RoseBlood

by Howard, A. G.

I preoccupy myself with one of the Band-Aids hanging off my elbow—only half stuck to my skin—pressing it into place as the four of them watch me expectantly, their faces lacquered with purplish light. “When I was gardening today, a storm hit. I went inside the chapel for cover. That’s where I found my uniforms and the roses.”

  “Then why are they so wet?” Sunny asks, picking up a vest that drizzles water. “If they were in the chapel, they should still be dry, right?”

  I grimace at her powers of observance. Where’s an e-cig when you need one? The things are like pacifiers to her. “The clothes were tied up in the plastic bag, floating around in the baptismal.”

  Jax stops picking up the stems. “Wait, what? That baptismal has been bone dry since the school opened. I’ve never seen water in it.”

  No. That can’t be. I almost drowned in those depths . . . I can’t even process the implications before Quan practically dives into the tub, his eyebrows almost reaching his unkempt hairline.

  He yanks out the hospital wrist band and the IV tubing, holding them to the lamplight. “Were these in the chapel, too?”

  Audrey almost topples the chaise as she scrambles over to see. Everyone gathers around the items now placed on my nightstand under the lava lamp. I step into the ring of bodies to study the tiny letters and numbers I didn’t notice earlier, neatly written on the plastic label:

  Rune Germain

  1986 boulevard du Pernelle

  passage à la Bouche de L’enfer

  10-29 / 18:30

  Dread ices my veins and frosts my heart.

  Even though this time my name’s not taking shape before my eyes, it’s a reminder of the bleeding roses, and just as intimate and unnerving as before, because it’s on a hospital wristband where the third line of the address translates to . . .

  “Passage to the Mouth of Hell,” I whisper.

  Audrey and Jax exchange a glance. Quan and Sunny do the same. Then everyone turns to me.

  “What?” I ask. “Do you know the place? Is it a hospital?”

  “Try a morgue,” Quan answers as Sunny pries the wristband from his hand. “An abandoned morgue.”

  “Dios mío.” Audrey drags a rosary from inside her shirt, kisses it, and crosses her chest. Then she touches the crucifix to the bird tattoo on her face and shivers.

  “Don’t think of it like that, Blackbird.” Jax wraps an arm around her, pulling her petite body against his tall, powerful one and hugging her tight. The room grows quiet, all of us sympathizing as Audrey is dragged back to that horrific day when her sister almost died. After Jax whispers something in her ear, she nods and swipes some tears from her cheeks, breaking out of his embrace but keeping her fingers laced through his.

  He slants his blue eyes my way. “The Mouth of Hell. That morgue is rumored to be the entrance to a rave club, but none of us have ever been able to pinpoint exactly where it is. It’s just the name of it, floating around online. They say if you get tagged, you wait at the address on the instructions and a car will come for you. But the pickup locale is different every time. And you’re forced to wear a blindfold, so you can’t see the way to the final destination. It’s also rumored, since the morgue once housed the dead, that creatures of the underworld can emerge and mingle with mankind there. That’s why the parties are so wild. People lose consciousness . . . don’t wake up until days later and find themselves out on the street with puncture marks on their arms and ankles. It’s got to be some kind of drug or something, because along with the needle tracks, they all have amnesia and don’t know how they got there. No one can ever find the place again either, unless they get tagged a second time. It’s some crazy stuff.”

  “Yeah. We all decided it was an urban legend, since no one we know has ever actually found any proof of the place.” Quan takes over, still eyeing the IV tube. “Yet here’s something used to drain corpses during the embalming process, and there’s an address staring back at us.”

  Sunny offers the wristband to me. “More than an address. Rune’s name is on that dang thing. And there’s a time and date. A month from now . . . two days before Halloween. This isn’t no hospital identity bracelet. It’s an invitation for a pickup. You’ve been tagged.” She presses my fingers around the plastic band, then slips out of our circle wearing an expression that wavers between concern and curiosity.

  Every muscle in my body tenses as I glance at the clear tubing now dangling from Quan’s hand, unable to look away from the red droplets clinging to the inside.

  My name bleeding across an infant’s grave, and now written on an invitation to a morgue.

  What’s it mean? That I’m tagged for death? My blood runs cold.

  I study the cardboard cutout that Quan kicked out of the way so he could shut the door when he came back earlier. The Phantom would’ve already taken me if he wanted to harm me, right? And he wouldn’t be helping me with my music if he had bad intentions, would he?

  In the chapel, we connected on some indescribable level. He showed me his memories; he felt like home.

  Audrey touches my elbow. I flinch.

  “Hey, you okay?” she asks. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

  “She has reason to be scared.” Sunny’s standing next to my pile of dirty clothes, holding up my bloody shirt. “Rune, it’s time you’re straight with us. What really happened today?”

  I’m rescued by a knock at the door and Bouchard’s voice, rounding everyone up for dinner in the atrium.

  14

  ROMANCING THE ABYSS

  “If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  At dinner, I sit with my friends, since my aunt hasn’t yet returned from Versailles. I tell them enough to give them the illusion that they’re my confidants, but not enough to put them in danger. I can only imagine how it would go if I confessed: “I might be a monster, though I’m not sure what kind.” Or, “I might be under a gypsy curse, and that’s why my grandma tried to kill me.” Or, the best one of all: “The Phantom is real, and he’s helping me master the music that has possessed me since I was four years old.”

  Yeah, none of that would get me sent home for a psych evaluation.

  This whole thing has become too unfathomable, like the premise to a horror movie. So once again, I elaborate on the truth: that I suspect I’m being pranked—the torn uniforms and cut-up roses (their blood remains my secret), the dead bird, and the wristband—but I have no proof who’s behind it, and until I do, the teachers will think I’m lying after my earlier confession. I convince my friends to support my claim that the cat found my bag of uniforms and tore up my clothes.

  They agree, but only once I promise I’m not going to use the wristband. They reiterate that the rave scene is known for drugs, and they’ve all sworn off getting high out of respect for what happened to Audrey’s sister.

  Sunny, however, still wants us to go to the pickup address and see who comes. She won’t let it drop until I finally pretend to toss the wristband into the trash in the atrium at breakfast on Sunday; unbeknownst to any of them, it was a sleight of hand trick, and I still have the band.

  I can’t throw away the opportunity without thinking things through. As far as being seduced by the rave club world, it would appear I already have the upper hand in seduction . . . just ask Ben, if he ever wakes up.

  While everyone heads back to their rooms to do homework, I search the orchestra pit and find that the message and book I left for the Phantom the prior day are gone. My reaction fluctuates between apprehension and anticipation. The rest of Sunday afternoon, I hole up in my dorm with a borrowed sewing machine, piecing together my uniforms with embellishments and scraps until they look more bohemian chic than Victorian. All the while I wonder if the Phantom will contact me—if it was a mistake to reach out to him.

  I don’t have to wait long to find out. That night, with Diable curled at my feet, my maestro’s violin music drifts down from the vent over my bed. I take c
omfort that the metal slats are on a downward slant. No one could see me anywhere else in the room other than when I’m lying in bed. Maybe that knowledge shouldn’t make me feel safer, yet when combined with the ballad he’s playing on that familiar violin, it soothes me to sleep.

  Each consecutive day over the next four weeks, I stand at the edge of the abyss and stare it down, unfazed by my growing attachment to him, seeing myself come alive within his provocative shadow. During rehearsals, and while the opera plays in the cafeteria on the big screens, I never once lose control. The moment any of Renata’s solos light my mind on fire, all I have to do is surrender to my maestro’s violin, reimagine it from my dreams—see his shadow inside the mirrors around me—and he douses my operatic compulsion in a cerebral flourish of strings and steam.

  Every night, he’s back behind the vents, playing whatever song plagued me that day, and because I fall asleep humming the melody alongside him, it satisfies any need to purge the music when I wake up. At last, I’m in control and at peace, other than the desire to see him face-to-face, and not just as a pair of flashing copper eyes in my dreams.

  Even when we share our fantasy dances—like the one onstage—spinning together in the center of my room, I can’t see anything but his silhouette. But, I can smell his scent as I nuzzle his clothes, hear his raspy humming next to my ear, feel the calluses on his fingers—traits of an accomplished violinist that remind me of my dad—as he holds my right hand in his left. And I have to wonder if he’s smiling like me.

  Those nightly interludes always end with a Fire and Ice rose cradled in my fingers, materializing out of thin air in the instant his hand fades from my clasp. I place each flower in the vase beside my bed with the others I’ve accumulated. Then, my chest aglow, I close my eyes to embrace whatever new insights the Phantom imprinted upon me when our spirits touched: A mother who adored him and played piggies with his toes to warm them when they were cold; dolls made of the simplest things, such as twigs, leaves, and empty spools; a black car settling like a cloud over his childhood, taking his mother away forever, and leaving him orphaned.

  The car is yet another layer to his ever-evolving mystique. If he’s a centuries-old creature, he wouldn’t have seen cars in his childhood. And his name was Etalon then, not Erik, as he’s known in the stories.

  I’m beginning to have my doubts if anything in the literary version is correct. If I could only see his disfigured face, I would know. But I never do, because in every instance, I’m watching his past through his eyes.

  Which leaves me curious . . . as his memories become my own, do mine become his? Is it possible he knows all my secrets, all my childhood experiences, hopes, and wishes?

  Not once, when we’re together, does he mention the note I left in the orchestra pit, or the gift I gave him. But there’s no question he received it, because when he does speak aloud—in that broken, raw voice that is more achingly poignant than anything I’ve ever heard—it’s to deliver quiet excerpts in perfect French from our fairy tale.

  Those moments are the most peaceful of all, for both of us. I sense the quiet calm inside him with every word. It’s that serene bubble encapsulating us that prevents me from asking the questions I’ve been plagued by: Why did you cut up my uniforms? Why did you place the dead bird in my chair? Why is Diable my shadow now? How old are you? What are we?

  One night, while I’m snuggled beneath my covers in bed, listening to him read, the ache to have him sitting beside me in reality grows too intense and I can’t keep from bursting through the bubble.

  “Etalon.”

  There’s a sharp intake of air and he grows silent, as if my speaking his childhood name shocks him.

  I roll over, facing the vent in the wall, stretch my arm, and push my pinky between the slats. The warmth of his fingertip touches mine back. I gasp as a spark passes between us, shocking in spite of how slight the pressure.

  Riding the wave of sensation, I find my voice. “Tell me something about you in the present. I only know you from your memories. Do you have a hobby?” It feels strange, asking such a simple question to someone who might’ve been alive for centuries.

  His fingertip drops from mine. A few minutes pass. He becomes so quiet, I’m afraid he’s left. But then his clothes rustle, and he answers. “I tend the animals of the forest. I suppose you could say I’m their . . . doctor.”

  I smile in the darkness, envisioning him caring for the wild creatures no one else would ever give a passing thought to. It makes perfect sense for such a quiet soul. He’s so much like them, hidden away and asking nothing from anyone but to let him survive. Like me, with the plants and flowers I love. “I think that’s beautiful,” I whisper.

  A soft grunt breaks the following hush and there’s sadness in it.

  Scooting closer to the vent, I brave asking another question. “You said we’re the same. I think I knew that before you even told me. But I still don’t know what we are . . . or how I got this way.”

  “You were born into it. It’s in your bloodline. Look back through your family’s history.”

  I grow silent, frustrated that his answers are always so cryptic. Why can’t he just give me details? I’m not ready to let him off that easy. “Why did you give me an invitation to the club? Will you be there? Can we finally see each other if I go?” If I can just be with him, face-to-face, I can get the answers to everything I’ve been dying to ask.

  His breath seems labored. He’s torn . . . aching to be sitting beside me, too, wanting to be forthcoming, but something is holding him back. Instead of him answering me, his violin whispers through the vent—a hypnotic melody. And although I try to fight it, the song lulls me to sleep.

  I want to be angry when I wake up and find him gone in the morning, but the mental intimacies we share, however unusual, always leave me stronger, always help me find my footing. Because of him, I no longer have to worry about bulldozing over anyone at the final auditions that are on the horizon.

  So I choose to be grateful for whatever moments he can offer.

  During our daily rehearsals, Madame Bouchard seems as annoyed by my newfound silence as she was by my unplanned outbursts. At times, she even tries to goad me into breaking down by cranking Renata’s arias full blast in the background. When I don’t react, it seems to unsettle her. Then, when she forces me to sing for a grade, and I manage the songs without fading or weakening, she’s just as upset. It’s as if no matter what I do, it’s not what she expects or wants.

  I don’t let it get to me, because my control has given Audrey the confidence she was lacking. And with my own growing abilities, I’m able to offer her tips for reaching that final note with a more consistent flow of air and forward consonant delivery. Almost four weeks have passed since the chapel incident, and now Audrey’s nailing her part like a pro. All she lacks is the intensity and hysteria that the role demands, which Kat hasn’t quite mastered herself. This puts them on level ground, and Audrey has a real chance of claiming the lead at the upcoming final audition on Sunday.

  Even though I’ve chosen not to try out for any roles, the fact that I’m helping Audrey with her technique lands me back in Kat and Roxie’s bad graces.

  Thursday, during lunch break, they decide teasing me about my “homespun uniforms” isn’t enough for them anymore.

  Kat steps into the bathroom as I’m washing my hands. She opens her purse on the counter, digging through her makeup.

  I try to hurry, not because it’s her, but because I’m uncomfortable being alone with anyone now. Even on our day trips to Paris the previous three weekends, I was careful to always be with the group, or by myself—like when I left everyone long enough to purchase gray and black yarn and emoticon appliques for my newest knitting project.

  I’m making toe socks for the Phantom, in honor of how he used to draw faces on his toes and play puppets when he was little to distract himself from holey stockings and lack of friends. Maybe it’s a silly gift for a guy, but I want his toes to never b
e cold again. I want him to never feel alone again. I’ll do whatever I can to thank him for giving me my power back. Because of his help, I’m in control of the music and can appear normal.

  The downside, though, is now I know without a doubt that I’m the furthest thing from it. I’m different. Understanding I’m not the only one like me makes it easier to swallow, but I have to take precautions to keep others safe until I can make sense of who I am. What I am.

  Kat clears her throat while applying strokes of silvery eye shadow that brighten her icy-blue irises. “So, rumor has it you and the Phantom are hooking up every night,” she says, her voice laced with innuendo.

  I pause—soggy, apricot-scented soapsuds dripping from my hands onto the sink’s edge. The accusation levels me. Although it’s obviously a dig at the “supposed” sighting I had upon my arrival, and my virtue or lack thereof, she’s hitting too close to the truth for comfort. I tug a paper towel from the dispenser, buying myself a second to compose. Be ambiguous . . . ignore the paranormal crack; that’s what a normal person who isn’t singing duets every night with a phantom would do.

  “As if there’s time for hooking up with anyone around here,” I manage. My voice comes out steadier than I feel—a side effect of the sarcasm I inject into the response.

  “Methinks Rune doth protest too boisterously.” Roxie surprises me, stepping out of a stall behind us.

  I glare at both of them in the mirror’s reflection, slightly relieved I’m not alone with Kat, but unwilling to let them see anything that could be construed as weakness. I toss the paper towel in the trash. Conquering my musical demons has given me a new perspective. If the diva duo is going to stop tormenting me and my friends, I can’t play victim anymore.

  “Should’ve known this was a tag-team event,” I accuse.

  “Aw, come on,” Roxie says, brushing past me to flip on a faucet. “We just figured you must’ve found a very special voice coach, considering . . .”

  “Considering . . . ,” I repeat like a ventriloquist dummy.