The Opera House is a fortress of light. Searchlights sweep the sky. Red carpets bleed onto the pavement. Paparazzi swarm behind velvet ropes, flashing bulbs like strobe lights. Limousines snake around the block, depositing the city's elite—senators, bankers, tech moguls, the vultures in tuxedos.
My limo pulls up."Steady,"Alaric’s voice says in my ear."Heart rate is 120. Lower it. Breathe."
I close my eyes.Breathe in.Breathe out.The silence between the notes.
The door opens. I step out. The flashbulbs go off. A wall of white light. I don't flinch. I stand tall, the black velvet dress drinking the light, the diamonds at my throat blazing cold fire. I look at the cameras. I give them the face of a ghost. A murmur goes through the crowd. They don't recognize me. The hair, the makeup, the death certificate—I am a stranger. A mystery.
I walk up the stairs. Security checkpoint. Metal detectors."Walk through,"Alaric commands."The knife is ceramic. The wire is platinum. The gas is plastic. You are a ghost."
I walk through the arch. Silence. No beep. The guard looks me up and down. His eyes linger on the slit in my dress, on the sheer stocking. "Invitation, Ma'am?"
I hand him the stolen card. He scans it.Beep."Welcome, Countess."
Countess. Alaric gave me a title. I smirk. "Thank you."
I enter the foyer. It is magnificent. Gold leaf ceilings. Crystal chandeliers. Champagne flowing like water. The air smells of expensive perfume and corruption. I take a glass of champagne from a passing tray. I don't drink it. It’s a prop.
"Thorne is in the Royal Box,"Alaric directs."Second level. Center. But you can't go there yet. You need to be backstage."
"Why backstage?" I whisper, pretending to sip the wine.
"Because you are the surprise entertainment."
"What?"
"I hacked the program,"Alaric says, his voice sounding smug even through the pain."At 20:00, the scheduled pianist—a lovely boy named Franz—is going to have a sudden stomach issue. I sent him a bottle of water laced with ipecac ten minutes ago."
"Alaric!"
"Collateral damage. You need the stage, Elodie. It’s the only place Thorne will look at you. It’s the only place you have power."
I navigate the crowd. I feel eyes on me. Hungry eyes. Calculating eyes. I hear snippets of conversation. "...merger is complete..." "...Hallowed Halls is a goldmine..." "...heard Graves is dead..."
I grip the stem of my glass.Dead.They talk about him like a closed file.Just wait,I think.The ghost is about to sing.
I find the backstage door. A large man with an earpiece blocks it. "Performers only, Miss."
I look at him. I channel Sterling. Cold. Aristocratic. "I am the replacement," I say. "For Franz. He is... indisposed."
The guard touches his earpiece. "Control, checking on the pianist?" A pause. "Roger. He's vomiting? Jesus. Okay." He looks back at me. "You're the sub?"
"I am the virtuoso," I correct.
He steps aside. "You're on in ten. Green room is on the left."
I walk into the wings. The smell changes. Dust. Rosin. Old wood. It smells like home. I see the piano on the stage. A Steinway Model D. Identical to the one in the asylum. Identical to the one in the glass house. It is waiting for me.
I walk to the Green Room. It is empty. I sit down at the vanity. I check my reflection. The vampire is ready.
"Thorne is taking his seat,"Alaric whispers."He has three guards. Two inside the box. One at the door. We can't get to him physically. Not yet."
"So what do I do?"
"You play,"Alaric says."You play the Danse Macabre. But you play it... differently."
"How?"
"I uploaded a virus to the Opera House AV system,"he explains."It is audio-reactive. It triggers based on specific frequencies. When you hit the dissonant chords in the Saint-Saëns piece... the screens behind you will change."
