“This way, sir.” Agnes leads me along the passage, through a concealed door in a storage closet, down a flight of steps, and along another hallway until we come to a side door. The door yields easily when I open it, but I suspect it will lock behind me when I leave. It’s no matter. I know other ways to get back into the theater.
Before exiting, I turn to Agnes. “You have served me well this evening, and I may need you again. Remain close by.”
“Of course. Happy to serve the god of the dead.” She straightens the brim of her flowered hat.
“Such service deserves a reward. Take my hand.”
Cautiously, she brushes her wispy fingers against mine.
Frowning, I concentrate for a moment, sorting through the powers I can still access. I siphon a pulse of focused energy from myself into the ghost, mentally shaping the magic to suit my intent.
“You now have a limited ability to interact with small physical objects,” I tell her. “Books, drinks, windows, light switches, that sort of thing. Enjoy it.”
“Thank you, sir,” she breathes. “Thank you!”
With a nod, I shove my way through the side door of the building and into the night.
A few dozen hurried strides later, I reach the front corner of the New Orpheum Theatre. I linger in the shadows, waiting for Christine and her friend to appear.
They leave the building together, talking in low tones. Their heels clip against the sidewalk as they head toward the parking lot.
I pace slowly after the girls, keeping my distance, wondering if I’m dressed casually enough not to draw attention to myself. I’m wearing black pants, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and plain black loafers. Fashion is one thing I struggle to understand. There seem to be no rules, and yet people judge clothing choices harshly.
Why am I concerned about my clothing choices? If anything is going to attract attention, it’s the goddamn mask covering my face.
I should turn back. And yet I prowl after the pair like a guard dog, my eyes darting from side to side along the street, evaluating possible dangers.
In the corner of the parking lot, beside a streetlamp, three men sit astride beetle-black motorcycles. One of them notices the girls and jostles his friend’s arm. All three ogle the two women in a way I deeply dislike.
The first man wolf whistles, and the second shouts something about a “fine ass.” The girls ignore him and proceed to a car that I presume belongs to Christine, as she is the one who unlocks it. I have limited experience with motorized vehicles, but even I can tell that this one is old and probably unreliable. The passenger door squeaks loudly when Christine’s friend opens it, the driver’s side window seems to be permanently stuck a few inches open, and when Christine tries to start the engine, it wheezes and coughs several times before finally giving in with a rattling growl. The tailpipe releases a loud bang, and rust sifts to the pavement as the car chugs away, leaving me behind.
I don’t approve of Christine’s method of transportation. She should drive something safer, something sleek and beautiful.
Now that the girls are gone, I stalk toward the men on the motorcycles, the ones who whistled and shouted. I do not speak. I simply stare, a low growl rumbling in my chest, threat radiating from every pore. I may not be able to access most of my power, but I have enough to infuse the very air with the fear of death.
“What you lookin’ at, motherfucker?” says one of the men. He’s belligerent, but I hear the sharp edge of fear in his voice.
“You’re hella creepy, brah,” squawks the second man.
“Let’s go,” suggests another.
After a moment’s hesitation, the leader nods. “Yeah, this mofo ain’t worth our time.”
They gun their engines and roar out of the lot. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. It feels good to instill fear in mortal hearts again.
My anger momentarily suppressed my lust, but the moment my mind returns to Christine, I am ensorcelled by the memory of her long, toned legs and those black lace panties. I could almost see through them, just enough to imagine what lay underneath…
Christine is gone now, out of my reach, headed into the city. She is looking for someone to fuck. And that makes me angrier than I have any right to be.
Tomorrow, Fate willing, she’ll meet me in the stairway again. I should return to my lair and prepare some sort of lesson for her. No matter whose dick she wets tonight, I will still possess her voice…her soul. She’s too frightened to sing for anyone else, so that part of her will remain mine to treasure, mine to cultivate, if she will allow me to teach her.
Still, the idea of some leering idiot shoving himself inside her body unhinges me more deeply than I care to admit. I hate the grating distress it causes in my soul, almost as much as I hate the lack of control I experienced tonight when my body responded to the sight of her. I should not be so weakened or obsessed by the thought of touching mortal flesh.
I retrace my steps to the New Orpheum, descend to my lair in a storm of raw fury, and thunder my rage through the piano keys.
Music offers relief, solace, salvation. In the distant past, I enjoyed it, but I feel it so much more intensely now. There is more variety in this era—countless instruments and genres and musical styles. A vast world in which I can immerse myself when, like tonight, life seems untamable, and happiness flutters just out of reach.
5Christine
