RoseBlood(9)

“And hello to you, sweet Ange.” He knelt and stroked her silken feathers, fingers leaving trails in the crimson plumes. “Holding vigil for our new arrival, are you?”

She nudged a strand of hair from his temple with her beak. He smiled at her affectionate fussing.

“You shouldn’t be this close to the surface,” he scolded. “Diable’s on the prowl. We wouldn’t want the devil to catch our little angel.”

The swan nibbled his thumb, as his warning echoed in the cave. His voice magnified—bass and rumbling—an alien sound, as if pebbles filled his vocal cords and ground together with each word. The gruffness made him wince.

“Go on now,” he whispered this time and stroked her shimmery neck before standing. “Make yourself scarce.”

The red swan watched him with milky blue eyes too perceptive for any ordinary bird, especially one that was going blind. She waddled to the water and skimmed across the surface—afloat and waiting.

He studied her inquisitive pose. “I can’t come yet,” he answered softly. “You know your way through all the booby traps. Go on home. I’ll follow soon enough.”

Her head bent on an elegant curl, a nod actually, as if she were royalty and he a peasant who needed her permission to stay. She sailed toward the depths of the tunnel—growing smaller in the distance. He watched until she resembled a velvety rose petal drifting atop a midnight puddle. Plucking his glove from the boat, he slid his fingers back into their sheath of black.

He studied the strands of bioluminescent larvae he’d awakened overhead, lost in thoughts of the girl. He’d never expected her to be the one. To step out of the visions he’d had since his childhood into this place and this time. It was all wrong.

Maybe he was mistaken.

His thumb pressed his left temple, rubbing the pounding throb there. But even if she was the one from his visions, it couldn’t change things. She was haloed by an aura that fluctuated between white and gray . . . purity and melancholy. She was unsettled at being here. Lost, even. The perfect foil to that other narcissistic and ambitious young prima donna who’d been brought in over a year ago due to her bloodline.

There was depth beneath this new arrival’s wounded veneer . . . the essence of light and life in its most raw form: the energy of rhapsody. Music pulsed inside her blood—uncultivated and untamed. He could sense that much.

His mouth watered, hungry to taste those melodies, mocking his struggle to rein in his cravings. He’d never seen the girl’s face in their subconscious interactions. It was always covered by her wild, black hair, or submersed in murky water as she fought to break out of the wooden crate that entrapped her. But he’d glimpsed her eyes many times—a bright, electrified green with widened pupils when they were filled with song, reflections of her heart chakra.

He had to see her up close, to be sure; regardless that he didn’t know her features, he knew her soul.

And if his suspicions were right . . .

What then?

Nothing.

His chest muscles tangled between despair and hope, anger and urgency. Whatever he discovered today, he couldn’t forget the reason she was here. She was a means to an end. Payment for an outstanding debt. Nothing more.

He glanced up at the underbelly of the opera house where the tunnel met the foundation. A trapdoor waited there, an entrance to the hidden passages in the building: mirrored walls—the perfect vantage points for viewing the inside of the foyer and classrooms. For him, they were windows, unbeknownst to the academy’s occupants. On their side, they simply saw spans of reflective glass.

Trepidation lumped in his throat at the thought of being so close to her. He could pretend the reaction was a byproduct of another time, another place; a dark and cruel past that cloaked and obscured any human interactions he had, like an octopus’s ink cloud. But there was more—this newly born possibility he dared not entertain—which threatened all of his resolve.

He slammed a fist against his thigh, using the flash of pain to give him clarity.

There was no room for hesitation.

If she was the one, he would have to get even closer. He would have to prey on her . . . disrupt her daily routine, seduce her curiosity, lure her into the depths of his home. His hell.

His fingers twitched in his gloves. There were steps to follow that would ensure success. Calling cards to leave, strange novelties that would drive her to seek out the illumination only darkness could provide. She would find him of her own free will; and she would find herself and her purpose, whether she was prepared or not.

Until then, he’d take no other chances of being seen. Patience was key. He’d already been waiting for what felt like an eternity. What were a few more weeks?

A disturbing mix of anticipation and dread grated along his spine. Mud sucking at his boot soles, he scaled the embankment’s slope toward the window.

Let the dance begin.



Mom and I climb the stone stairs to the entrance. A crow flutters by above us. I hesitate when I hear its cry—a strained mewl, like a kitten in distress. I shake my head. Now I’m not only seeing things, but hearing them, too? My nerves are all over the place.

The scent of wet soil mingles with the perfume of flowers and reels me back in, reminding me of my perennials at home. I won’t be there to fight off the weeds so they can bloom. I’ve always honored Dad’s memory by keeping his flower garden alive. Having already lost his violin, I don’t want to lose yet another tie to him.