Christine almost caught me.
I let myself wander too close to her, and then, when she lay down and parted her legs, exposing herself to my view, I could not make myself turn away.
I have seen plenty of naked humans during my online excursions, and while they’re pleasant to the eye, I don’t experience any notable attraction to them. The closest I’ve come to being aroused by images or videos of humans is when they’re exceptionally gifted in the creative arts, brilliantly talented in the areas of music or performance. Otherwise, they hold no sexual interest for me.
Christine is both intelligent and sympathetic as a person. Besides her breathtaking voice, she accepts my instruction with a humble dignity that I find most entrancing. I usually spend our lessons in a state of arousal, and when I caught that first glimpse of her pussy through the broken window of the stairway door, I couldn’t help myself. I reached down and pressed my hand against the bulge between my legs.
She performed the pelvic exercises as I instructed, while I rubbed myself lightly through the fabric of my pants, my mind blurred withdesire, no thoughts in my head except the pursuit of a pleasure I haven’t enjoyed since Cathy’s tryst with Heathcliff in the church, so many months ago.
I didn’t realize Christine had noticed me until it was almost too late. I had to move quickly. I slipped into a side room, pulled myself up through a hole in the ceiling, and emerged on the third-floor landing. From there, I could cast my voice to any point I desired, and the distorted echoes of the stairwell ensured that she was thoroughly confused about my location.
She must not be allowed to see me. She thinks of me as a spirit, an angel, a phantom. That’s why she trusts me with her voice, her soul. If she knew I had a physical body with such desires, she would recoil from me. She would flee, as she did at the end of our lesson, when I sang “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine.” That song was too poignant, too personal. I should have known better than to venture so close to the idea of a romantic connection between us.
And yet my heart shields the tiniest flame of hope that perhaps, against all odds, Christine might come to cherish more than my lessons.
Perhaps, if I can help her overcome her fears and realize her dreams, she will value me enough to overlook my wretched face and my desolate past.
***
When I wake up, I am suffocating among thick black vines.
My mask must have dislodged during the night. The tendrils emerged from the wounds in my face and slithered around me, wrapping me tight. I cannot move. I cannot see. I can barely breathe.
Terror blazes through my very bones. This is how it felt, being suppressed under soil, chained by curses, lulled into tormented sleep by the droning of hymns from the cult charged with keepingme bound. The blood of fresh sacrifices woke my spirit in the Afterworld, but I was still only a shadow of myself until I clutched the soul of the necromancer Heathcliff and rode his power out of the darkness into the world again.
But in this moment, I feel as if I never escaped at all.
Panic ratchets up my heartbeat into a frantic rhythm. I have a human body, forged from the magic of the leannán sídhe, but I’m not sure how durable it is. How fast can a human heart race before it explodes? Am I going to die here, strangled by the remnants of my own divine power?
“My lord,” calls a faint voice. “My lord.”
It sounds like Benedict, the ghost with the cigarette holder.
“I’m trapped,” I manage between fear-stiffened lips.
“Breathe slowly, my lord,” he replies. “Focus on something pleasant to calm yourself.”
Something pleasant. Music, of course, and Christine. I drag in a fragmented breath, then another. The vines loosen slightly.
“Keep breathing,” urges Benedict. “Slow and steady. You did this to yourself—you can undo it. Focus on what needs to happen.”
His voice is a tether to reality. I cling to it, and to the knowledge that Christine’s audition is happening soon, and I promised I would be there for her. I visualize the vines loosening, peeling back from my body, bursting one by one into puffs of black dust.
“I am a god,” I whisper sternly. “I controlyou. You do not control me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the vines obey, withdrawing and shriveling into ash, just as I pictured. I fight my way out of the crumbling remnants. My hands are shaking, and my body is slick with sweat. Desperately, I fumble among the sheets until I find my mask, and I fit it into place again.
When I try to stand, my legs give way, and I crumple to the floor beside my bed. “Fuck,” I whisper.
“You did it,” says Benedict.
I look up at his vague, wispy form, at the satisfied smile on his face. “Thank you.”
He nods. “Happy to help.”
“I will reward you as I did Agnes, with the ability to interact with certain objects,” I say breathlessly.
“I would be grateful. But only after you regain your strength.”
