard from him since I left the club last night. Even my dreams were devoid of his songs.

Not giving me a second glance, Diable’s off, disappearing into the shadows. I wish I could escape as easily. The final dancing auditions took longer than expected. We started at two o’clock, and now it’s four. But the most important singing audition still remains. Only Kat and Audrey made it to the finals, since I bowed out. After today, one will become Renata, and the other will be understudy. Or, if Kat ends up with the lesser role, we’ll have no understudy at all.

“Now, Miss Nilsson, if you please.”

Kat resumes her walk down the aisle and ascends the steps to the stage. Sunny grunts, keeping the volume low enough that the teachers seated at the back of the theater can’t hear her. It’s all for Audrey’s benefit.

Her turn will be after Kat’s, and I’ve never seen her this nervous before singing. She was back early enough from Paris yesterday to practice five more times without a single mistake, and she was already nailing the aria days before that. Yet something’s shaken her up, to the point she won’t even look at me when I try to help.

Maybe it’s because several of the juniors stopped my group after lunch this afternoon and asked if I planned to try out. Apparently, since Kat and Roxie are no longer giving me hell over my stage fright, some of our peers have decided I’m worth a second thought.

But a role in an opera is the last thing on my mind. For one, I would never step all over Audrey and her hard work, not to mention betray our friendship. I won’t do it. And two, the stage is a reminder of the performance and ensuing events at the club last night, and that I’m a dangerous liability. I’m a ticking time bomb of energy-sucking savagery. Just look what I almost did to Jax and Ben. What I’m hoping I didn’t do to my dad.

I’m lucky Jax, Quan, and Sunny remember very little about our weird outing, but that doesn’t make me any less guilty.

As incredible as it felt a little over a month ago, singing in this theater when it was just me and my fantasy partner, that kind of temporal joy seems so far out of reach now. Everything is tinged by what happened almost twenty hours earlier—and the questions that were answered only to birth a thousand more.

Why was Etalon pretending to be the Phantom? What does his face look like under the mask—is he damaged, too? And who is the real Phantom? What am I to him . . . how does my family fit into all of this?

My stomach bunches tight as I burrow deeper in the velvety seat, sandwiched between Sunny and Quan on one side and Audrey and Jax on the other. Audrey’s upset with Jax, Sunny’s upset with Quan. And they’re all acting weird toward me. It must be nerves getting the best of everyone. Maybe it’s some side effect of the stuff Etalon injected into their veins, another thing no one remembers but me.

The musicians in the orchestra pit begin to play and Kat joins in on cue, her voice powerful, her Russian flawless. Attempting not to listen, I focus on the knitting project I brought—my one chance for sanity. I left my hair down earlier so it hangs around my face on either side like thick, wavy curtains, offering privacy. I’m weary of catching glimpses of people’s auras in my periphery. They seem brighter and more noticeable today than ever before. Either that, or I’m hyperaware because I’m curious about the flavor each different emotion might contain.

I brought my wooden knitting needles since they’re quieter than the metal ones. They swirl silently, eating up the tangled mass of gray yarn. Loop, knot, and pull . . . loop, knot, and pull—I cast my stitches, linking and locking. The needles swing, ferocious in their speed, giving me something to concentrate on other than these long hours I have to get through before I can see Etalon tonight.

I’m not sure why I’m still knitting socks for him. Maybe because the yarn cost money, as did the emoticon appliques I’m stitching onto the individual toes to represent the faces he used to draw as a child.

Although deep down, I know it’s more. It’s because, even though he tricked me, I can’t forget that there are unknown, torturous details of his past that connect him to the dark world I experienced last night. For some reason, I’ve never been able to see past the moment his voice was damaged. Yet somehow, even after those cruelties he suffered, he still had enough goodness in his heart to save me and my friends.

Hopefully not at his own expense.

The thought of him in danger makes my mouth dry and stickery, like I’ve been chewing on thistles. I take a slow breath, surrounded by the scent of the club. Even though I showered twice in hopes of washing away every horrific memory hanging onto me via my senses, there’s still a hint of sulfur and stale perfume in my tunnel of hair.

Kat’s vocals escalate, but I shut her out, my needles slowing to a rhythmic, calming lull. Filtering through wavy strands of hair, the soft purple spotlight relaxes me further, reminding me of the lava lamp in my room.

I imagine myself curled up under my covers with the vent at my back, Etalon’s music playing, me humming along, and both of us adrift on currents of peace. Despite how angry I am about his lies, I still feel connected to him. For one, because he shares a very powerful and scary side of me; but even more because we’ve been a part of each other since I was seven. His music saved me from drowning that day my grandmother dunked me. I haven’t told him that yet. Maybe he already knows. How do you hate someone who pulled you from the brink of death, not once, but twice?