I am no longer needed. I no longer rule anything or command anyone except a handful of ghosts who respect me for the deity I used to be.
I turn off the water and stare at myself in the mirror. One half of my face is beautiful, the other half corrupted. I cannot control the vines that writhe out of my skin any more than I could control my body’s urges tonight. The panic of that helplessness seizes me suddenly, and with a sharp bellow, I smash my fist into the mirror. My knuckles crush its center, and cracks branch from that spot, fracturing my reflection. Panting, I groan with the agony of my pounding heart.
Somehow, I must find a way to seize whatever power I can grasp, any happiness I can reach. Only then can I conquer this feeling of wretchedness, of loss, of abandonment.
I am alone, alone, alone, and I don’t want to be alone. I don’t desire the company of ghosts. I crave the touch of fingers, the intimate press of mouths, the voice of someone who isaliveand utterly devoted to me—as endlessly devoted as I will be to them.
From now on, nothing must stand in the way of my goals: the control of this theater and the pursuit of a true companion. If I cannot rule the Afterworld, I will rule the New Orpheum. If I cannot feel any emotional connection to my past life, I will have a powerful love in this new existence.
Christine is central to everything. Whatever she is, whatever we did tonight—it makes no difference. Hers is the voice that spurs me to write music, hers the first soul that sang to mine. I will make her a queen, a star of the stage. She will have everything she desires, and when I have given her everything, she will love me.
It begins with the pulling of a few strings. A test of the leverageI’ve amassed and the power I wield.
After wiping my face with a towel, I return to the main area of my lair and head for the small refrigerator I purchased months ago. I pluck out a tall can of sparkling water, flavored with lime and peppermint. The dance of the crisp bubbles over my tongue is a small delight that instantly puts me in a better frame of mind.
Drink in hand, I lean back against the black satin pillows on my bed. My sleeping area is on a raised platform surrounded by curtains, tied back so I can view the glimmering black water of the canal. “More candles,” I demand, and while the ghosts hurry to light them for me, I craft a text for Firmin Richards, demanding my new salary and the permanent reservation of Box Five for my sole use. I send him a video clip I took of his sordid activities, assuring him that I have plenty of additional proof.
That should do the trick. Richards has a family, not to mention a prominent position in Nashville society and a brand-new multiuse development that must succeed, or he’ll slip into financial ruin.
Richards replies shortly with a terse assurance that I will have my box. Moments later, I receive a notification that he has sent the money I requested from him.
Now that my salary and my box have been secured, my next step will be to approach Richards’s business partner, Gil Leveque, who handles the theater part of the New Orpheum. From what the ghosts told me and what I heard from Raoul’s pretty mouth, Leveque is the one championing Carlotta Vanetti for the lead role inSidewinder. He was at the audition table. He seems bullish, headstrong, not as skittish as Richards. To show him who’s really in charge, I may need to do more than send threatening texts.
A smile spreads over my face as I realize how amusing this game is going to be.
11Raoul
We’ve been rehearsing for weeks, andSidewinderis everything I feared it would be.
A disaster.
On day one, the entire packet of sheet music disappeared—the whole score for the musical. I gave it to the conductor, and he swears he left it on a table backstage. Yet somehow the whole thing vanished into thin air. I had to reprint it all.
Since then, it’s been one thing after another. A dancer twisted her ankle. Mist and smoke drift through the backstage areas. The lights are finicky at best, despite a technician coming to work on them multiple times. Most of the cast and crew claim to have either spotted a floating object, felt a cold spot, or seen an actual ghost. A few of them have quit—not that it matters much, since they’re easily replaced. In Nashville, there’s always a crowd of eager young talent ready to jump into any available role, even when that role involves a potentially haunted theater.
Carlotta is always late to rehearsals and offers an endless litany of excuses, from a mishap at the salon to a flat tire to ghosts stealing herpossessions. This week, she has seemed unusually fragile, probably due to a rumor circulating online that she made insensitive comments to another influencer. I’m not on socials much, but the drop in her follower count was noticeable, even to me.
Whenever she’s not singing, Carlotta complains loudly about being targeted, stalked, and harassed. Not a good headspace for my leading lady to be in, but I’m not sure how to fix it. The few times I’ve tried to encourage her, she has seemed a little too interested in receiving physical comfort from me, so I maintain a professional distance.
I’ve thought about the masked man in the black coat, but I haven’t seen him again, nor have I mentioned him to anyone. I did ask Firmin Richards to hire a couple extra security guards for the New Orpheum, though, and he says he did. I’m not sure I trust his word. He’s more jittery than usual these days, always startling and sweating and glancing over his shoulder. He’s as spooked as the cast.
The preview performance is tomorrow, and we’re far from ready. In fact, I’m actually beginning to believe my musical is cursed…or haunted.
Standing just offstage, I gnaw the end of my pen. I’m supposed to be watching Carlotta so we can finesse her choreography and gestures during this song. But I can’t help watching Christine in the chorus. I can’t get over the way she dances—like she’spartof the music, like it’s a living entity that’s possessing her, moving her limbs, transforming her into the perfect expression of itself. And yet despite how beautifully she dances, I can’t shake the crawling sensation that something is with the music. Something is missing. The score isn’t everything I hoped it would be, and I’m not sure how to make it better. I had such a strong vision for this musical in my head, but the reality is a sketchy, distorted reflection of my dream.
I’ve barely spoken to Christine since we saw each other downtown the night I played at Tupelo Pie. I couldn’t think what to sayafter the wind carried her scent to me. Smells are stories, distinctive threads blending to tell a tale, and I couldn’t understand the narrative I scented on her that night. I still don’t know how to interpret it.
Blood and sex and ancient forests and raw, surging power…
Carlotta’s voice shrills on the high note of her solo, breaking me out of my trance. At the same moment, movement catches my eye—something high above the stage, swaying, dropping, then plummeting downward—
“Carlotta, move!” I shout, and I dive forward, shoving her aside just as a piece of the lighting rig crashes to the stage, denting the boards.
Cries of shock rise around me as I climb to my feet and reach out to Carlotta. She knocks my hand aside and gets up on her own.
“This shitty theater is falling apart!” she exclaims. “What next? Is the stage going to fall out from under us?”
I crane my neck, staring up at the catwalk. No one is up there that I can see. “Joe, could you run up there and see if you can figure out what happened?”
