His words funnel around me—violent gusts tearing at my fortitude. My sympathy for the caretaker is shadowed by fear for my own fate. “That means . . . there’s someone else Erik wants to put my voice in. Christine’s body . . . he still has it! How’s that possible? She’s dead. She died an old woman . . . almost a hundred years ago. We are her soul . . .” My hand trembles and tea sloshes between my thumb and forefinger. I yelp.
“The hows are not your concern.” Etalon takes the cup away, setting it at the sink. “Because it won’t come down to you being on that steel table.” His voice is gentle as he takes my hand and blots the tea with a napkin to check my burn. Hard as I try, I can’t stop envisioning those long, caring fingers using a scalpel, tearing away muscle and cartilage. Slicked in blood. I jerk free, in spite of how much I crave the contact between us.
He winces and slings the napkin to the table. “Of course you fear me. I’ve done monstrous things.” Regret chokes his voice as he strides to the violin case and lifts it. “But please, know this . . . I tried not to become a monster. No animal has died under my watch. The donors are simply left mute, like Jippetto once was. And as for him? I decided if I had to commit this gruesome atrocity to give my father the happiness he’s never had, I would offer the caretaker something to make him happy, too. To soften his loneliness. So I gave him a way to talk to the birds he loved to watch from afar, and now they come seeking him, to keep him company.”
I can’t react, trying to process it all.
Etalon’s jaw muscles spasm as he grinds his teeth. “My choices have been as reprehensible as Erik’s deeds. But the difference between us is I lived long enough with a mother who loved me, to know light from darkness. Erik had only darkness from the moment he was born. To live a life with him, I learned to walk in the gray. And to be the father I needed, he learned to do the same. But gradually, Erik lost his way once more. I closed my eyes to it. Until you came, and unraveled all of my pretending. You reminded me of light, of peace and comfort. Of things I’ve not had since I stepped into the Phantom’s world. And I’m so grateful for that. I love my father. But there is no gray with him now. There is only the deepest, most harrowing black. To find him in those depths, to pull him back to the in-between, I’ll have to reach for his humanity—whatever he has left. Music and guilt. They’re the only two weapons I possess. But I need your help to wield them.”
Carrying the Strad toward the bed, Etalon turns to see if I’m following.
I tremble beneath his cloak, unable to budge. It feels like I’m sinking into the floor, as if my legs are made of ice and slowly melting to puddles.
“Forgive me.” A slant of light from the sconces casts shadows of Etalon’s long lashes, smudging his high cheekbones and carving his lovely features to an expression that’s pleading. “I never intended to bring you to RoseBlood. Not you. But I will protect you with my life, now that you’re here. I’m going to lose Erik. I have made peace with that. But I can never lose you, my mirror soul. The only way to find the path to wholeness, to the man I’m meant to be, is to see myself reflected in you.”
My pulse pounds at the magnitude of his words. Uncountable emotions tangle through me.
He pulls a latch behind one of the paintings. The bed folds up and fits securely into an indention in the wall, revealing a trapdoor in the floor. He lifts it open. A scent of greenery and feathers drifts up.
“Please, come.” Even with his back turned, his deep gravelly request is a sweet enticement. “I want to give you at least one beautiful memory, before we face Erik.” With the violin case clamped under an arm, he climbs down the rungs of a ladder, his head disappearing.
The sound of fluttering wings and trilling birdsongs makes me curious enough to place his cloak and my tote on the empty chair, taking time to put his unopened toe socks in my sweater pocket before I follow. Etalon’s waiting at the bottom of the ladder. He catches my waist and lifts me down when I almost lose my footing trying to take it all in.
The aviary is an underwater greenhouse, at least three times the size of Jippetto’s cottage. Overhead, a tall glass roof reveals the river’s currents sweeping over us. The walls flash with fluid reflections. Assorted pots of fragrant flowers and greenery, even small trees, hedge a grassy path. Silhouettes of birds flutter through the leaves and branches, responding to Jippetto’s voice somewhere in the distance.
Crickets chirp in the shadows, and tiny glowing balls—smaller than a candle’s flame—slide through the moonlight on a gentle breeze stirred by fans in the walls. The sparkles take me back to my childhood, evenings spent in the dark with Mom and Dad catching—
“Fireflies,” I whisper, entranced.
“You see, I do eventually set them free to grow and fly.” Etalon’s voice borders on flirty, and his hand finds my lower back. A thrill races through me at his touch.
I glance upward at the currents swirling across the roof again. A small school of fish swims across—graceful, sleek silhouettes. I turn to him. “It’s the first time I’ve ever been surrounded by water without feeling suffocated.”
He tilts his head in response. “This was built back when the opera house was first constructed centuries ago, before the river flooded to cause the island effect. But they used such thick panels of glass for the roof, even once it became submerged, it withstood. And the depths are only three feet overhead. So it still allows for sunlight during the day and moonbeams at night. I come here a lot to compose. During many of our dream-visions, I was in this place. So, I wanted the first time I played for you—face-to-face—to be under the water-drenched moon.”
Before I can even react to the beautiful sentiment, Jippetto appears from behind a bush. I say “hi,” and he nods to me, stroking his beard. He points to the violin case and shrugs.
“Oui, I’m going to play,” Etalon answers.
Jippetto shakes his head, scolding, then tugs at his flannel shirt and kicks up his dirty boots before shaking a finger in Etalon’s direction.
Etalon smiles. “Of course. I’ll leave my shirt and shoes on this time. I’m in the presence of a lady, after all.”
I smile. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll show you one day,” Etalon teases—although there’s a faint aura of desire around him that when paired with the huskiness of his voice offers a promise of something scandalous and somber.
I have to drag my eyes from his or be swept away by my racing heartbeat.
Jippetto winks, then mimes drinking from a cup. He climbs the ladder, vanishes into his cottage, and lowers the trapdoor. There’s a handle in the middle, for when we’re ready to leave.
I’ve never seen the caretaker so settled. So . . . normal. And happy.
It’s this place. It has to be, because it’s making me feel the same. The life-force brims to overflowing here. If I try hard enough, I can almost see the pink and white auras around the flowers, insects, and birds. Pure, positive energy.
That’s why Etalon brought me down. To give me a chance to breathe before the nightmare of facing his father begins.
Etalon leads me to a bench beneath a fragrant cove of lilac—flowers that should be out of season, yet are alive and thriving here in this glass sanctuary where the outside elements hold no sway. My escort takes a seat first, laying the violin at his feet to leave room for me beside him.
Instead, I kneel between his legs. My sweater rides up on my thighs and the grass tickles my knees through the rips in my jeans. I look up into his face—the one he’s always hidden behind a mask; the one that I knew even before I saw it. “You asked me to forgive you. And I do. Erik has manipulated you since you were a child. And I know how much that hurts because he’s family. But you have me now. I promise not to take you for granted, or use you.”
Etalon touches my cheek. The vulnerability and gratitude looking back at me almost makes me leap up and hug him. Instead, I take his hand and flip it over.
“The monstrous things you’ve done don’t make you a monster.
You made a conscious choice tonight, to rise above it. To help everyone at your own expense. So, you earned these.” I place the tissue-paper-wrapped gift on his palm and close his fingers around it. Furrowing his dark eyebrows, he tears open the paper. Moonlight streams through the water to gloss his hair with moving, silvery shadows as he spreads out the knitted footwear next to him on the bench. He looks up at me, questions in his eyes.
“Monsters don’t wear toe socks.” I point to the emoticons, hoping to see him smile, hoping he won’t think I’m a child for making them. “And now you have your piggy puppets back, see?”
His answering grin is boyish astonishment. “Best of all, these won’t wash away,” he adds.
I laugh and he joins in—the spontaneous outburst as exhilarating and uninhibited as a song. But I sober immediately when he props his elbows on his knees so our heads are level, and tilts my chin toward him.
“Say my name,” he murmurs, serious and low.
“Etalo—” I can’t finish, because his warm lips cover mine.
At first, he takes his time with it, guiding my face with his calloused fingertips, teasing me—feather-soft contact with just enough spark to electrify my mouth and send tingles through my teeth. We’re one for an instant, lips sealed, then sipping hungry breaths before clinging again. The moment his gentle ministrations coax a whimper of pleasure from my throat, he drops to his knees and drags my body against him, gripping my lower back in a seductive bid for more.
His lips part and our tongues meet, lighting up my insides with voltaic pulses of emotions, auras that burst in my mind on explosions of color flavored with caramel, midnight flowers, and singed spices—dark, tempestuous, and succulent. I tighten my arms around his nape, fingers curled in his silken hair, lost to the magic of us.
He moans and lowers me to my back, breaking our kiss so his lips can traverse my cheek, my ear, my jaw, my neck—discovering me, tasting me—igniting the spiritual music that only he inspires. A jarring jangle of stimulation rushes through every sensory receptor, a string of songs, ringing and humming like tiny bells set loose beneath my skin.
And I hope against all odds this night never ends.
23
MASKS
“Vice, in its true light, is so deformed, that it shocks us at first sight; and would hardly ever seduce us, if it did not at first wear the mask of some virtue.”
Philip Stanhope, fourth earl of Chesterfield
It’s fourth period, and my stomach reminds me that lunch is just a few minutes away.
Even though my time with Etalon left the psychic vampire in me satiated, my physical needs haven’t been met today. I couldn’t eat breakfast due to my fear of what’s coming tonight . . . of the traps the Phantom has lying in wait on the floors of this opera house—the ones Etalon couldn’t find. Add to that the strain of trying to go to classes and pretend that nothing has changed in my heart or in my life, when both have been altered forever.
“Follow the routines, appear oblivious.” Those were Etalon’s instructions when he left me inside the orchestra pit at three a.m. with one last scintillating kiss burning on my lips. “We can’t let Erik get any more suspicious than he already is.”
Erik, as in the Phantom. As in, Etalon’s father. And to think, that was the least shocking thing I found out last night.
I also learned that Professor Tomlin was the drummer at the rave club who I thought looked familiar. He’s not one of our kind, but he is in the Phantom’s pocket. Etalon warned me to be most cautious around him.
Luckily, I haven’t seen him. Being at the head of the masquerade committee, he dismissed his classes for the day. First-period science became a study hall monitored by Madame Harris in the library, so Tomlin could make last-minute additions to the ballroom. I can only hope those additions aren’t under the advisement of Erik.
I tamp down the unease in my gut to keep myself in the moment.
Bouchard’s sharply angled back faces the class as she scrawls some vocabulary words across her dry-erase board: Intermezzo, Afterpiece, Ballet héroïque, Romantische Oper, Tragédie lyrique.
Fifteen sets of pens scratch on notebooks.
“You ain’t seriously giving us homework on Halloween,” Sunny grumbles from her seat behind me. Every other student is thinking it; she’s the only one bold enough to say it. I nibble the end of my pen, surprised by the longing her voice inspires, wishing I had my friend to talk to. But what would I tell her if I did?
Hey, bestie! Last night I made out with my incubus twin flame in a greenhouse beneath the river. Gave new meaning to the word steamy. And tonight, we’re going to fight a centuries-old phantom before he can steal away my voice and bring the school to the ground with everyone in it.
That would get her Halloween festivities off to a rip-roaring start. I know it has mine.
Bouchard stops writing and shifts on her pointy heels to showcase her equally pointy profile. Her cheek matches the dyed ends of her hair. “‘Ain’t’ is not proper English, Mademoiselle Summers. Assuming that’s the indigenous language of your species.”
Sunny huffs, followed by a snort from Jax and several chuckles around the room. I scowl, being the only one privy to the innuendo behind her criticism.
“Each of these terms,” Bouchard continues, “has to do with masques, pantomimes, exotic heroes and heroines, or the supernatural and mythological. That would be ‘Halloween’-themed homework, for the symbolism impaired. If any of you have an issue with it, we could take a pop quiz instead.”
She slants a glare across the class as everyone returns to scribbling. She’s careful to avoid eye contact with me. Aunt Charlotte’s threats are keeping her at bay.
Although, since I’m wearing sunglasses, she really doesn’t have much choice to avoid my gaze. An eye infection—that’s what Aunt Charlotte told everyone to cover up that I’m still radiating the energy Etalon and I exchanged last night. My aunt’s already planning to get me some green contacts ASAP.
The minute I got back this morning, I went to my aunt’s room, Diable in tow, and using the key she’d let me borrow, crashed on her chaise lounge until it was time to get ready for breakfast and classes. I wanted to be there to make sure she slept off the sleeping gas.
She was fine upon waking, but I wasn’t. I’ve only known I’m descended from ancient vampires for two days. And now, I’m about to be in a fight for the very gift I once wanted to throw away. I’m reeling internally, yet I don’t have time to stop and absorb it all.
I told Aunt Charlotte I’ve decided to stay at RoseBlood. That I couldn’t leave now that I finally found myself and my voice. I had to lie to her about my eyes . . . I used the excuse of snacking on a rose’s life-force. Pretty sure she didn’t buy it. But I’m planning to tell her the truth later today, about everything.
Etalon encouraged me to let her in on the plan. Even Bouchard. He says we can use all the help we can get tonight at the masquerade. And I agree . . .
Now that I’m not betraying him, I’ll be able to talk about him. To make them understand he’s an ally.
I lift my braid to chew on the ends of my hair. Maybe the dry-erase marker fumes are getting to me, because I’m no longer hungry. I’m nauseous.
Of course the real reason behind my kinked-up insides is my concern about the masquerade and the part I have to play. Even more, I’m scared out of my mind about Etalon’s. His part is more dangerous than anyone’s, because he’s betraying the man he lives with, the man he swore his loyalty to as a broken seven-year-old child. The man who was an assassin in Persia over a century ago. The Phantom is not famous for forgiveness.
The dismissal bell rings, and I gather my pen, notebook, and bag then tumble through the door before I have to face Sunny or Jax. I’m sure they think what everybody else does: that the real reason I’m wearing sunglasses is to flaunt that I won Renata’s role. That my superstar complex is growing by the hour.
They’re really going to think that tonight, when I have to give a solit
ary impromptu performance. But if everything goes as planned only the Phantom will be my audience.
Shivers join my nausea as I wind through the bodies darkened to silhouettes by my glasses. Ignoring their auras, I make my way downstairs to my dorm room. Aunt Charlotte offered to bring my food since it’s an extended lunch today, so I wouldn’t have to hide my eyes during the hour break. I’m hoping she’ll stay and we can talk; maybe read Christine’s letters together. Anything to get my mind off tonight. I have to wait until after school to discuss the plan with her. Etalon insisted we go to the forest so there’s no risk of the Phantom overhearing.
At least it’s promising to be a cloudless day so we won’t be stuck in the rain.
Diable is already in my room by the time I arrive, and I’m so happy to see his adorable grumpy face, I don’t even question how he gets in anymore. He’s seated on my bed like he owns it, his wooly fur taking on a different violet shade with each burble from the lava lamp.
After unclipping the tie at my neck, I drop my sunglasses, bag, and books on the floor. Then I pick up the stack of Christine’s letters I brought over this morning when I came to put on my uniform. Diable doesn’t grouse as I drop beside him on the bed. Instead, he snuggles into my side with a gentle tingle of bells. I rub between his ears until he purrs.
“You know I’m sorry I doubted you, right?” I tease. “As if you could be anything but honorable, with a name like Devil.”
His eyes squeeze to happy slits. I put the letters on my pillow, turning my head toward the wall’s vent, and trace the ribbon tattoo under my shirt sleeve. My ears ache for the sound of a violin’s serenade. I wish I knew he was safe.
Last night when we were kissing, our pent-up emotions and suppressed appetites overcame us. Things got intense, but we stopped ourselves. That kind of intimacy should never be rushed. Even though both of us admitted it might be our only chance to be together.