RoseBlood(84)

Dinner was just as excruciating, eating with my aunt—who was silent for the first time in . . . well, ever—as far away from the other kids as I could get. With every forkful I craved something other than the salmon, almond, and eggplant salad on my plate. All the while I wished Mom was there, or Trig and Janine. But would they even know me now?

Then again, maybe Mom already knows. She always said I was my father’s daughter. Is that what she had in mind, when she told me to be something amazing? Something better?

I almost considered calling her today to feel her out, but changed my mind. As skeptical as she was about Dad and Grandma’s talk of auras and his superstitious upbringing, there’s no way she knew how deeply rooted in vampire mythology they were. It’s better she doesn’t. If she knew the truth, she would hate me as much as Grandma for what I did to Dad.

The edges of my eyes sting. After seeing how easy it is for me to drain people’s energy, I’m even more convinced that I’m responsible for him getting sick.

How am I supposed to live with that?

Blotting my lashes with my sweater’s sleeve, I take a last look at the empty stairwell, wishing Diable were still there.

I snuck from my room a few minutes after lights-out, Diable at my heels. I kept my phone off and felt my way around the dark foyer, tripping over a pumpkin and knocking Sunny’s Red Death phantom cutout to the floor. As soon as I repositioned the prop and was assured no one heard me, I lowered the roof key to Diable and let him sniff the metal. With a twitch of his whiskers, he pattered over to the edge of a mirror and dug at one corner until a loud click snapped the silence and the reflective plane swung open.

Shutting us in, I followed as he wound through the secret tunnel. We passed a dozen different hidden door panels while climbing the stairs. With my phone lit up again, I could make out rooms on each floor from the other side of the two-way mirrors, and understood at last how Etalon had kept tabs of my daily schedule. On the second flight, I recognized Bouchard’s workshop, Madame Fabre’s sewing dorm, and Professor Tomlin’s science lab. It was too dark to see much detail, but his costume for the masquerade was still hanging on his cabinet door where I saw it Friday—a gas mask of black leather shaped like a jackal’s head, along with a matching jacket. Even his costume was cooler than anyone else’s.

Diable and I passed a few of the burned-out storage rooms on the upper flights, and even with the glass barrier, the sight of the scorched props and singed costumes felt too close, too real. It brought back memories of that fiery Valentine’s party in second grade, and Grandma’s vendetta. Tucked in the corners here and there were small barrels with wires swirling out from the bases. I had to make a conscious effort not to get sidetracked by them, assuring myself I’d try to find a way into the rooms to explore later. My meeting with Etalon was too important to miss.

It took ten minutes to make that climb. Now, I can sense Etalon on the other side of the door. His emotions emanate through the wood, threatening to boil over: anxiety, anger, attraction, and dread. I can taste their vaporous sizzle, and I share every one. If I walk through, neither of us will go unscathed or be the same again. But he owes me explanations, and it’s time he pays up.

Shoving the key into the hole, I click to release the lock. A gush of night air sifts across me, chilled with the scent of damp stone, greenery, and roses.

I step out, close the door, and button my shin-length sweater to cover the scar on my knee peeking through the rip in my jeans. My hair billows in unruly waves, and I scold myself for forgetting to at least wear my knit cap. I knot the strands at my nape in a loose bun that will never hold in this wind.

White pinpricks dot the black sky overhead and drape the dark shadows in lucent shrouds, like webs made of starlight. In the dimness, Etalon’s signature Fire and Ice roses deck every corner of the long expanse, spilling out of giant pots. Their vines and blooms wind along the five-foot-high stone wall encompassing the roof’s circumference like a guard rail.

At last, I know the origins of his supply.

He’s nowhere in sight, but he discarded his gloves a few feet from the threshold. I lift one and sculpt my cheek with the black leather, remembering how I wore it weeks ago. How he took it back during our first magical dance in the theater. Placing it atop the other glove, I continue my perusal of the surroundings.

It had to have taken years to convert this place from a barren rooftop to a moonlit courtyard. How long has he lived at this opera house, haunting the corridors and passing through mirrors?

I peer over the top of the guard wall where the chapel, cemetery, and forest dot the landscape below like grayscale imprints—dark and borderless.

The stony surface is level beneath the soles of my boots as I move on, no wooden beams or shingles to trip me up. Strands of miniature greenish pearls glimmer along the auditorium’s cupola where it rises like a tower on the far end of the lengthy rooftop.

At this end, overshadowing me, the fifteen-foot Apollo and Pegasus statue stands guard, lit by those same luminescent strings. The greenish lights trail down to outline the back of a stone bench beneath the stallion’s giant wing. They’re like Christmas decorations, but softer and more natural, gilding everything in a misty glow, without electrical outlets or cords.

I stop at the bench and lay my tote on the seat to caress a strand. The tiny orbs feel warm and slick beneath my fingers. They brighten at my touch, and their light hums through me with a revitalizing pulse. Their glow is an aura. They’re organic—living things.