The kindness in his tone strikes a chord deep inside me. I could count on a few fingers the souls who have treated me kindly, in this world or beyond.
After a moment, I manage to struggle to my feet. “What news from my theater?”
“Nothing new to report,” he replies. “There will be auditions held in the theater today for a new musical. The composer is apparently a relative of Gil Leveque, Firmin Richards’s business partner. Should I observe the auditions? Gather information about the composer?”
“I’ll be there myself, but you could linger on the theater floor and listen to the comments from the director, the composer, and anyone else with influence on casting choices. And have a few of the other ghosts linger backstage to gather information from those who audition.”
“Very well.” He drifts away, and I head for the bathroom to shower.
The bathroom adjoining my lair used to be a wretched place, with three overflowing toilets, two broken sinks, and a shower whose drain practically oozed cockroaches, but I repaired and retiled it all myself with the help of several dozen instructional videos. Now it has a luxurious shower, a new toilet, and a gleaming pair of sinks atopa well-stocked vanity. After a thorough application of pest control products and the addition of a rain showerhead, the place is much more worthy of cleansing a god’s mortal form.
While the hot water washes the sweat from my body, I mentally review all the pawns I have in play and what the best move might be for each of them.
Three weeks ago, I instructed the ghosts in my service to look for any secrets I could use to control the residents of this place. So far, they’ve brought back some useful information—a torrid affair between Mrs. Giry and one of her male students, the lighting technician’s violent criminal record, the security guard’s penchant for watching porn during his shift, the theft of some small valuables by two members of the cleaning staff, and the most useful piece of information yet…the fact that Firmin Richards, the owner and developer of this building, spies on the female residents and the dancers via the two-way mirrors installed at various points throughout the building.
It’s surprisingly easy to control humans, even without magic. All I need is my phone, the number of the person I want to blackmail, and their darkest secret, with enough proof to apply the perfect amount of leverage. Thanks to the internet and a few devoted ghosts, I hold all the cards now. If I wanted to, I could bring most of the people in this building to their knees with a few carefully worded texts.
Yesterday, I persuaded the security guard to ensure that Box Five of the theater will be empty and undisturbed during the auditions. It’s perfectly situated for my needs—angled for an ideal view of the stage, yet deeply shadowed even when the house lights are on. From there, I can size up Christine’s rivals and enjoy her audition.
Shortly before ten o’clock in the morning, I traverse the back hallways of the building, circumventing the residence areas, thedance studios, and the wedding chapel. A black coat with a capacious hood shrouds my form. If anyone should spot me, they won’t think twice about my apparel, since the skies opened up this morning and unleashed a heavy autumn rain on all of Nashville and its suburbs.
At last, I reach the theater space and enter by the employees’ door, which was left unlocked as I requested. A handful of emergency lights gleam at intervals in the theater lobby and the hallways. I mount the dark steps to the second floor, my polished shoes soundless on the thick carpet.
The door to Box Five is also unlocked, and I make a mental note to reward the security guard for his loyal service. After stepping through and closing the door softly behind me, I walk to the edge of the balcony and survey the silent theater, lit only by the pinpoints of light marking the central aisle and the exits.
From what I’ve gleaned of this building’s history, this space was once a factory floor, now remodeled into a gorgeous theater with tiers of plush seating, ornate wall paneling, gilded cornices, and heavy crimson drapery. The edge of each balcony features carvings of pomegranates, grapes, and swirling leaves, and the ceiling boasts a gothic painting of Hades leading Persephone down to the Underworld.
I take the central seat in the box and lean back, prepared to wait for nearly an hour until auditions begin at eleven.
But I’ve only waited for ten minutes before light flares onstage, illuminating a swath of the boards.
Frowning, I sit up straighter and lean forward.
A young man appears, rolling an electric piano toward the center of the stage. I’m not sure why the instrument requires so many extra buttons and levers. I prefer a classic piano myself. But perhaps I should invest in one of these modern ones for experimentation.
The light gleams off the man’s square-framed glasses and glints on his coppery hair. He adjusts the cord of the piano, then leaves for a moment and returns with a stool, which he sets in place. Slowly, he rolls up one sleeve of his shirt, then the other, exposing lightly tanned forearms while he stares contemplatively at the instrument.
At last, he seats himself on the stool, adjusts a few sliders, and places long, elegant fingers against the keys, his hands perfectly arched. Exquisite technique.
The beat comes first, pulsing like a heartbeat, quickening my breath. Then a faint sound of strings, electronic and elusive but no less effective. His fingers fly across the controls, tweaking the sound, finessing it, exerting his will over the instrument. Then he begins to play.
The melody is good but predictable. In several spots, my brain suggests an alternate chain of notes, a different orchestration, and a key change that would take the song from mediocre to magnificent. I have to bite my tongue and tighten my fists to keep myself from suggesting the changes aloud or from singing the harmony that would perfectly complement his tune.
The man’s eyes are closed, and his brows are bent, as if he isn’t quite pleased with what he’s playing. Reluctantly, I admit to myself that he’s very attractive for a human male. He has delicate features and a jaw so crisply cut it looks almost fragile. The glasses give him a look of studious intelligence.
He ends the song with an abrupt clash of frustrated notes and an audible, “Fuck!”
I almost rise from my chair, tortured by the desire to tell him the music is quite good and that he only needs to make a few small changes to achieve greatness.
But a figure emerges from the shadows at the edge of the stage, and a soft voice says, “Don’t stop.”
A thrill bolts through my chest, and the man on the stool whirls around.
Christine steps forward, wearing a simple white tank top and black dance leggings. Her hair isn’t in a neat bun, though—it’s on top of her head in a riotous knot.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m auditioning today, and I thought if I walked onto the stage first and got comfortable with it, I might be less nervous.”
“Of course.” The young man leaps up from his stool so fast it spins around. “Please, take all the time you need. I’m just trying to sort out this one bit. It’s not working—doesn’t have the right impact.”
