by A. G. Howard
With the cold metal still cupped to my ear, I sit down on the stone bench, my legs too shaky to hold me up. The chilly night wind gusts around me, snagging my bun loose. Even when the strands stick to my tear-slicked cheeks in itchy tangles, I don’t attempt to dig myself out. I want to stay hidden forever.
The phone’s ribbon goes limp across the horse’s leg and the other metal can hits the statue’s edge. Etalon has dropped his end. It’s then I know that I really am a monster, because one of my own kind can’t even face my sins.
“Sweet Rune, don’t cry.” His voice reaches out—no longer a vibration along the ribbon, but in front of me.
I release the can and shove hair from my face.
He looms over me. His white half-mask reflects the greenish glow around us, giving him a spectral air. He offers me a rose. I take it—careful not to get pricked by any thorns—and nuzzle the duotone petals, inhaling the sweetness.
“There is no agony more acute than believing yourself responsible for the death of a parent.” Wrapped within his cloak, he seems even taller and broader than I remember, almost godlike with Apollo holding vigil behind him like a stony doppelganger. Yet there’s a softness in his eyes at odds with his powerful form. “It took me years to make peace with my maman’s murder.”
I’m reminded of the tiny toddler who watched his mother being driven away in a dark car every night to sell her body so she could care for him. And then, that little boy on the porch, the moment he realized she was never coming back after he’d finally convinced her to change her life.
The aching chasm in my chest fills with empathy. “But you weren’t responsible.” I wind the rose’s leaves around my finger. “You were blaming yourself for something someone else did.”
“As are you.” His reassurance grinds like deep, sanded velvet from his throat—a tender virility that strips away the image of the boy and leaves the man in his place. “You did not kill your father, and I can prove it.”
From within the hooded cloak, he brings out his other hand clutching a violin case.
Daddy’s Strad. I drop the rose, eager to see the instrument again, yet dreading every painful memory woven within those strings.
“You were only a child when he died.” Etalon lays the case on the bench between me and my tote bag. My nerves twitch both at his proximity and at being so close to my father’s beloved violin again. As Etalon works the latch open, I study his hands—strong, with the long, skilled fingertips of a master musician. I’m transported in time, to uncountable moments when Dad opened this case, preparing for a performance with me. Etalon’s cloak sweeps the tips of my boots as he kneels. “You hadn’t yet had your awakening when you were seven. That didn’t happen until you attacked the boy in your hometown. So it’s impossible that you could’ve killed your father. Although I’m starting to think this Strad played a role. Playing the instrument might have been his downfall.”
I frown. “What? How?”
“I don’t have that answer yet. Only a suspicion, and three puzzle pieces.”
He drags his cloak from his head and shoulders, revealing a creamy thermal undershirt, its V neck dipping low enough to showcase a fine line of hair between his pecs. Tweed pants sculpt his legs like well-worn jeans, hooked to a pair of brown suspenders holding his shirt snug against his toned build. He no longer looks like an out-of-time gardener or an employee at a psychedelic rave club. He looks gentle and philosophical: a musician, a poet, and a romantic dreamer.
He leans over to arrange the cloak at my feet. Thick, dark curls flutter across his forehead and dust the nape of his neck in the wind, close enough for me to reach out and touch, if I had the courage. I catch a whiff of his shampoo—something woodsy, soothing, and spicy, like the ginger root tea I like to drink at home.
After smoothing the fabric on the roof, he seats himself, his hand at rest on the violin’s case. The flawless side of his face is tempting in the soft light: one-half of a squared chin, one-half of full lips. He flips open the lid, and my eyes well up, drowning at the sight of the instrument nestled in the velvet lining. Not a scratch or a crack anywhere on the glossy surface.
“Thank you.” I rub at my wet cheeks without looking up. “For taking such good care of it.”
He doesn’t respond, but I can feel he’s honored by my gratitude.
I touch the rich, black wood. When I lift it from the case and hug it, the scent of the wood fills me like a symphony, and in that moment, I’m holding Dad’s music snuggled against me. The O.G. engraved in the lower bout offers a familiar comfort as I trail it with my thumb.
Etalon crouches lower so I’ll be forced to meet his dark gaze, studious behind the mask. “Do you know those initials?”
I nod, swept away by Dad’s songs taking flight in my mind. “Octavius Germain. One of our ancestors from the eighteenth century. He marked it to keep it in our family.”
A pensive expression crosses the left side of Etalon’s face. “Yet I know it to stand for Opera Ghost. Someone has been lying to one of us, or both.”
I’m reminded of the signature on his note when he gave me the fiber-optic dress in the chapel. He’d signed it O.G. That’s why the initials had seemed so familiar. “I don’t understand.”
“Me neither . . . but I have a hypothesis.” He fishes two items from a hidden panel inside the velvet lining of the case. One is a picture, the other a rolled piece of yellowing paper.
First, he hands me the picture. I settle the violin on my lap to take it. The image is faded and grainy, yet clear enough to make out a tragic young boy, standing with a burlap bag over his head—holes for his eyes and mouth cut into the brown, woven material. In his arms he cradles my Dad’s Stradivarius. With the one-of-a-kind scroll at the end of the neck, there’s no mistaking it. “Is this you?”
“No. Look closer.” Etalon points to the photo. “This is a daguerreotype. The oldest form of photography. It’s dated 1840. Hundreds of years before I was born. There were no initials engraved on the violin yet, which discounts your ancestor doing it. In fact, the Opera Ghost still had two decades before he would manifest. The boy in this picture would one day conceive of that persona, when he traded the bag over his head for a mask and an opera cape.”
My mouth dries. “This is the Phantom as a child?”
Etalon nods.
“Okay. So, how is that possible?” I ask. “That he’s lived all these years? I mean, I get that he’s like us. I saw him channel the horror from everyone. But . . . do we reach a point and never age?”
“We have the ability to stall the aging process, to store a surplus of life energy within ourselves, but only by siphoning away all of our prey’s remaining years.”
“By killing them,” I say, almost choking at the thought.
He tilts his head in affirmation.
My stomach turns as I contemplate how many people the Phantom must have murdered to accrue so many extra years of life. Then nausea hits full force as I realize how close I came to doing that with Ben and Jax. Thoughts of Dad aren’t far behind. Did I take his remaining years? My vision blurs to even consider the possibility. But Etalon said I’m not to blame. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with my father’s death.”
“I’m getting to that.” He unfurls the rolled paper next. It’s an aged, hand-drawn sketch of a man in a vintage suit playing my dad’s violin—complete with the O.G. engraving on the bout—his deformed, hideous face relaxed in pure euphoria. It’s dated 1864 and signed by the artist, Christine.
“The Christine?” I ask, eyes meeting Etalon’s.
“Christina Nilsson often signed her name as Christine in correspondences and on her artwork. Not many people knew she was an amateur artist, but the Phantom did. He cultivated every creative outlet she had. He was her tutor, her angel of music, her muse. They had a passionate emotional affair, although sadly, she was young and immature. Contrary to what most people think, there was only twelve years’ difference in their ages, not twenty or thirt
y. But still, upon their first meeting, she wasn’t yet ready for the selfless, soul-deep level of love he required. She was little more than infatuated with his mystique and genius.” Etalon’s aura grows sad for an instant, then jumps back to stern determination, as if he catches himself. “Somehow, your family ended up with the Phantom’s violin. The exchange had to have taken place sometime after he’d trained the woman he loved to sing alongside the instrument’s voice, because that’s when he engraved the initials.”
My mouth sags open.
“I believe this violin had some sort of penalty attached to it when it was taken from the Phantom,” he continues. “A gypsy curse. Whatever you want to call it. I believe it drained your father of his life. I’m not sure how. But my gut tells me they’re connected. I think your family knows the answers. Possibly even your aunt. You should start with her.”
My mind swirls in confusion. “My aunt? What does she have to do with any of this?”
“She never wanted you here. Your uniforms and the dead crow . . . she’s responsible. I only borrowed your school clothes after the fact. She cut them up and hid them in hopes they’d be discovered. She was determined to scare you and your mother so she’d take you back home. Once your mother left, the pranks stopped. I assume your aunt gave up, since she’d failed in her efforts to drive you away.”
In spite of the cold air, sweat beads at my hairline. I place the picture and violin back in the case. “Why wouldn’t she want me here?”
His jaw clenches tight. An incongruous blend of unease, guilt, and loyalty tinges his aura—blue, dusted with brown and gray. “I’ve said all I can for now. You need to find out how your ancestors got the instrument, and how it found its way back to the Phantom. Then . . . then I’ll know how to answer that question.”
My throat lumps. “But you’re the one with the violin. You’ve been playing it all these years. Not the Phantom.”
Etalon stares at his hands fisted in the cloak, retreating not only behind his mask, but within himself. “He gave it to me as a gift. Someone had to return it to him first.”
Grandma. I clutch my chest. A bleak darkness shadows my heart—memories of Grandma Liliana trying to kill me now intertwined with my aunt’s efforts to scare me. Is there no one in my family, other than Mom, who I can trust?
Etalon raises to his knees, prying my fingers from their death grip on my sweater. He takes my hand in both of his, sheltering it. “It will be all right,” he promises. “Speak to your aunt. There’s more to her than you realize, and it’s not all bad. If she’d planned to harm you, wouldn’t she have already done it?”
His logic is sound, but it’s the energy ebbing and flowing between us that calms me. Warmth and light hum through my skin, making me stronger.
“I’ll have to visit my grandma in Versailles, too,” I manage, though it’s the last thing I ever wanted to do, and I know he senses the hesitation I’m trying to hide. “She mailed the violin here to Paris.” Etalon begins to respond, but I interrupt. “Wait. For you to have started playing the instrument when you were nine, to get it as a gift, to have these personal pictures of the Phantom, you’re more than just an employee at his club. You’re—”
“His family.”
Astonished by the confession, I turn to the sketch curled on the roof beside him. Somewhere behind the Phantom’s desolate face hides the rest of Etalon’s past; the parts I’ve never been able to see. New questions awaken inside me, but only one clutches my ribs and rattles them like a cage. I choose my words carefully, trying not to be insensitive. “Is the deformity inherent? Is that why you wear a mask?”
He squeezes my fingers. A current passes between us—sparking through my chest and bouncing along my spine, titillating and musical. He guides my hand to the covering on his face. “If you want the truth about the man behind the mask, you’ll have to unveil him yourself.”
There’s a seductive undertone to the request that makes my skin tingle, reminds me that I’m here on the roof alone with an incubus who towers over me when he stands, who knows how to command the ancient instincts I’m struggling with, and who lives in the shadows mastering abilities that border on sorcery.
Yet I’m not scared, even when I probably should be.
I slide off the bench and kneel beside him on the cloak. He eases down from his knees, sitting so we’re eye level. His gaze holds mine—an intense optical coupling that renders me immobile, anchored by the significance of what’s about to take place. The aura surrounding him deepens—dark red and searing, passionate and sensual—and his scent overpowers the roses along the walls: a heady mix of musk and pheromones that kicks my pulse into overdrive.
I inch toward him until our breaths mingle in the air between us. Biting my inner cheek, I curl my left hand around the mask’s brittle form. My stomach clenches, overtly aware of how close his face is to my chest as he bows so I can work the ties free from around his head. Nervous anticipation radiates to every extremity, leaving my right fingers clumsy and quivering. His hair sweeps across my palm, softer than the velour Madame Fabre chose for the nun’s habits in the opera. I drop the strings in front of the mask, so it’s only me holding it in place when he looks up.
I’ve been waiting a month for this, but now I’m hesitant. Not for me, though. Etalon’s palms flatten against the cloak on either side of him—a submissive pose—while his fingers dig into the fabric, visibly tense. I’m taking away everything that makes him feel safe. How would I feel, to be stripped of all concealments, with my flaws hung out to dry?
“Are you afraid?” I ask, overcome with compassion as I study the bared side of his face.
“Are you?” He flings the question back, slapping me with the truth: I’m every bit as vulnerable in this moment as he is.
The Phantom’s tragic face from last night intrudes on my mind’s eye. Seeing his disfigurement didn’t scare me, not like I would’ve expected. I pitied him and the life he must’ve known, but there was no fear or disgust. With Etalon, I’ve had weeks to prepare myself. No matter what’s on the other side of his mask, there will be no fear or pity. We’re linked through our music and our memories, and I’m grateful for all the years he played for me in my dreams. I don’t care what he looks like. I just want the obstacles gone and the isolation to end—for both of us.
“No,” I finally answer his question, then pull the cover away. A whimper snags in my throat and I drop the mask. It clatters outside of the cloak, its fragile surface cracking.
Neither of us stops to inspect the damage. We’re too busy watching each other. His impenetrable gaze tracks my every feature, taking measure of my reactions.
I was right . . . he is his own foil: two polar opposites, a contrast of masculine angles and elegant curves. Every delicate feature rests symmetrically atop a strong bone structure: rugged jaw line, shapely lips, straight nose, a falcon’s eyes—alert and piercing—buried in myriad lashes, and a flawless olive complexion almost celestial beneath the filmy lights.
I expected to be struck mute, but not by his beauty.
He takes my hand—that small contact colliding in a union of the senses: I feel, taste, smell, and hear only him.
“Rune.” My name claws free from his damaged vocal cords.
“Etalon,” I answer, mesmerized.
He grins at that, an arresting flash of white teeth.
“Why?” I ask. “Why the mask?”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It is only behind the mask where I feel I belong.”
“No.” I squeeze his hand. “You belong up here, out in the open, with me.”
His mouth twitches. “Prove it.”
“How?”
“There are no more walls between us, neither man-made, nor cosmic.”
My heart pounds. “I know.”
“So . . . touch me.”
A wave of shyness heats my cheeks, but he’s done waiting. He cups my hands around his jaw on either side, holding them in place. Electric pleasure crackles betwe
en us like lightning.
He lets go as I take over, tracing the graceful curves of sinew and bone along his face then down his neck to his collarbone. Trails of light follow my fingertips, as if carving a path through his emotions. Arms at his sides, he closes his eyes in rapturous beauty, long lashes fanned across sculpted cheekbones.
I stop at the V of his neckline. We both catch a breath as the fine line of hair tickles my palm. I rest my hand just above his racing heartbeat, coaxing out a pulse of bright green in his chest. My heart answers with the same shimmering color.
His eyes snap open, coppery and glimmering: the eyes from my dreams.
As if he’s held back long enough, he sweeps away the tangles from my temple and caresses the shell of my ear. His other hand skims down, his thumb exploring the shape of my lips. Every touch feels new and remarkable, yet at the same time, familiar—an all-consuming sense of recognition.
When I look at him like this, unmasked and bared, I can see inside him—inside myself—even more clearly than the day in the chapel and all the nights we’ve danced together since.
“I know you,” I say, dreamily. “I was never able to see your face in the memories or visions. But somehow, I know you. You feel like home to me.”
Growing somber, he turns me loose and stands. His clothes tighten around his flexing form as he stretches to tug the tin can off the statue. The other can drags along the roof with a metallic scrape as he pulls the ribbon free from both.
He kneels in front of me. “You know my soul. Just as I knew yours before seeing you.” He curls the fingers of my left hand into a loose fist around one end of the ribbon, and brushes my knuckles along his smooth cheek, spurring jolts of sensation that wind through my arms and burrow deep into my chest. “We’re twin flames. Incarnations of the same soul, parted while reentering the world . . . predestined to find each other again. Everything we’ve ever experienced in our separate lives has been working to reunite the mirror pieces of ourselves we left within the other. Twin souls always come full circle, as natural and ineludible as the migration of birds or the alignment of planets. All of this has been set into motion in the past by our spirit, for our bodies to discover in the present. Now, at last, we’re here.”