He listens. That alone makes him unique.
The other one watches him constantly. Grounds him. Feeds him. Pulls him back when he drifts too far.
That one is useful for now.
Chapter five
Remy
“Fuck.” I rake a hand through my hair and look past the foreman to the problem he’s uncovered. Beneath the stage is a mess of false walls and narrow corridors, a deliberate maze built where no one was supposed to look too closely. We're almost two months in. Erik has disappeared into his music, leaving me to deal with this.
Erik claimed the apartment that opens directly into the orchestra pit without hesitation. That same focus is what made him a renowned composer. It also makes him an oblivious pain in the ass.
The moment it became clear he was willing to sleep there, dust and bugs be damned, I paid a fortune for an emergency cleaning crew. The place was barely habitable when we toured it.
The realtor had tried to play hardball, watching Erik wander the stage with that look on his face. The one that meant the deal was already done.
I pointed up toward the rafters and asked where the body had fallen from, exactly. I said I was surprised they’d bothered to remove the rope he’d been swinging from.
She’d gone pale, stammered something about talking to the bank, and left.
Now I stare at the opening beneath the stage and all I see are additional expenses.
“Any reason to think we’re looking at structural issues?” I ask.
The foreman shakes his head. “No. I walked most of it. None of it’s load-bearing. You could reclaim the space. Move dressing rooms down here. Even expand your apartment.”
More space would be useful.
Movement catches my eye. I glance up just in time to see an envelope drift down and land at my feet.
“What the hell?” the foreman mutters.
I bend and pick it up.
My name is written on the front of the black envelope in silver calligraphy.
I tear it open. A single sheet of black paper.
This is not yours.
Leave it.
This is your only warning.
—Dark Angel
I start to ball it up.
The foreman who read the note over my shoulder goes pale.
“I’ll seal it up,” he says. “I remember what happened seven years ago. I won’t put my crew in danger.”
“That’s my decision, don’t you think?” I say.
He’s already shaking his head. “No. Sorry. I was on the crew sent in to repair the damage from the stampede after the unfortunate incident. There were notes then too.”
“Explain.”
