Fuck.
Time ticks away. He can’t have much longer on the phone.
“Is it what you want, angel?”
“I don’t know what I want,” I admit.
A voice carries from the background, faint but undeniable. “Come on, Montresor, time to end the call.”
“I think you do, angel.”
He has one phone call. This is it until I see him in the flesh next week. Do I stop the dreams, stop his nocturnal visits, or endure the agony for four more nights until I see him on Thursday?
Static cuts down the line, and for a second, I fear he’s gone.
“Valdemar?”
No reply.
“Valdemar?”
Nothing.
The thought of four nights of insomnia grips at my insides. Four more nights of not seeing him, or four more nights of the ghostly hands touching me without any sensation.
Which of these can I endure?
“You have my consent,” I almost shout.
A buzz sounds in my ear, and I worry I’m too late. Loosening my grip on the phone, I’m about to scream when Valdemar’s voice travels through the speaker and into my core.
“Until tonight, angel.”
Clock-watching is a nasty habit,one I don’t normally have the luxury of, but tonight it’s been my sole focus. Earlier, I’d taken out my laptop and reviewed what I’d written about Valdemar, now knowing his story can never be told—not without endangering him and the other Raven Hands.
Am I cross about his ploy to lure me in with the promise of a big scoop? No. I would never have agreed to meet with him if he told me it was simply to learn the truth about my brother’s death. It would have appeared to me as if he was asking for my forgiveness, trying to assuage the guilt he’s lived with for the past ten years. The only way he was ever going to get me to listen was as a journalist.
But I haven’t listened as a journalist. I’ve listened as Ed’s sister, his twin, his other half. And although I was shocked by what Valdemar told me, it’s also opened my eyes as to why he killed Ed, and it has me wondering if I would have had the strength, the love, to have been the one to pull the trigger.
Slipping under the fresh sheets, I’m hit with the artificial smell of lavender-and-honeysuckle fabric conditioner mingling with the mango body cream I generously slathered on after a long soak in the bath. Changing the bedding had been another way of killing time before I could respectably come to bed—though at nine thirty in the evening, it’s still way too early for me to sleep. But I can’t ignore the anticipation of seeing Valdemar and of what tonight’s dream might hold.
Avoiding an analytical thought about how I feel like a teenager on a first date, I let my head sink into the pillow and wait for sleep and Valdemar to claim me.
The stage is empty, the chairs gone; instead, the hall is brimming with dancers and ablaze with light. Men are partnered with women, women swirl with women, and men embrace men as a symphony of a thousand violins fills the air.
Amongst the glittering ballgowns and sharply cut dress suits, waiters and waitresses weave between the bodies, trays held aloft, their necks extended and arms perfectly aligned, as if they’ve been choreographed.
Candlelight flickers from elaborate candelabras coupled with an impressive chandelier that hovers above. But even in the blazing glow, I can see the emptiness of the dancers, the haze around their edges, and the softness of their silhouettes. Focussing on a blonde woman, I track her as she twirls to a Viennese waltz, her eyes trained on the man leading her steps. It’s as she spins, her blonde curls blurring against the black dress, that I notice the bloodstain on the back of her head.
Looking elsewhere, I clock a man to the right. He’s smiling, his suit pressed to perfection, his back as straight as a ruler. The only thing marring this beautiful scene is the red stain on the white of his shirt.
He’s not alone in this macabre attire.
Blood envelops some of the dancers, while others suffer a broken limb or greying skin, bloodshot eyes, or thinning hair.
They’re dead.
All of them.
