Page 9 of RoseBlood

Her pretty features are so much like his, they must be twins. The only noticeable differences are her brown eyes to his blue, her carefully applied makeup, and her delicate build beneath our more feminine version of the boys’ uniforms, along with the sequined headband in her hair. She grimaces back at him, unforgiving.

  “See?” Jax mumbles. “There’s no reasoning with them. Kat would claw you to shreds, and my sis turns feral at the scent of blood.”

  Sunny almost coughs up her bite of muffin. “Ha. Right? Rune, no more feeling guilty. You did us all a favor. In our rendition of The Fiery Angel, the roles of Madiel and Otterheim are played by one performer. Jax is going out for the parts, so he can be Renata’s guardian angel and bad-boy love interest, all in hopes of being Audrey’s guardian angel in real life. Considering who he’s up against, the roles are as good as his. But . . . Audrey still has to snag Renata for the plan to work.”

  A flush rushes through Jackson’s ears. “Did Quan tell you that? Could you strap a feedbag to his mouth or something?”

  “How about a muzzle?” Sunny offers. “He’s already in the doghouse. Made me miss the Clint Eastwood marathon last weekend on our day trip, all ’cause he got caught up at the arcade.”

  Jax rolls his eyes and turns back to me. “I only went out for the parts in the opera because there’s no football or soccer to occupy my time here.” He tosses his apron across the counter behind him as we move out of the way for other students to pick up their orders.

  Sunny snorts. “Sure ya did, Jax. Who needs contact sports when you have kissy scenes with a pretty gal, right?”

  “Can it, Sunny.” Jax frowns, his entire face red now.

  I can’t keep from smiling. First, because it’s such a relief to know he isn’t a rich-boy player at all; he’s a grand performer, trying to hide the fact that he’s crushing on a girl who doesn’t seem to know how smitten he is. Second, because I’ve never seen a high school guy blush. It’s endearing.

  I misjudged him and am so glad I did.

  “By the way,” he continues, frowning at Sunny, “you really suck at this peer advisor thing.” Pretending to be preoccupied by my lack of an extra hand, Jax offers to carry my bowl of fruit to the table for me. “Trays are beside the register. Sunny should’ve grabbed you one but she’s too busy being obnoxious to be responsible.”

  “It’s all right,” I say.

  “No, it’s not. But no worries. I’ll be her backup if you ever need anything.” His flirty sideways grin doesn’t intimidate me this time. “I’ll help you learn the routine.”

  I shrug. “So long as it doesn’t get in the way of you earning your guardian angel wings.” I bite my lip, shocked I teased him like that. His and Sunny’s easy rapport has lulled me. For a second, I almost felt like I was hanging out with Trig and Janine.

  “Nice one, Rune!” Sunny high-fives me, smirking. Jax responds with laughter. I let myself smile, relieved I didn’t offend him. Maybe being here won’t be so bad after all . . . as long as I can avoid the music, the bloodthirsty diva duo, and the phantom’s shadow lurking around every corner.

  7

  FACING THE MUSIC

  “Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.”

  Khalil Gibran

  Sunny, Jax, and I step into the main dining area’s dimly lit expanse. Thankfully, the pictures on the TVs have faded to a blank screen, and the music’s no longer piping through the speakers. This leaves the candles popping in the background, students chatting quietly, and silverware scraping plates as the only sounds.

  The three of us make our way to a seven-seater table wedged into the farthest corner. Two students wait there, faces flashing in the soft candlelight. I take a place on the empty side, positioning myself so I can wave Mom over if she decides to come out of the buffet area and join us.

  “Rune, this is Audrey Mirlo,” Sunny says, motioning to the girl with the ponytail who Jax was flirting with earlier.

  “Also known as our little blackbird.” Grinning, Jax flips around a chair at the head of the table to sit on it backward, arms wrapped around the frame. Now it’s crystal clear why he wanted to help me carry my food over. How can she not see it, with the way he looks at her?

  Audrey gives him a scolding side glare. Then she nods hello. I nod back, sensing tension. I concentrate on the hearty flavor of the pumpernickel and wash it down with a hot sip of nutty cappuccino, trying not to wonder whether she considers me a lucky charm or a rival.

  “Howdy there, Sunspot,” teases the boy on the other side of Audrey, his sloped, almond eyes locked on Sunny. “Saved a seat for ya, ma’am.” The fake Texas accent coaxes my pensive lips to smile.

  “Thanks but no thanks, Moonpie.” Sunny takes the place beside me instead, across from him, making a show of avoiding the chair next to him that he’s pushed out with his foot.

  He snorts. “Still mad at me, huh?”

  “She’s not the only one, big-mouthed guppy.” Jax reaches behind Audrey to smack who I now realize must be the aforementioned Quan in the back of the head.

  “Hey!” Quan rubs his fuzzy scalp while sporting a mischievous grin. I’m guessing he always looks mischievous. His thick black hair sprouts up in every direction on top. It looks like an unkempt front lawn when compared to the buzzed sides and back. One eye’s slightly higher than the other and his boyish lips are at a constant upward tilt on the left side—asymmetrical quirks that make him uniquely adorable. Sunny must agree, considering she’s now playing footsy with him under the table.

  As the others crack jokes and tease, Audrey watches in silence, smiling shyly in intervals. Her irises—the color of shimmery mahogany—are deep seated within a fringe of mascaraed lashes so long they reach to her dark eyebrows. This girl has perfected the smoky-eye makeup trick.

  The flickering candlelight brings out streaks of auburn in her hair. There’s a burgundy tattoo of a flying bird—the size of one of the caraway seeds on my muffin—just below her left eye that draws attention to her shapely mouth, painted almost the same shade.

  Chewing ripe, sweet cherries and crisp apples, I listen as my peers carry the conversation. I learn that Sunny and Quan have been a couple since last year, when they sat next to each other in orchestra during the showcase of Faust and connected over their appreciation for spaghetti Westerns and any movie featuring Clint Eastwood. I also find out that Quan’s last name is Moon-soo, which is how the nickname Moonpie came to be, much like Audrey’s nickname was inspired by her surname, Mirlo, which in Spanish means blackbird.

  I make the mistake of asking Audrey if that’s why she got the bird tattoo, and the whole table goes quiet. There’s a story there, but she’s obviously too uncomfortable with me to share it.

  If only I could assure her that I’m not here to steal her limelight; but I can’t keep that promise. I have zero control over whether or not I’ll interrupt when it’s her turn to audition. And since all the students are expected to be present as part of their grade, I can’t just not show up.

  I’m about to drop my muffin on the floor so I can crawl under the table and escape the awkwardness when Sunny saves the day with a reference to the outing Headmistress Fabre mentioned earlier. Every Saturday, the teachers and students make a day trip to Paris.

  This weekend, the students will be going to the Eiffel Tower, and afterward the seniors plan to take a water bus to a riverfront shopping mall that has a ten-screen cinema and a huge selection of restaurants.

  “Since Halloween’s a little over a month away,” Sunny explains, “we’re gonna see if we can snag some decorations to spruce up this place for October. Last year all we had were old props from the storerooms. And after shopping, we might catch a movie. They’ll be showing Casablanca in French subtitles. You’re in, right?”

  I hesitate, tapping my cappuccino’s mug with a fingernail. So far, everyone in the group seems genuinely nice. But will that change after a full week of classes and uncountable impromptu serenades?

  “Come
on,” Sunny presses. “You have to go.”

  Before I can answer, Kat and Roxie step up to our table.

  “Aw, not sure that’s in the cards, Sunny.” Roxie horns in, reaching across Sunny’s shoulder to grab the last bite of her muffin. “You have to earn outing passes by finishing your tasks for a full week. Remember how that works?”

  “But maybe not in Rune’s case.” Kat practically purrs as she leans between me and Jax, her thick, caramel waves draping his left bicep. He shifts his chair closer to Audrey, leaving Kat’s hair hanging. Her jasmine-laced perfume settles over me. “Seems like our new soprano is exempt from all the rules. Considering how she got into the school without being evaluated . . . and how she penciled in her own job instead of getting her hands dirty with the ones we’ve always had to do . . . oh, and how she gets to audition for roles without ever having gone to rehearsals. She has an unfair advantage really, seeing as she was trained by the phantom himself. She brought him with her. Did you guys know that?”

  My tongue dries. Looks like Kat was one of the students following us down the stairs yesterday when Mom mentioned my sighting. Great.

  Sunny glares at Kat, but before she can say a word, Kat’s up and running again. “What do you think, Audrey? Looks like I finally have some real competition. Did you hear how Rune nailed that final note? It’s still ringing in the halls, pristine and clear as a bell.”

  Audrey looks down at her plate, turning almost green. Without a word, she pushes her chair back and leaves.

  Sunny’s cheeks puff as if she’s a blowfish about to pop, but Quan grabs her hand and gestures to Jax, who stands up to face his sister.

  “What is your problem?” Jax snarls.

  Roxanne pats some imaginary dust from his jacket lapel. “Come on, Jackio. Why should anyone get special treatment just because of who their aunt is?”

  He squints. “Are you kidding me? Kat’s always getting breaks because she’s distantly related to Christina Nilsson. Did any of the other first-year students receive a formal invitation from that anonymous benefactor to enroll here last year?”

  Both Kat and Roxie look at each other blankly, as if struck mute by his truth.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Kat’s the queen of nepotism. Audrey’s the only one who’s ever actually had to work for this. Working two jobs. Fundraisers. Babysitting. No inheritance to throw away like the rest of us. So why don’t you just lay off her for once? Both of you.”

  With that he turns and follows the trail Audrey took into the corridor, leaving me to stumble over his words as I stare openmouthed at Katarina.

  Christina Nilsson. I ran across the name during my Phantom research online. That was the stage name for the real-life Swedish soprano—Kristina Jonasdotter—rumored to have inspired Gaston Leroux’s heroine. So that means Kat is practically related to Christina’s fictionalized counterpart, Christine Daaé. And she was invited here because of that relation, by a mysterious benefactor who no one has ever seen, but who redesigned this opera house. A reclusive architect, just like the phantom from the books.

  Paired with all I’ve seen since I’ve been here, this can’t be a coincidence, and there’s no longer any doubt in my mind.

  I am in a horror story.

  Thorn adjusted his half-mask, hidden behind the mirrored wall that led to the grand foyer. The furred silhouette of gray at his feet rubbed his ankles—collar jingling softly—impatient to get the task underway.

  The subtle droning of lectures drifted down from the third floor, where the juniors attended classes, and the scent of coffee, cinnamon, and buttery croissants indicated the seniors were still breakfasting in the atrium. All the teachers were preoccupied, as was Rune’s mother, which should’ve left the first floor abandoned and ripe for the plucking. But two students had just wandered down.

  Audrey and Jackson. She was crying next to her dorm room door, and the boy was comforting her. Thorn had watched their dance long enough over the past year to know how deep their feelings ran. Long enough to know he envied them . . .

  What would it have been like, to have such typical problems growing up? To have people your age to learn with, argue with, talk with?

  Thorn sighed and bent down to pet Diable. The cat was a good friend, no question, but it wasn’t the same. It also wasn’t only Erik’s lifestyle to blame for Thorn’s isolation. Honestly, in the beginning, Thorn had been too fragile to be around anyone but the clandestine man who’d saved him.

  During their first two years together, Erik taught him how music could heal a broken soul. He taught Thorn to play through his pain on an Andrea Amati violin. He showed him how the instrument could speak to the heart, like Thorn’s own voice once had, before his vocal cords were damaged. How it could replace what was taken from him, and make him whole again.

  So grateful and eager to find a new outlet for his songs, Thorn had practiced twelve hours each day. Then, on his ninth birthday, Erik rewarded him with two gifts. It had been a surprise, to have the event remembered at all. Erik wasn’t fond of birthdays, having never had anyone celebrate his. Erik’s own mother despised the date he was born because of his deformity, and her disdain grew with each passing year.

  So when Erik had Thorn take a seat in the underground parlor and offered the gift-wrapped boxes, Thorn knew it was a special occasion. And special it was, for it was the only birthday he and his guardian would ever celebrate.

  Thorn had started to open the bigger present first, small fingers eagerly plucking at the paper and ribbons, but his guardian took it back and handed over the littler gift. “Open this one first.”

  Thorn did, and was struck mute at the shiny medical instruments that rested on a sheet of cotton inside the box.

  “They’re scalpels.” The lower half of Erik’s face brightened on a smile. “You’re always bringing home wounded animals. You’ve shown great compassion. It’s time I taught you how to be a proper doctor to them. Would you like that?”

  Thorn’s chest swelled with pride. “Yes! Oh, Father, I will make you proud!”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” Erik tilted his head, offering the bigger gift once more. He held it between them when Thorn reached for it. “I’ve given you back your songs, just as I promised. Have I not?” The eyes behind his mask glittered with emotion.

  Thorn nodded. “Yes, Father Erik.”

  “Then one day soon, you will return my generosity, and help me acquire the songs I need, just as you promised.”

  “I will.”

  Erik’s gaze drifted to the cellar lab, then back to Thorn. “All right then. Open the gift.”

  Inside the box was a violin wrapped in red velvet: a black Stradivarius, as elegant as any lady, and formed of wood as glossy and fathomless as ink. Thorn’s heart soared at the beauty of it, and he itched to play. “Thank you,” he said, trying to sound as grateful as he felt. “But, there’s no bow . . .”

  Erik stepped back until he was on the far side of the room, his fingers burrowed into the folds of the dressing jacket he had draped over his thin shoulders. “Ah, but there is. Just hold out your hand.”

  Setting down the instrument, Thorn did as he was told, palm turned upward. A light flashed inside Erik’s jacket, then illuminated Thorn’s fingertips—a transfer of warm energy that seeped through his veins and lit them up in response. As the heat and glow diminished, the coolness of a long, graceful bow replaced them, balanced atop Thorn’s palm as if put there by Erik himself, although he was still across the parlor.

  Thorn’s mouth gaped. “Show me, please. Show me how to do the magic trick!”

  Erik laughed—a beautiful resonance that echoed through their home, wrapping Thorn in happiness until he laughed, too.

  “In time, child, I will show you.” Erik crossed the room and took a seat beside Thorn on the chaise lounge. “You’re very special. We all are. We have the ability to manipulate matter via energy. However, this specific trick can work only among others of our kind. It’s a symbiotic exchange. I have many ma
gical things to show you. But right now, I’d like to tell you a story.”

  Then Erik closed his eyes behind his mask, and let down his barriers, opening up about the role the Stradivarius had played in his history.

  He had stolen the instrument when he was ten years old. There was even a picture of him holding it, dated 1840, taken shortly after he’d escaped the gypsy carnival that served as his home after leaving his mother. With only the violin to his name, Erik found solace with a kind architect, and mastered the instrument while he learned about crafting blueprints and building structures. He was forced to leave six years later when the old architect died. Erik left there a young man, still honing his musical talent, while he discovered the cruelty within the wide world and himself: first running with circuses as an attraction, then becoming a masterful assassin. When at last he found his way back to Paris at age twenty-six, the Strad was as much a part of Erik as an arm or a leg. It was the violin he used to seduce Christina Nilsson—the girl who would become his beloved Christine—and to unleash her otherworldly voice.

  During his time with her, Erik engraved the initials O.G. on the lower bout, close to the waist of the instrument. The letters stood for Opera Ghost, the faceless and ominous identity he embraced so he might haunt the catwalks and basements of the Théâtre Lyrique during Christina’s odyssey from a chorus girl to a diva. Erik only had to hear her sing one time to know she was his twin flame. He took her under his wing, convincing the young and naïve chorus girl that he was an angel, sent to train her voice. He watched his prima donna rise for three years, all the way to a London tour, then lost her to another: a Parisian financier with a flawless face, who she’d known from her childhood.

  What a cruel dice destiny had rolled, to present him with his twin flame only to snuff out all of his hope. But that wasn’t the end of their journey . . . they met up again later, as mirror souls will do. Many more tragic layers were added to their star-crossed history, before it ended with Erik serenading his beloved Christine on her deathbed, playing the same violin that had first tied them together.