RoseBlood

by A. G. Howard

  “That’s easy,” I interrupt his teasing, noticing his chest aglow with that greenish light where my hand’s still touching him. “It’s green.”

  He laughs.

  I laugh, too, until it registers what his job interview today must mean. “Wait. You’re going to live in Paris?”

  “I already have an apartment. I’ll show it to you as soon as I’m moved in.”

  I bite my lip, trying not to give away how happy that makes me. Although I know he can read it in my aura. “Hmmm. You’ve made a lot of commitments to show me things. The mirrored city . . . your apartment . . . the rose-petal-covered bed.”

  He raises one dark eyebrow. “That one’s my favorite.”

  “Mine, too.” The admission warms my cheeks. “And maybe you can also show me how to play the violin?”

  “Bien sûr. However, you know I like to play half-dressed.” He grins—a seductive tease of teeth and lips.

  “I’m all for learning my maestro’s techniques,” I respond without missing a beat.

  “Just the answer I was hoping for.” He’s preoccupied with my hair again, winding the waves around his fingertips as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. There’s an easy rapport between us now . . . a pleasant contrast to all the heavy emotions and drama that brought us together. It’s going to be nice to finally live in the moment, after so many years of being trapped in the past.

  I smooth the lapels of his blazer. “You know, I’m liking this new look. It’ll make things easier when you meet my family and friends if you appear reasonably human.”

  “Meet them—” The color drains from his face, mirroring his aura as it fades to pure gray terror.

  I bark a laugh. “Oh, come on. That scares you? After everything we’ve been through, that’s what leaves your blood cold? You have to meet them . . . it’s one of the unwritten rules of dating.”

  “There are rules for a boy wooing a girl?” Tugging gently on my hair, he brings my face close enough to taste his warm, sweet breath. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to write them down for me. I’m new to all this.”

  A smile curves my mouth, to imagine an incubus asking for dating tips. “There are only three others you should know. First, never say the word woo. Second, don’t spout lame poetry, unless the occasion calls for a little extra romance.” I push a fallen curl from his forehead, amazed and awed by how lucky we are to have found each other at this moment in time. Something I might be grateful to Erik for one day, many years from now. “And third, just be yourself. Guaranteed, you’ll have all the girls falling at your feet.”

  I’ve no sooner said it than he scoops me into his arms, cradling me as if I weigh no more than one of Ange’s feathers. “I have only one girl in mind,” he says, close to my lips. “And I’ll never let her fall. Too poetic?”

  I trace the sculpted lines of his chin and jaw, breathless. “No,” I whisper once I finally manage a response. “The occasion called for it.”

  Eyes copper-bright with the energy pulsing between us, his features grow somber. I hold his face as he bows his head for a kiss—a teasing crackle of sensation through my lips, tongue, and throat—flavored of spun sugar melted by a smoky flame. Carrying me to the rose petals, he lays me down. Then he lowers himself over me, and his mouth finds my skin, lighting up my body with song.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Caution: RoseBlood Spoilers

  One of my favorite undertakings as an author is research. Inevitably, I learn something new, but nothing is as exciting as when I stumble upon facts from my everyday world—historical details or unique ideologies—that not only fortify the foundations of my fictional worlds but also enrich my real life, adding colorful layers that wouldn’t have been there otherwise.

  I first discovered Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera in high school, and was captivated from that moment on by the tragic, dangerous, and often sardonically humorous antihero, Erik. Over time, I evolved to a true-blue phan (Phantom fan), always eager to experience the story’s many incarnations, be it as a musical, movie, or book adaptation. A few years ago, while surfing the web for information on Erik, I stumbled upon a phan forum that hypothesized he might’ve been a psychic vampire (also known in some circles as an incubus)—a supernatural subterranean creature who lives off of energy instead of blood.

  Once that idea was in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities. If the Phantom was an otherworldly creature, he could be immortal. After all, what would produce more energy for him to feed upon than the rapture of music or terror? (Both of which he inspired in spades.) Maybe he didn’t die at the end of the original book. Maybe he made the ultimate sacrifice and faked his death to go underground again so Christine might have the normal life he could never give her. I wondered what—if anything—would ever be powerful enough to lure him to resurface in modern-day Paris over a hundred years later. Only two things I could think of: to rescue a mistreated child (Erik himself was physically and emotionally abused by so many, including his own mother), and the possibility of resurrecting his love for Christine somehow. These speculations gave birth to RoseBlood.

  The idea for this novel percolated in my mind for several years while I wrote Splintered, but I didn’t start researching RoseBlood until Abrams bought the book on proposal after I’d finished the Splintered series. Once I began, I took a page from my Wonderland retelling and opted to include Leroux’s real-life inspiration for Christine, rumored by many to be the world-famous Swedish operatic soprano who went by the stage name Christina Nilsson (birth name: Kristina Jonasdotter, born to Jonas Nilsson and Cajsa Månsdotter).

  There were some facts I stumbled upon along the way that gave credence to Christina Nilsson being the “real” Christine:

  • Christina used to sign her name as “Christine” during written correspondences.

  • Christina had blondish-brown hair—a much closer match to Leroux’s original description of a blond Christine than the dark brunette version inspired by Hollywood and Broadway.

  • Christina’s talent flourished at a young age, and a civil servant became her patron, enabling her to have vocal training despite her peasant background. Leroux’s heroine was also lower class and beneath Raul’s station in the story; her patron, who appeared out of nowhere and offered the vocal guidance she needed to rise to her full potential, was a mysterious and elusive voice from behind the mirrors and walls—aka her Angel of Music, the Phantom.

  • Christine’s father played a violin in the novel; in real life Ms. Nilsson herself was a violinist.

  As I began looking into Christina Nilsson’s timeline from birth to death, I found it can easily run parallel with Leroux’s Phantom, with only a couple of minor discrepancies. Her birth was in 1843, and Erik’s is calculated to be somewhere in 1831, according to his age in The Phantom of the Opera. That would make Ms. Nilsson only twelve years younger than the Phantom, as opposed to twenty-some years younger like Leroux’s Christine. Also, some phans have estimated that the bulk of the book, when the Phantom and Christine meet and interact at the opera house, took place between 1863 and 1864. Since Ms. Nilsson did in fact have her debut in 1864, that’s the ideal span of time for them to meet and for her to receive his musical guidance. However, the renowned soprano never once performed at the Palais Garnier—the opera house said to have inspired Leroux’s Opéra Populaire. Her debut took place in another Parisian opera house called Théâtre Lyrique. Furthermore, if Erik indeed “died” in 1882, as some have estimated, that would be the perfect time for him to fake his death and lure Christine to his side (which was pivotal to RoseBlood’s plot)—especially considering Christina Nilsson’s first husband died that same year, so she was between the only two marriages recorded in her personal history.

  Upon learning all of this, I knew I had my “real-life” Christine Daaé counterpart. I simply needed a way to explain the discrepancies and weave the Swedish soprano into Erik’s history. That’s where Leroux’s original serialization of
the Phantom tale in a French newspaper—prior to his writing and publishing the novel—comes into play, as you’ve seen in my story.

  To give the incubus/succubus element even more depth, I found another historical figure to tie into Rune’s family. Any online search for Comte de Saint-Germain will turn up fascinating and unsettling rumors from the 1700s of a man suspected of being a vampire and having great talents and intellect, along with a knack for alchemy and black magic.

  While trying to uncover a more mystical and powerful term than soulmate, because what Erik and Christine shared was beyond anything cliché or traditional, I stumbled upon the concept of twin flames. It’s inspired by Aristotle’s philosophy of love: one soul inhabiting two bodies. The concept is beautiful and empowering, yet in some ways tragic and overwhelming—the perfect summation of their relationship. As I researched twin flames, auras and chakras kept surfacing, which gave me the idea to weave them into my succubus and incubus canon.

  Of course, as a writer, I exaggerated and embellished the details to fit my story line. So, if any of these concepts or histories captured your imagination while reading RoseBlood, be sure to do your own research and seek the truth behind the fiction. The only thing better than visiting fictional worlds is realizing how interesting and colorful the one you already live in actually is.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Gratitude to my husband and children: Vince, Nicole, and Ryan. It takes special people to coexist with a writer. Your patience over the years each time I’ve had deadlines and you’re left eating TV dinners in a dusty house while wearing the “least” dirty of your neglected laundry has gone above and beyond. Let there be no doubt: You are the heroes of my life story. Also, thank you to other family members who offer constant support from the sidelines.

  Grateful hugs to my #goatposse for their uplifting witticisms, heartfelt posts, and unwavering devotion to “the herd.” And to my critique partners: Jennifer Archer, Linda Castillo, April Redmon, Marcy McKay, Jessica Nelson, and Bethany Crandell. Without your writerly wisdom, business savvy, and faith in my work, I would still be writing under a rock somewhere, afraid to show my words to anyone.

  The sincerest appreciation to my resourceful and knowledgeable agent, Jenny Bent; to my gracious and insightful editor, Anne Heltzel, whose valuable suggestions inspired me to take the scenes and characters to a new level; and to my fabulous publicists, Caitlin Miller and Tina Mories. Also, my gratitude to copyeditors, proofreaders, and all the unsung heroes behind the making of every beautiful book at Abrams. On that note, thank you once again to Maria Middleton and Nathália Suellen for being the most imaginative and artful book design team.

  SMUGS to the best beta reader and online supporter any author could hope for: Stacee (aka @book_junkee). And hugs to Heather Love King, my Pinterest buddy who is as addicted to eye candy as I am. No one could ask for better cheerleaders than the two of you! Also, a special thanks to Jaime Arnold and Rachel Clarke of Rockstar Book Tours for their outstanding work on my virtual book tours.

  To my Facebook Splintered Series Fan Page moderators: Katie Clifton, Diane Marie Hinds, Natalia Godik, and Autumn Fae Evans, and to my RoseBlood fan page mods: Amanda Colin, Adriana Colin, and Chara Sullivan. I value you so much. The effort you put into maintenance and interactions keeps the pages afloat when I’m working to meet deadlines. Also, *waves* to all of the fan page followers. Hanging out with you is one of my favorite pastimes!

  A depth of gratitude to my Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, blog, GoodReads, and Facebook followers, along with book bloggers, fellow authors/writers, and readers. Writing can feel like a solitary endeavor at times. Having your online support reminds me that I’m never really alone at all. Also, a deep bow to Gaston Leroux for writing the gothic and tragic masterpiece that has lit the imaginations of so many and inspired movies, musicals, and countless retellings.

  And last but not least, my thanks to God for giving me this passion for storytelling, and for keeping my well of inspiration filled.

  Hope you enjoyed RoseBlood by A. G. Howard! Keep reading for a preview of Splintered, the first book in the Splintered series.

  I’ve been collecting bugs since I was ten; it’s the only way I can stop their whispers. Sticking a pin through the gut of an insect shuts it up pretty quick.

  Some of my victims line the walls in shadow boxes, while others get sorted into mason jars and placed on a bookshelf for later use. Crickets, beetles, spiders … bees and butterflies. I’m not picky. Once they get chatty, they’re fair game.

  They’re easy enough to capture. All you need is a sealed plastic bucket filled with Kitty Litter and a few banana peels sprinkled in. Drill a hole in the lid, slide in a PVC pipe, and you have a bug snare. The fruit peels attract them, the lid traps them, and the ammonia from the litter smothers and preserves them.

  The bugs don’t die in vain. I use them in my art, arranging their corpses into outlines and shapes. Dried flowers, leaves, and glass pieces add color and texture to the patterns formed on plaster backgrounds. These are my masterpieces … my morbid mosaics.

  School let out at noon today for the upperclassmen. I’ve been passing the last hour working on my newest project. A jar of spiders sits among the art tools cluttering my desk.

  The sweet scent of goldenrod breezes through my bedroom window. There’s a field of herbs next door to my duplex, attracting a genus of crab spider that changes color—like eight-legged chameleons—in order to move undetected among the yellow or white blooms.

  Twisting off the jar’s lid, I dip out thirty-five of the small white arachnids with long tweezers, careful not to squish their abdomens or break their legs. With tiny straight pins, I secure them onto a black-tinted plaster background already covered with beetles selected for their iridescent night-sky sheen. What I’m envisioning isn’t a typical spatter of stars; it’s a constellation that coils like feathery bolts of lightning. I have hundreds of warped scenes like this filling my head and no idea where they came from. My mosaics are the only way to get them out.

  Leaning back in my chair, I study the piece. Once the plaster dries, the insects will be permanently in place, so if any adjustments need to be made, it has to be done quickly.

  Glancing at the digital clock beside my bed, I tap my bottom lip. I have less than two hours before I have to meet Dad at the asylum. It’s been a Friday tradition ever since kindergarten, to get chocolate-cheesecake ice cream at the Scoopin’ Stop and take it to share with Alison.

  Brain freeze and a frozen heart are not my idea of fun, but Dad insists it’s therapy for all of us. Maybe he thinks by seeing my mom, by sitting where I might one day live, I’ll somehow beat the odds.

  Too bad he’s wrong.

  At least one good thing has come out of my inherited insanity. Without the delusions, I might never have found my artistic medium.

  My obsession with bugs started on a Friday in fifth grade. It had been a rough one. Taelor Tremont told everyone that I was related to Alice Liddell, the girl who inspired Lewis Carroll’s novel Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  Since Alice was, in fact, my great-great-great-grandmother, my classmates teased me during recess about dormice and tea parties. I thought things couldn’t get much worse until I felt something on my jeans and realized, mortified, that I got my period for the first time and was totally unprepared. On the verge of tears, I lifted a sweater from the lost-and-found pile just inside the main entrance and wrapped it around my waist for the short walk to the office. I kept my head down, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.

  I pretended to be sick and called my dad to pick me up. While I waited for him in the nurse’s office, I imagined a heated argument between the vase of flowers on her desk and the bumblebee buzzing around them. It was one powerful delusion, because I really heard it, as sure as I could hear the passing of students from one class to the next on the other side of the closed door.

  Alison had warned me of the day I would “become a woman.” Of the voices that would follow.
I’d just assumed it was her mental instability making her say that …

  The whispers were impossible to ignore, just like the sobs building in my throat. I did the only thing I could: I denied what was happening inside me. Rolling a poster of the four basic food groups into a cylinder, I tapped the bee hard enough to stun it. Then I whisked the flowers out of the water and pressed them between the pages of a spiral notebook, to silence their chattering petals.

  When we got home, poor, oblivious Dad offered to make some chicken soup. I shrugged him off and went to my room.

  “Do you think you’ll feel well enough to visit Mom later tonight?” he asked from the hallway, always reluctant to upset Alison’s delicate sense of routine.

  I shut my door without answering. My hands shook and my blood felt jittery in my veins. There had to be an explanation for what had happened in the nurse’s office. I was stressed about the Wonderland jokes, and when my hormones kicked in, I’d had a panic attack. Yeah. That made sense.

  But I knew deep down I was lying to myself, and the last place I wanted to visit was an asylum. A few minutes later, I went back to the living room.

  Dad sat in his favorite recliner—a worn-out corduroy lump covered with daisy appliqués. In one of her “spells,” Alison had sewn the cloth flowers all over it. Now he would never part with the chair.

  “You feeling better, Butterfly?” he asked, looking up from his fishing magazine.

  Musty dampness blasted into my face from the air conditioner as I leaned against the closest wood-paneled wall. Our two-bedroom duplex had never offered much in the way of privacy, and on that day it felt smaller than ever before. The waves of his dark hair moved in the rattling gusts.

  I shuffled my feet. This was the part of being an only child I hated—having no one but Dad to confide in. “I need some more stuff. They only gave us one sample.”