RoseBlood

by A. G. Howard

  Why was Etalon pretending to be the Phantom? What does his face look like under the mask—is he damaged, too? And who is the real Phantom? What am I to him . . . how does my family fit into all of this?

  My stomach bunches tight as I burrow deeper in the velvety seat, sandwiched between Sunny and Quan on one side and Audrey and Jax on the other. Audrey’s upset with Jax, Sunny’s upset with Quan. And they’re all acting weird toward me. It must be nerves getting the best of everyone. Maybe it’s some side effect of the stuff Etalon injected into their veins, another thing no one remembers but me.

  The musicians in the orchestra pit begin to play and Kat joins in on cue, her voice powerful, her Russian flawless. Attempting not to listen, I focus on the knitting project I brought—my one chance for sanity. I left my hair down earlier so it hangs around my face on either side like thick, wavy curtains, offering privacy. I’m weary of catching glimpses of people’s auras in my periphery. They seem brighter and more noticeable today than ever before. Either that, or I’m hyperaware because I’m curious about the flavor each different emotion might contain.

  I brought my wooden knitting needles since they’re quieter than the metal ones. They swirl silently, eating up the tangled mass of gray yarn. Loop, knot, and pull . . . loop, knot, and pull—I cast my stitches, linking and locking. The needles swing, ferocious in their speed, giving me something to concentrate on other than these long hours I have to get through before I can see Etalon tonight.

  I’m not sure why I’m still knitting socks for him. Maybe because the yarn cost money, as did the emoticon appliques I’m stitching onto the individual toes to represent the faces he used to draw as a child.

  Although deep down, I know it’s more. It’s because, even though he tricked me, I can’t forget that there are unknown, torturous details of his past that connect him to the dark world I experienced last night. For some reason, I’ve never been able to see past the moment his voice was damaged. Yet somehow, even after those cruelties he suffered, he still had enough goodness in his heart to save me and my friends.

  Hopefully not at his own expense.

  The thought of him in danger makes my mouth dry and stickery, like I’ve been chewing on thistles. I take a slow breath, surrounded by the scent of the club. Even though I showered twice in hopes of washing away every horrific memory hanging onto me via my senses, there’s still a hint of sulfur and stale perfume in my tunnel of hair.

  Kat’s vocals escalate, but I shut her out, my needles slowing to a rhythmic, calming lull. Filtering through wavy strands of hair, the soft purple spotlight relaxes me further, reminding me of the lava lamp in my room.

  I imagine myself curled up under my covers with the vent at my back, Etalon’s music playing, me humming along, and both of us adrift on currents of peace. Despite how angry I am about his lies, I still feel connected to him. For one, because he shares a very powerful and scary side of me; but even more because we’ve been a part of each other since I was seven. His music saved me from drowning that day my grandmother dunked me. I haven’t told him that yet. Maybe he already knows. How do you hate someone who pulled you from the brink of death, not once, but twice?

  If only it could return to the way things were just two nights ago. When I hadn’t almost sucked all the life from Jax, one of the sweetest and funniest guys I’ve ever met. When Etalon was still the Phantom. When I knew him, and trusted him.

  Trusting a phantom. I slam my eyes shut on the stupidity of that thought.

  Last night was stupid, too. I know that. I knew it even when I went to that club, when I was letting myself believe . . . but it’s hard to abandon the chance to know yourself, or to redeem yourself for years of guilt.

  My fingers move mechanically now, knitting on autopilot.

  Those last few minutes I had with Etalon roll over me in waves, whisking me back to the elevator. While helping with my blindfold, he explained that we were in a den of psychic vampires—vampires that feed off energy instead of blood—modern descendants of old-world incubi and succubi who had evolved to utilize all varieties of emotional energy, beyond just lust. He warned that although they were our kind, they were more dangerous than either of us.

  All these years I believed the mythology, that incubi and succubi were creatures who fed off sleeping victims. But they can attack anytime, anywhere.

  We can attack.

  “I’m a vampire,” I’d whispered. I grew woozy in the elevator, trying to wrap my head around that terrifying revelation.

  Etalon steadied me. “You already suspected,” he said. “You just needed someone to make you face it. It’s in your lineage, on your father’s side. I saw the memories . . . how he took you into the garden and showed you.” I tried to turn around, but he held me in place, still working on the blindfold. “Hold still. I don’t want to pull your hair and hurt you.”

  The elevator doors opened before I could respond.

  “You must have a thousand questions,” he continued in that familiar husky voice that had been reading bedtime stories to me for weeks now. “I’ll answer them soon. But for tonight, you need to pretend to be in a trance if you want to keep your friends safe.” He grunted, hefting Jax up to carry him while guiding me by my forearm back to the hearse we arrived in.

  Thankfully, everyone else was preoccupied in the club, either feasting, or being feasted upon, so we had no interruptions. Etalon said nothing until the driver spoke.

  “So, you found our last stowaway.” The nasally man chuckled from the other side of my blindfold.

  “I did,” Etalon answered. “We’ll put him in the car with the others. They’ve all learned a valuable lesson tonight. Too bad they won’t remember it tomorrow.”

  I heard the hearse’s door pop open, then a rustle of clothing as both men scooted Jax into the seat.

  “And the girl?” the driver asked.

  Etalon’s hand cupped my elbow. I recognized the violinist’s calluses on his fingertips. My arms grew warm as something was pulled into place over them then settled onto my shoulders. My coat . . .

  Etalon tugged a fallen curl free from my collar. His finger grazed my neck, sending a delicious bolt of friction through me before he rested a palm on my lower back.

  “She’s to be left awake and uncuffed.” His deep voice ground out the command. “She’s fed. And I’ve hypnotized her not to remove the blindfold. She poses no threat.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’d like a minute alone with her, to ensure she stays under until you drop them off. I’ll help her into the car once I’m done.”

  “Of course, sir.” A car door opened and shut, indicating the driver taking his place inside.

  I was led some feet away. I clenched my teeth, barricading the thousands of accusations and questions wanting to leap out—furious in my blindness.

  “You have every right to be angry.” Etalon’s patronizing tone stung like hot oil.

  “Meaningless words from someone who’s always hiding,” I seethed. “I should at least get to look into your eyes when you explain why you set me up.”

  “And you will,” he answered, his voice so raw in its sincerity, it made me remember the little boy he once was whose beautiful songs were stolen away with the flavor of lye and bile. A jagged line of sympathy sliced through my heart.

  I caught a breath as something cold and metallic tickled my chest a few inches beneath the dip at my collarbones. Etalon spun me slowly until my back faced him, clasping a delicate chain at the nape of my neck.

  “Vous êtes si belle.” His gruff whisper gilded my earlobe in a sliver of heat—somehow even more sensual for its confinement behind the mask.

  You’re so beautiful . . . My skin hummed, both from his proximity and the compliment, but I refused to let him see. A sarcastic retort formed on my tongue and I tried to spin around to unleash it.

  “No, no. Not yet.” He held me in place, one arm crossing me from behind—a provocative weight edging my rib cage—and the other hand
clutching the front of the necklace. “You’re in a trance, remember? Any emotional outburst would shatter that illusion.” With each shallow breath I risked, his knuckles brushed my skin at the dress’s neckline, releasing sparks of sensation that made my pulse spike.

  “What did you put on my neck,” I whispered, less of a question than a distraction technique so my heart would stop racing.

  “A key to RoseBlood’s roof,” he explained, his own respirations uneven, proving he was equally leveled by our physical contact after so many days and nights being separated by walls, and so many years separated by space and time. “If you’ll wave it in front of Diable—let him get a good sniff—he’ll lead you through the secret passage.” He released me and the necklace, helping me turn without slipping on my stilettos.

  “He’s your familiar, isn’t he?” I traced the key at my chest like a person reading braille. It was a metallic skull with jagged teeth, like the ones every student and teacher used to unlock their dorm rooms.

  “You could say that.” The fidgeting scrape of Etalon’s soles on the ground indicated either discomfort with the subject, or a desire to hurry the conversation along. “Although no one is his master. He’s my companion and accomplice, when he chooses to be.”

  “And the collar is to make him appear to be a normal pet.”

  “The collar is for Ange’s benefit. She’s half-blind . . . needs the advantage of the bells to warn her of his whereabouts.”

  “Ange?”

  “The swan.”

  “Oh, her.” The red one from the chapel. “So, whose familiar is she?”

  Etalon didn’t answer, as if he’d already said too much.

  “Why have you had Diable following me?” I asked, trying to pull him back so I wouldn’t be alone in the darkness.

  “That was his decision. You earned his trust and respect, because you tried to rescue him. Is that so hard to believe? Isn’t that what our friendship has been based on—from both sides—for the last few weeks, and for years before in our dream-visions?”

  I curled my lips over my teeth and bit down.

  “He may be a cat,” Etalon continued, “but he has the nose of a bloodhound. He’ll know what door that key opens, and will lead you there. Meet me tomorrow night after lights-out.”

  I fisted my hands, frustrated by the limitations imposed upon me, both the blindfold and the fake trance. “Why then? Why not tonight? I need answers now. You owe me that after what I almost did to my friend.”

  “I owe you more than that. But, your friend will be all right. They all will. They’ll only recall the moments that were safe. Every harmful memory will be blocked. The drug has that effect. Tonight, you need to get back before curfew. And I have to do damage control here, if I’m to protect you and your friends. Meet me tomorrow. I promised you your father, and I can give you that much.”

  I huffed through my nose, though the apathy was forced. “More bait to lure me into another trap?”

  Etalon made an exasperated sound. If I could see his dark-lashed eyes, they’d no doubt be narrowed in tempered frustration. How strange that I would know such a detail. It’s because I know him—on some level that defies explanation.

  “I have his Stradivarius, Rune,” he answered, snuffing out my astonished introspections. “Black as oil, with the initials O.G. carved into it. I’ve been playing the instrument for you since you were seven and I was nine.”

  Any response died on my tongue. My grandma said she mailed Dad’s violin back to her own address here in Paris ten years ago, when he became too weak to play it. So how did Etalon come into possession of it?

  I couldn’t voice the question; his confession had left me mute and numb.

  After leading me to the hearse, Etalon drew my coat flaps together to hide the necklace. As he knotted the belt, I caught his hands and held them at my waist, craving that electric charge of contact one last time.

  The moment spun out, breathless and silent.

  Tomorrow night. With only those words spoken to my mind, he cupped my elbow and helped me into the car, then sent me away with my friends.

  Upon our arrival, the driver took off our blindfolds and deposited us on the same street where we’d been picked up. I pulled out my phone. First, I used it as a mirror to study my eyes. No light reflected back. Like my experience with Ben, the glow had passed. Relieved, I activated the screen and checked the time: 8:30 p.m.

  Somehow, only two hours had gone by, even though it felt like an eternity. I called a taxi and watched over my friends until they started rousing.

  When our ride pulled up, we all squeezed into the backseat, whispering about the night’s events. Just like Etalon promised, they each had partial amnesia. Quan and Sunny remembered being on the dance floor and getting approached by a tall, well-built employee with a raspy voice, asking to see their wristbands. He accused them of forging their invitations, and escorted them to the elevator. After that, nothing . . .

  As for Jax, he remembered more: chasing Quan and Sunny, then stopping to watch an “out of this world” show put on by a masked opera singer. But he couldn’t remember how the performance ended. Everything faded to black until he woke up on the curb.

  The relief that he didn’t recall my attack made it easier to suppress the guilt, and pretend that I, too, remembered nothing of consequence.

  But, today, here in the theater, surrounded by the scents of the club locked within my hair, the indelible memories refuse to relent.

  Kat’s audition ends on a pristine note. She still hasn’t mastered Renata’s madness and range of emotion, but she’s perfected all the gesturing and poses, and technically, she did everything right. Almost every student in the auditorium applauds as she steps off the stage.

  Bouchard calls on Audrey next. Our friend turns our way, her smoky-eyed gaze bouncing from each of us, as if absorbing support and confidence. When she stops at my face, pain flickers behind her expression.

  My jaw tightens. I can’t imagine what I’ve done to offend her.

  Jax tries to touch her hand as she steps into the aisle, but she brushes him off. He casts a stormy scowl over to Quan on the other side of Sunny.

  I stuff my knitting and yarn into the tote on my lap as Sunny motions for Jax to take Audrey’s empty seat next to me. He eases over, keeping his head low. The spotlight blinks on, illuminating Audrey and casting the auditorium in darkness.

  “All right. What’s going on, guys?” I whisper to my three rave accomplices as the instruments begin the intricate piece.

  Slapping a hand over his face, Jax hunches in the seat. “I told Quan about what happened between us. I . . . wanted to know if anything weird happened with him and Sunny. I thought maybe there was a mood enhancer in the smoke during the performance or something. But Quan can’t keep his fat mouth shut and leaked it to Sunny. Audrey overheard them talking.”

  Sunny punches Quan’s arm. He glares at her and a whispering argument sparks between them, leaving me and Jax uncomfortably close in our seats. A sense of dread grows within me, mirroring Audrey’s haunted vocals as they swell over the instruments and float to the crystal chandelier.

  Gathering up my courage, I turn to Jax to find him studying my face intently in the dimness. So, he’s remembered more than he admitted yesterday. But he’s not acting scared, which means he still hasn’t remembered that I almost killed him.

  My pulse pounds in my wrists. “What are you talking about . . . what happened between us?” I blurt, a lame attempt at playing dumb.

  Jax squeezes his thighs with his fingers, his blue eyes—bright even in the shadows—fixing on mine. “Our kiss.” He squints. “Rune, don’t you remember? We were crazy. I didn’t want to stop. I’m blanking on what led up to it—if you initiated it, or if I did. Or what happened after. But I remember that. I’ve never felt so much so fast. Intense . . . uninhibited.”

  His breath, scented with cinnamon gum, warms my face. I shift my gaze to the stage and watch Audrey, biting the inside of my c
heek until I taste blood.

  “I hate myself for hurting her,” Jax continues, intent now on the performance. “All she asked was that I didn’t distract her for a little longer. Give her space to get that scholarship and secure her future. Then, finally, we were going to go out this summer.” He moans then looks again at me. “I haven’t forgotten how worth the wait she is. But I can’t stop thinking about that kiss, either. Come on, you gotta remember. Right?”

  Sunny and Quan are watching us with bated breath, waiting for my response.

  My windpipe feels stuffed and cold, like a straw stuck in a milk-shake. I struggle to inhale. “I—I’m sorry. I don’t remember any of that.” I’m such a jerk, and as good of a liar as Etalon. It must be habitual for our kind. “Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?” The irony of such a question from a succubus would make me laugh, if I weren’t still struggling to accept what I am to begin with.

  Jax licks his lips. “No. I remember how it tasted. Like nectar, spiked with a thousand volts of electricity. I don’t dream that vividly, Rune. We need to talk about this.”

  I pry my attention from his attractive features, afraid of the intrigue there, of how it’s juxtaposed with shame and confusion. What’s to talk about? We’re both attracted to other people. You were entranced by an incubus’s song. I was driven by instinct to siphon away your energy while you were vulnerable. No other explanation necessary.

  These are the things he doesn’t remember, and the things I can never share.

  Sunny touches my knee and gestures to the stage. Instead of portraying madness, Audrey’s voice and body movements—not to mention her glowing aura—vacillate between betrayal and regret, completely out of character for the solo. Still, her notes are flawless, until the final cadenza, where she cracks while swallowing back a sob. She stops and the instruments follow her lead, silencing.

  Her petite form slumps like a fragile doll. “I’m . . . I’m sorry!” She half shouts, half moans in a wretched attempt to save face. Then she runs backstage behind the curtains before the tremor in her voice stops echoing.