RoseBlood

by A. G. Howard

  Etalon helped me to my feet and we danced instead, face-to-face in reality, for the first time. He told me, in that grinding voice that incites my succubus to ravening heights, that when all the bad is behind us, he’ll lay me down on a bed covered in rose petals and kiss every inch of skin until my body is aflame with song.

  I didn’t answer, because I was too busy blushing, but I’m going to hold him to that.

  We talked as we danced to the sound of crickets and buzzing bugs. I asked him all the things I’ve been wanting to learn: his birthday, his favorite color, his favorite foods and books, how it felt the first time he helped an animal, and how long Diable has been his companion . . . details that might seem insignificant to other people, but for me and Etalon, we already know each other’s deepest soul-secrets. Now, I want to know the little things that make him tick. Unfortunately, even that was cut short, because we had plans to make.

  I shut my eyes, humming the melody he taught me on the violin. It was incredible, performing with him in reality, side by side. It was like our dream-visions. Joined together in triumph to align the planets and rule the universe.

  That’s what inspired his scheme, in fact. He believes those visions were the stars intervening, telling us how to defeat the Phantom.

  Many of the operatic arias that have possessed me throughout my life were songs Christine learned via Erik’s tutelage with the Stradivarius. And there’s one song they sang together that Etalon’s convinced can break the Phantom: the duet they shared when she was dying.

  It’s a ballad. The same sweet, gentle melody that Etalon has played for me through the vent these past weeks to help me sleep. He knows it from his childhood, having heard Erik hum it subconsciously anytime he was busy doing something that made him nostalgic for Christine.

  Etalon taught me the lyrics. They tell a story about a tree that’s ugly and withered, losing all its leaves. But the leaves lift to the sky and become shimmering, glittery stars. Decay becoming new life; disfigurement becoming beauty. So poignant, knowing the Phantom’s history as I do now.

  Tonight, everything will go according to the Phantom’s original plan, in the beginning. Tomlin is going to sneak out to a party in the city so Erik can use his gas mask/jackal costume and take his place at the masquerade. Erik is a master at mimicry, and has already perfected Tomlin’s voice. He’ll lure me into the hallway away from the party with the excuse of discussing a missing grade. Once we’re out of everyone’s sight, Erik’s plan is to kidnap me through a secret passage . . . to take me to his labyrinth where Etalon will help him perform the transfer.

  But things will never come to that with Etalon’s revised strategy.

  I’m going to dress like Christina Nilsson for the party. It’s a far cry from the zombie banshee I was planning to be, but Etalon’s observation—that the only thing that ever made the Phantom aspire to be human was Christine—makes this our one and only shot.

  The goal is to throw the Phantom off his game when he sees me. He has a portrait hanging on his wall where she’s dressed as Pandora. All I need is a dark golden wig to reflect her Swedish coloring, a long white column dress, a gold-leaf tiara, and a panel of sage fabric to use as a wrap. There are endless costumes and hairpieces behind the locked doors of the opera house. Etalon assured me we have everything to complete the look. He’s putting it together today, using the portrait as a guide. He’ll place the articles in a bag in the orchestra pit this afternoon, since rehearsals were canceled to allow everyone time to get ready for the masquerade at six.

  When the Phantom arrives, it’s up to me to make him vulnerable. Shake him back to reality and the ugliness of his obsession. We expect him to move past his initial shock. He’s too determined to be stopped that easily. So I’ll pretend I believe he’s Tomlin, but as soon as we step out of the party, I’ll make a run for the stairs . . . lead him to Bouchard’s workshop on the second floor. Jippetto will already be waiting inside to force Erik to face the quiet, gentle man he used so callously and the animals he inadvertently slaughtered.

  If that’s not enough, I’ll serenade him with the deathbed ballad.

  Etalon’s job, while the Phantom is preoccupied with us, is to dismantle the machine in the cellar lab that aids in the transfer . . . in case we fail and the Phantom still manages to drag me down.

  If that happens, or if anything else goes wrong, Aunt Charlotte and Bouchard will be charged with everyone else’s safety. Etalon will supply them with smoke bombs to set off the alarms and sprinklers, so all the teachers and students will run outside, away from Erik’s undiscovered pitfalls.

  It would be easier if we weren’t trying to hide the secret vampire society, and if the Phantom wasn’t a mad genius with traps around every corner. This is the only way to protect everyone.

  My gut twists again at the dangerous conspiring. I’m just about to sift through Christine’s letters for a distraction when I hear a knock. More eager to see Aunt Charlotte than my food, I swing my door open to find Sunny’s freckled face looking back, lunch tray in hand and book bag hanging over her shoulder.

  A groan escapes my lips. With all of the secret spy tunnels and mirror windows in this place, you’d think someone would’ve thought to install peepholes in the dorm room doors.

  The scent of roasted cod drifts between us, making my stomach growl.

  “Exactly as I thought,” Sunny says. “When I saw your eyes last night, I knew you must’ve taken a page from my playbook and stolen them from your aunt.” She leans in close. “Coolest zombie contacts ever. How’d you get her to forgive you and let you wear them today?”

  A few students walk through the foyer on their way to the stairs and glance over their shoulders at us. It’s too late to hide from Sunny, but no one else needs to see me. I usher her in and go along with her creepy contacts theory. If she only knew the irony of it all.

  As I shut the door and lean against it, she sets the tray on my nightstand and plops onto my bed. Diable jumps down, taking a jingly, dignified stroll to the chaise.

  “I’m surprised you’re here,” I say to my unexpected guest. What I want to say is: How did you see my eyes last night?

  Sunny frowns and drags her book bag off her shoulder. “I swiped your lunch tray before your aunt saw it. I wanted to tell you that I know what you’re up to. It’s honorable and all that, but there’s gotta be another way.”

  I struggle to stay standing. She can’t possibly know my plans for the party. “What do you mean?”

  “What you said yesterday, before you went out for Renata’s part. That isn’t like you. You had an ulterior motive . . . you’re planning to roll over so Audrey can have the lead. Am I right?”

  I sigh. As many secrets as I’m hiding, I can’t resist sharing at least one with Sunny. “Yeah. And it’s working. Jax hates me, and Audrey’s not mad at him anymore.”

  Sunny shakes her head. “He don’t hate you. Neither does she. All of us—well, everyone but me—are just confused, that’s all.”

  I make my way over to the bed to take a seat at the other end, playing with the ruffled cuffs of my dress shirt. “Well, I’m a confusing person.”

  “And secretive.” A weird expression crosses her face as she sees the pile of letters from Christine on my pillow behind her. She grabs them before I can. Her bluish-purple eyes turn to me. “The Christine?”

  I scramble for an excuse. “I—I found them.”

  “Oh yeah? In the chapel, or on the roof?” Her eyebrows shoot up accusingly on the last word.

  The sick nausea pools in my stomach again, and the cod no longer smells appetizing except to Diable, who’s seated himself at the base of the nightstand and is staring up, sniffing the air.

  Sunny leans down to open her book bag, the letters snug in her lap. She drags out two familiar tin cans with holes in the bottoms, and a cracked white half-mask. “At first I thought this belonged to Professor Tomlin, since these are the tins he uses in our labs to store solvents and stuff. But why would you be
meeting him up there? And why the mask?”

  The room tilts topsy-turvy. Etalon must’ve been in such a hurry last night that he left some things behind. But how did Sunny find the secret passage? And how did she unlock the door? “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right.” Sunny’s smug glare stands out against the purple-lit walls, brighter than her red hair. “You were so busy arguing with the Bride of Frankenstein about stealing your aunt’s disposable contacts, you forgot you dropped this, huh?” She places the rooftop key on the bed beside the other items.

  My tongue freezes. I piece together the events of my encounter with Bouchard last night, her words to me before she snapped off the necklace: I’ve seen these eyes before. She’s going to want to know about this. Sunny construed that as Bouchard accusing me of stealing contacts. But where would she have been, to see and hear everything?

  Then I remember. “You. You were the rustling I heard behind the phantom cutout . . . you were on the stairs—”

  “Yep. I’d come out to go to the bathroom and saw the mirror door opening, with you sneaking through. I decided to retrace your steps after you dropped the key.” Sunny unties the string from the letters.

  I grapple for them but she jerks away. The papers go flying, sending Diable darting up the spiraling staircase to the mini-loft. I crouch to gather the letters before Sunny can. My brain flips through uncountable scenarios, trying to find one that will explain all of this.

  “Whoa. That’s creepy as hell,” Sunny says from where she’s picking up behind me.

  My shoulders stiffen as I turn.

  Her face is so pale her freckles stand out like specks of mud on a whitewashed fence. She holds up a sketch of the disfigured Phantom similar to the one Etalon showed me on the rooftop. It must’ve been stuffed inside the stack of letters. Brownish-red spatters fleck the background, like aged blood. Sunny’s trembling finger points to the bottom, beside the signature, where Christine scripted the words: Guard your throats and hide your eyes. He’s not dead, you fools. Legends never die.

  Seated on his bed, Thorn slipped his feet into his new socks and wiggled them. The colorful faces on the toes appeared to dance in the hazy blue light of his aquarium. He smiled, then shoved his feet into his boots, tying the laces up to his calves, his mind on those moments spent with Rune in the aviary.

  He’d read the insecurity in her aura—sensed she was worried he’d think her gift was childish. It was such an intimate and kind gesture. One that made him feel treasured and gave him hope. He’d wanted to share that hope, share that energy she inspired in him.

  Holding her in his arms, tasting his name on her lips, had been even sweeter than he’d ever imagined it could be. As were her whimpers asking for more.

  And her voice when he played for her? Seraphic, just as Erik always said. Thorn knew they were taking a chance dressing her as Christine. It could backfire, presenting her as the object of Erik’s desire. That’s why Bouchard and Rune’s aunt were there. As backup. He hated putting Rune in danger, but she was stronger than she realized. She would discover that tonight.

  He hadn’t told her everything about the ballad. He wanted to spare her the knowledge that Erik often sang it, with tears in his eyes, to the body in the cryo-chamber. Some images were too morbid and tragic for anyone to have to live with. It was enough Thorn would never stop seeing it himself.

  He smoothed the hems of his black scrub pants into place over his boots before pulling on the matching top, saturated with the scent of rubbing alcohol. He had to look the part of the surgeon. He’d wear the lab jacket, too, to cover up the ribbon imprint on his arm. That’s the last thing Erik needed to know about.

  Thorn stood, checking his room, assuring everything was in place. He’d already emptied the aquarium of the fish. Freed them in the river from where he caught them; though he’d left the aquarium filled with water and the light on, to keep Erik from noticing the change. All of Thorn’s animal patients were free, and he’d never have to alter another voice. In the chapel was a suitcase holding his scant possessions: clothes, a few half-masks, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, some soap, the fairy tale book Rune gave him, and the Stradivarius.

  If he escaped alive tonight, Erik would disown him, or, worst case, chase him down until he’d had his revenge.

  The thought not only filled Thorn with dread, it also made his heart sink. Yet, one thing buoyed it: imagining a life that was above ground, with no masks or cellar labs or deadly traps. A life among people who had jobs, who went to dinner and attended the opera houses as guests . . . not eternal ghosts haunting the performers within.

  He wanted to take Rune to Paris every morning with sunshine warm on their faces, and let her shop to her heart’s content, or duck into an antique bookstore during a rainstorm and read together all afternoon. Or walk alongside cafés and elegant gardens—holding hands until the sun disappeared, then sit with her in front of the Eiffel Tower all lit up like a beacon—and kiss her face in the glow of yellow light.

  To be a real couple. To have real friends. To blend in, except when they were alone and could let their inner beasts out to play.

  That telling moment in the sewer twelve years ago kept surfacing like an omen: “You could still have a normal life,” Erik had said. “Your perfect face, flawless features . . . they’ll earn you a place of respect and power in that world. You can blend in, even rule, where I never could.” And Thorn’s naïve, childish answer: “I don’t want to blend. I want to belong.”

  He didn’t belong. Not here. Not anymore. He didn’t belong up there, either. The only place he belonged was with Rune. But since that meant living up there, well, he’d warmed to the idea of blending.

  He just wasn’t sure a phantom’s son could have a normal life, with nothing to offer but dark talents and blood on his hands.

  A part of him wanted to go back to last night, endlessly relive that quiet, perfect moment in the moonlight garden with Rune, drinking in her delicious white aura, tasting her soft skin, while giving her all the pleasures he’d promised. Because here in the present, a cloud of gloom closed in. Something primal hung on the air—scented with a mix of burned flesh and compost. Regret and death.

  The plan he’d made was good, but it wasn’t fail proof. If he knew anything of the man who had raised him, he knew the Phantom was always one step ahead.

  Always.

  Thorn had put blinders on the day Rune came, too blissfully happy at their reunion to pay attention. But now, looking back, he saw the signs. All along, Father Erik had been aware that Thorn was secretly helping Rune break free from her musical demons. Yet he’d pretended not to notice and let it continue. Now, in these final hours of her freedom, Thorn realized there must’ve been an underlying reason.

  Erik had insisted from the beginning that the girl who harbored Christine’s voice would have to want to sacrifice it for the transfer to work. So why would he allow Thorn to help her learn to appreciate and cherish her talent, unless it somehow furthered his cause? It surely wasn’t a virtuous gesture, a change of heart brought about by watching his only son fall in love.

  One way or another, Thorn would find out tonight—a knowledge that sent knifelike jabs through his chest.

  The elevator’s motor triggered Ange’s answering squawk. Erik was on his way up from the cellar. He’d been in costume for hours, impatient to go. Now that it was time, he would expect Thorn to see him off.

  Struggling to steady his raging pulse, Thorn stood and slipped into the lab jacket. He took a shaky breath, raked his fingers through his hair, and looked in the mirror. He thought upon the coverings he’d created to hide behind over the years: clay, porcelain, satin, and copper. Then he schooled his features to a guise of obedient compliance, because tonight, his face was the most important mask he would ever wear.

  24

  FIRE AND ICE

  “Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those w
ho favor fire.”

  Robert Frost

  The ballroom is abuzz with activity. The colorful auras of fifty students and six teachers mix and mingle, clash and conflict, even more distracting to my eye than the bright and extravagant costumes that range from modern culture to mythological, fairy tale, and classical.

  Seated at a table, I nibble on hors d’oeuvres—grilled zucchini rolls with herbed goat cheese, tomato-and-bacon-topped marmalade on bruschetta—in an effort to look nonchalant while keeping the entrance in sight.

  The Phantom is late.

  Either that or he’s behind the mirrored wall, observing and strategizing. I’m shocked that I’d prefer the latter. Otherwise, something’s gone wrong with Etalon, and that’s unbearable to even imagine. The ribbon tattoo on my arm keeps stinging, as if to validate that fear. It was feeling like this even before Sunny touched it upon my arrival and commented on how well I’d drawn it, and that it was an interesting addition to my Pandora theme, and also, why did I change themes anyway, and where’s the glowing contacts?

  If it weren’t against vampiric law, I’d tell her everything. It’s exhausting fabricating cover stories for such an inquisitive mind. And it would be nice to have girlfriend talks about Etalon.

  The red coil on my arm burns again at the thought of him.

  I glance down where Diable bats at the hem of my white flowing dress, exposing my bare feet—a result of not having the right sandals to go with my costume.

  “Hey, Ghost Kitty.” The cat pauses and blinks up at me. “Go find your master. Make sure he’s okay.” I half expect him to refuse, considering his pride and that no one is his master, but he seems to sense the tension in my voice.

  Wiggling his whiskers, he stretches, yawns, and jingles away, darting between students and through the double doors.