by A. G. Howard
My cell phone vibrates inside my beaded tote. I drag it out, careful not to let my aunt see the clothes and makeup I have stashed inside. I open the text. It’s Sunny responding to my message. I told her I had to escape Aunt Charlotte . . . that my aunt was being a helicopter and I wanted time alone to check out the Palace of Versailles. So I needed to lie and say I’d be with my friends, then asked if she’d cover for me.
Curfew is ten o’clock. I promised Sunny I’d get back before that, early enough that she can watch for my arrival and sneak me in. I wanted to be sure no one at RoseBlood will pay for my dishonesty, including Aunt Charlotte.
I bite my lip, pretending to read a long message that’s nothing more than a thumbs-up emoticon from Sunny. I stand. “Look, Aunt Charlotte . . . I hate to ditch you, but I know you’re going to visit Grandma Lil anyway.”
She frowns and nods for me to continue.
“Sunny and a few classmates want me to meet them in Paris to buy our Halloween costumes for the masquerade on Monday. We’ll hang out the rest of the day in the city.” It’s an outright lie. Unbeknownst to my aunt, we bought our costumes two weekends ago. My friends would go ballistic if they knew what I was really planning, even more so if they knew I used them to do it. “It’s just, it feels weird, to be so close to the prison. The memories of the fire . . . it’s like I can smell the smoke from here.”
Aunt Charlotte winces, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. It’s deplorable, to use her shame over Grandma Liliana’s crimes to my advantage . . . to make it impossible for her to refuse me. Yet it doesn’t stop me from asking for her Paris metro pass so I’ll have unlimited access to the city, or leaving her to buy herself a new ticket so she can get back to the academy later this evening.
My stomach churns, the guilt overwhelming as she digs in her bag for the pass and also pulls out seventy euros. “This should be enough for lunch, dinner, and the costume.” As I start to take it, she holds the money between us, like a bridge she’s reluctant to break. “I need you to assure me you will stay with a group of friends the entire time. Do not venture anywhere alone. It’s dangerous.” Her whitish-gray eyebrows furrow. “Your mother would never forgive me, were you to end up in trouble.”
I make the promise, although I know it’s a lie.
It’s 6:05 p.m., and I’m in Paris on a deserted street corner, waiting for some nameless car to escort me blindfolded to an undisclosed location.
I have to wonder how many missing persons reports start with this premise.
The sunset hangs low and the air chills, scented with mildewing mortar. Lavender and apricot hues soften the glimpses of sky between buildings. Stagnant puddles glimmer in inky spills at every curb.
The wristband itches on my arm like poison ivy, as if to demonstrate that I’ve chosen the toxic path. I can’t shake the image of the taxi driver’s disapproving face when he dropped me here alone a few minutes ago, an obvious inference that he knew I was in over my head.
What am I doing?
An icy tremor radiates from my spine to my limbs in answer. I should have sense enough to call back the taxi; I should get myself out of this situation before it turns into a full-blown mistake with irreparable consequences. I would, if my plan hadn’t fallen into place so seamlessly—like a cosmic sign I’m doing the right thing.
My tote’s strap eats into my shoulder. I cinch it higher, trying not to think about the jeans and tunic tucked inside, the fiber-optic dress I’m wearing in their place now hidden under my hooded gray trench coat and clinging to my every curve, or the nude underthings I’m glad I brought from Texas—being the only ones that don’t show through the shear fabric.
In any other situation, these surroundings would be a tourist’s haven: the damp brick streets and abandoned buildings surrounding a cathedral-style church—pillars emblazoned with carved ornamentation and drainage pipes topped with gargoyles frowning down at me. I feel as if I’ve fallen into the pages of Victor Hugo’s romantic gothic novel, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
I glance again at the clock on my phone. Twenty more minutes, and my ride will be here for the 6:30 pickup.
I shudder and draw my hood tighter around my face. Logic tells me I should be afraid. But I can’t stop thinking about all the hours I’ve spent with my maestro, how I no longer fear what he hides beneath his mask. How I’ve seen his soul written upon the pages of his past, and it’s beautiful.
He wants me at that club enough that he gave me a starlit dress, and I’m going to be there. I’ll be there so he can tell me what he knows of my past—and my father. So he can fill in that missing piece to the puzzle of my identity.
Since the age of four, I’ve been singing as if possessed. I’ve waited thirteen years to understand. I’m ready to face everything. Anything. As long as it’s the truth.
That courageous thought shrinks to a cowardly whimper in my throat at the glimpse of headlights rounding the corner on the north side of the cathedral. It’s too far to make out the car color or model. If this is my ride, why’s the driver fifteen minutes early?
An urge to run sends a jolt all the way to my legs, but I think better of it. I wouldn’t get far in my stiletto ankle boots—the only fashionable, pewter-toned footwear I could find earlier on my shopping spree to complement the shear fabric of my dress and the pearly surface of my tote.
The surroundings have dimmed enough for streetlamps to blink on, illuminating halos of amber dust around the bulbs. I roll up my trench coat’s cuff to showcase my wristband, proof that I should be here. The closer the car gets, the more details come into view. My feet twitch on the cobblestone . . . debating whether to start walking the opposite direction, or leap in as soon as the door opens.
It’s a taxi, and it stops in front of the church, some twenty feet away. I engage in a stare down with the windshield, hoping to see who’s driving before deciding my next move, but the beaming headlights make it impossible.
Going to the rave via public transportation doesn’t make sense, if the location is to be kept secret. Cautiously, I start toward the car, only to stall as both back doors open. Sunny and Quan step out from the right side, and Jax from the other.
My throat drains of moisture. Jax leans in and pays the driver, then they all start toward me—dressed in bright and glowing clothes.
Rave wear.
“You can’t be serious,” I mumble, loud enough to snap Sunny’s eyes to mine as Quan helps her step up onto the sidewalk in her furry, platform neon-green boots.
“Dang right we’re serious,” she growls.
Within moments they’re all beside me on the cobblestone, glancing over their shoulders as the driver disappears around the corner.
Jax’s features pulse from shadowy to bright, an effect of the LED green alien head on his shirt fading and appearing with his movements, keeping time with the light-up soles on his black tennis shoes.
“Well, there’s no going back now,” Quan says, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Beneath the fluorescent-orange cowboy hat perched crookedly at his brow, his face looks as pensive and uncomfortable as Jax’s. It’s obvious who’s behind this raid.
Sunny has me in her sights again, but my gaze keeps flitting unintentionally to the top of her head. A fiber-optic wig covers her hair and vacillates between colors for a rainbow effect—the perfect match to her sexy minidress, adorned with strands of glow-in-the-dark fabric paint swirling along the contours of her body.
I inhale a shallow breath, drowning in the combination of her cherry blossom body spray and the guys’ mix of colognes. Before I can think of anything to say, Sunny unties my coat’s belt and whips the flaps open, slipping off my hood in the process.
I cup my hands over my hair, an attempt to hide my upswept curls. They took a quarter of an hour to pin in place after I heightened my makeup to nightclub proportions in a posh boutique’s dressing room.
Sunny forces my hands down so I have nowhere to hide.
“Whoa,” both boys say in unison, as my dre
ss’s fiber-optic panels reflect off their stunned expressions in blue flashes.
“Dayum. You clean up nice, Rune.” Jax offers an approving whistle, reminding me how tempting his flirty nature is when it comes out to play—a perilous observation I shouldn’t be making. “What I want to know is, who are you cleaning up fo—”
“I told ya.” Sunny interrupts, thankfully. “You both thought I imagined the glowing dress in the box. Now who’s pecking at gravel in the chicken feed?”
The guys exchange chagrined glances.
Frowning, I cinch the trench coat in place over my dress, retying the belt. “How . . . what are you doing here?”
Sunny’s freckles seem to darken, that masklike visage apparent even beneath the thick coating of makeup on her face. “Ain’t no way in hell we were gonna let you do this all alone.”
Jax sighs. “She lifted your key when you weren’t looking last night and took a picture of your wristband in your room. She made us replicas with leftover props from last year’s fall performance of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Some of the juniors played mental patients.”
They hold out their right arms, displaying matching wristbands, a similar translucent style to mine. Every written word on the labels mimics the words I’ve already memorized, other than the name. Instead, each bracelet is individualized to them, making it appear they’ve all been tagged like me. Sunny did a masterful job of forging the handwriting.
“So . . . you were onto me?” I direct the question to Sunny’s smug grin. “When I faked throwing it away?” I don’t even give her the chance to answer because everything starts falling into place. “Wait. That’s where you were during dinner last night. When you got stuck in the bathroom for ten minutes with a wardrobe malfunction. You were actually in my room.” Heat blooms in my cheeks. I want to lash out. She violated my privacy. But it was out of concern for me.
“Well, the wardrobe part wasn’t a complete lie,” Sunny corrects, humility softening her voice, proving she knows she crossed a line. “While I was looking for the wristband, I saw the box you carried back after gardening yesterday, so I peeked under the lid. I’m guessing you found that in the chapel, too, along with those dozen roses in that vase on your nightstand. Because we all know those roses aren’t anywhere here at RoseBlood. Am I right?”
I have no answer. At least I’d hidden the Phantom’s note. This girl is way more resourceful and devious than I ever gave her credit for. A burst of affection warms me against the cool air.
How could I have thought leaving home and coming to France would mean never having friends again? Sunny and her crew have had my back from the day I arrived almost six weeks ago. I care about each one of them. Which is why I won’t let them do this.
“You can’t come with me . . .” I attempt.
“Sure we can,” Sunny responds, unfazed. “We got the bracelets and spent half the day getting the clothes, thanks to Jax’s Mastercard. So why can’t we?”
“So many reasons.” The biggest one being I don’t know what kind of monsters might be there. What kind of monster I am, myself. Saint-Germain was definitely not human. “I—I can’t protect you,” I blurt before thinking.
“Protect us?” Quan responds, tugging at the brim of his cowboy hat. “Kind of think that’s mine and Jax’s job, little lady,” he drawls. “Unless you two are scairt now and want to change your minds?” His dark, puppy eyes, exaggerated Texas accent, and slightly off-kilter smile are adorable. I’m not sure how Sunny manages to resist him, though I suspect he wins his fair share, considering how often I’ve caught them making out in the ballet room behind the stage.
Jax snorts. “Fat chance of changing this one’s mind.” He tilts his head toward Sunny. “Audrey was tough enough.” His attention settles on me. “She wanted to come along if we went through with it. Despite what her private trainer said about staying indoors at night to preserve her voice.”
I chew my inner cheek, remembering this morning when I witnessed the end of an argument between Audrey and Sunny just before we left. Audrey had already told us that she’d be going back to the academy early with some of the juniors who had finals and needed to study. She didn’t want to stay out past late afternoon . . . that’s how dedicated she is to landing Renata’s role tomorrow at the audition.
To think she’d planned to sacrifice that for me makes me feel even worse. The muscles in my neck knot with tension.
Sunny glares at Jax. “You wouldn’t have let Audrey come anyway, Mr. Guardian Angel,” she scoffs, adjusting the magenta, orange, and black-checked flannel shirt half covering Quan’s purple tank. A bluish-white angler fish is airbrushed across the dark knit. Neither the over-shirt nor the tank’s designs glow like the rest of our clothes, but they’ll definitely stand out under black lights.
“I don’t own her . . . but I wouldn’t have liked it,” Jax answers Sunny while glaring at me, his bright-blue eyes accusatory. “And I don’t like Rune going, either. Or the rest of us. This is all too weird and risky.”
You don’t know the half of it.
“What is it with you guys?” Sunny snuggles up to Quan, coaxing his arms around her. “Come on, Moonpie. We always wanted to see if this place is real.”
“That was last year, when we were idiot juniors,” he counters without pulling away, obviously enjoying her attention but not willing to give up the fight. “What about the puncture marks on people’s wrists and ankles?” He traces the freckles on her face. “Are you so curious, you’re willing to break our promise to Audrey about steering clear of drugs?”
“Aw, come on. There isn’t any proof that those are needle tracks,” Sunny answers with a pout. “If there even are puncture marks. Other than a few flaky pictures online, there’s nothing legit, like police or doctor reports. I get the feeling all of it’s nut-buck. But if it makes you feel better, I brought bottled water and granola bars in my bag. We won’t eat or drink nothing there. I’ve got this covered.”
The nervous kinks in my neck spread to my shoulders, my concern metastasizing by the second. I attempt to focus on Sunny’s face instead of her wig’s fiber-optic acrobatics. “Look, what makes you think the driver will take all of us? He probably has a passenger manifest or something . . . some way to know how many people he’s supposed to pick up. As good as you are at snooping, I doubt you’re the first one to ever come up with this trick.”
“She’s got ya there, Sunspot.” Quan steps back and takes out his phone, punching the keypad on his screen. “Let’s call another taxi and get the heck out of Dodge.”
Sunny grabs his phone and drops it in her purse next to her stolen e-cig atomizer. “No. It’s time we get to the bottom of this. Someone’s been creeping on Rune. And they want her at that party so much they got her a dress. If they want her that bad, they’ll take us, too. We’re a package deal. I’m gonna make that real clear.”
“Well, I guess we’re about to find out how convincing you can be,” Jax murmurs, a car’s approaching headlights brightening his worried face.
With a trembling finger, I activate my phone’s screen: 6:30 . . . on the dot.
My companions and I share a collective gasp as a charcoal-gray hearse coasts to a stop at the curb next to us. Long, black-tinted windows reflect our astonished expressions like mirrors.
The driver—a pudgy man with gopher-like features and a red velvet suit that belongs on a circus ringmaster—steps out and asks to see our wristbands in a nasally voice. He studies my friends’ fake invites longer than I like, spurring a hammering sensation at my pulse points. Trying to look nonchalant, I concentrate on our reflections in the window. An amber ring glints inside my green irises and my cheeks are flushed—like when music is burbling inside me. But that’s impossible. I don’t feel the need to sing. I do, however, feel hungry.
The auras around Quan’s and Jax’s heads draw my attention—that same grayish-yellow glow Ben had before I nearly sucked the life from him. I stifle a moan. Is it possible? Is my appetite triggered b
y their anxiety? Repulsed, I break the connection by shifting my gaze to the ground.
Whipping out a cell phone, the driver walks to the other side of the hearse and makes a call, mumbling in French.
I can only translate snippets:
“Yes, she’s here . . . unquestionably ours . . . three others—all underage . . . no, not any indication of . . . sure, sure . . . more for everyone. Understood . . . I’ll keep them together. Yes, sir . . . will do.”
The driver tucks his phone away, and without another word, indicates a shoe box of blindfolds and terry cloth headbands in the passenger seat. Instead of running like any sane person would, we meet one another’s gazes as the driver has us turn our backs to him so he can secure our wrists with the headbands, winding them around until we’re handcuffed.
“So you don’t get the bright idea of peeking while I’m driving,” he explains in English frothed by a thick French accent.
Next, he ties a blindfold in place on each of us, then rests a gloved palm atop our heads so we don’t graze our scalps on the doorframe as we tumble like a line of dominoes into the backseat. After a chain reaction of car doors closing, the motor shudders to life, humming through our bones. The car freshener—a stale mix of pine and cinnamon—chokes me as I sit, hands tied behind my back and sandwiched between Sunny and Jax, headed to a party that will either be the beginning . . . or the end—of everything.
16
AN EXQUISITE NIGHTMARE
“There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.”
Edgar Allan Poe
Thorn had spent many years in this sitting room, one story above the club’s main floor, but he’d never felt so alien here.