He’s here.
But why does Raoul seem to recognize him, too?
The people around the stranger seem oblivious, dancing blithely to the music while he stands among them, a towering figure garbed in black. A lot of odd people pass through Nashville on a daily basis—the city is sometimes called “Nashvegas” or the Vegas of the South. Still, the fact that no one is weirded out by a masked visitor sends a chill writhing up my spine. It’s almost like Raoul and I are the only ones who can see him.
Raoul glances over at me, and I look at him at the same moment, as if by instinct. He forces a bright grin, a wordless directive to keep singing, so I inhale deeply, using my diaphragm as the Angel taught me, and I pour all my fear and frenzy into the song. Raoul’s voice twines with mine, harmonizing so smoothly I could almost imagine I’m singing with the Angel himself. Except the Angel’s voice is wilder, fiercer, capable of the richest depths and the most delicate high notes, while Raoul’s voice is a golden tenor with the faintest country twang.
We finish the song, and when the crowd clamors for another, I hesitate, my mind blank. Raoul looks uncertain, too. But just as our hesitation becomes awkward, a voice whispers right beside my ear…a voice I know all too well.
“‘Nothing Breaks Like a Heart.’”
I whip around, but no one is there.
That was the Angel’s voice. I’d bet my fangs on it.
Swallowing, I catch Andre’s eye and say, “Should we do ‘Nothing Breaks Like a Heart’?”
He nods, and Raoul exhales with relief, strumming the first chords.
My right knee presses Raoul’s, the touch grounding me as I plunge into the wild darkness of the song. We keep it up-tempo, and he switches between echoing and harmonizing as I sing my best smoky impression of Miley Cyrus.
Somewhere along the way, I lose my fear of the audience. The only source of terror now is my secret, which the hooded stranger holds behind his silent mask. He’s closer now. He glided nearer to the stage before I knew he was moving.
Raoul notices, too, and his voice comes out slightly breathless, a quaver here and there. But I look into the shadowed eyes of the mask, and I sing like I’m serenading the devil himself.
Maybe I am.
I can still feel the crowd—they’re frenzied, carried away by the strange energy they sense coming from the two of us. But I feel something else—taut cords of power linking me and Raoul and the stranger in a triangle sharp as a knife, keen as desire. Everything else blurs into a soft watercolor, and the three of us glitter in high definition while the bass thumps and the guitar twangs. I could swear a third voice slithers in the background, between mine and Raoul’s, but the stranger’s lips are barely parted. It couldn’t be him.
The song ends, and I’m left swaying on its edge like a woman on a clifftop, a breath away from jumping.
The Alouette erupts with cheers and applause. Raoul draws me to my feet. We bow, wave, collect our things, and pass the spotlight to another group. They jump right into a jazz-blues number while Raoul guides me past several enthusiastic people who apparently became hard-core fans of ours during our three-song set. One woman waves cash in Raoul’s face until he gracefully accepts the tip, and another man won’t stop asking if we have a website. I shrink behind Raoul while he suggests the man come seeSidewinderwhen it opens.
Then we’re out in the cool evening air, and I can breathe again.
Grit crunches under our boots as we head down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. Neither Raoul nor I say a word, but he keepsglancing back over his shoulder. I risk a look backward once as well, but I don’t see the masked man.
Back in the Alouette, I heard the Angel’s whisper by my ear. At least…I think I did. Hard to tell, since I hear him in my head sometimes, clear as a bell. I can’t help wondering if it’s just a coincidence that the stranger showed up right before I heard the Angel…but the Angel is a spirit. A disembodied voice floating in a stairwell. He doesn’t smell like a deep forest and carry exquisite blood in his veins and fuck people in alleys.
It doesn’t fit. They arenotthe same.
Cautiously, I peer at Raoul, who clears his throat but says nothing.
Okay, so I guess we’re not going to talk about the masked man and the fact that we’ve clearly both run into him before. Fine with me. It’ll be one more secret piled up between us. Just as well. Secrets keep people apart, and I need to keep my distance from Raoul de Chagny. He’s the director of the musical in which I’ll be playing the lead during the showcase. If anyone related toSidewindersaw us out together tonight, there are going to be plenty of rumors racing around the New Orpheum, and the last thing I want to do is feed the gossip mill. It’s best that we remain distant friends.
We get into his car and ride back to the New Orpheum in silence. Only when he pulls up to the curb at the entrance do I finally say, “Thank you for this. It was fun.”
“It was.” He gives me the ghost of his former smile. “I hope you didn’t strain your voice.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“And now you know you can perform for a crowd.”
I don’t point out that tomorrow night, the audience will be full of critics, that the stakes are entirely different, and that he won’t beonstage with me, comforting me with the warm tones of his guitar and his voice. He did something nice for me tonight, and I’m grateful.
I climb down from the truck, and then impulsively, I step back up to say, “I’ll be singing foryoutomorrow.”
Raoul’s eyes light up again, and I grin at him before shutting the passenger door.
