He makes a rough sound of impatience, a harsh contrast to the usual beauty of his voice. “You will sing forme, not him. Trust me, I will be watching, and I will know the difference. Tomorrow night, you will reach down into your own chest, seize your soul, and drag it up through your throat. You will deliver it to me on the wings of your voice, and I will accept the sacrifice.” His voice vibrates with deadlyintensity. “Give me everything, Christine,everything, and perhaps then I will deign to be your teacher once more.”
Breathing hard through the pounding of my heart, I hug my knees tighter to my chest. The dark possession in his tone thrills me right down to my bones, appeals to some primal, monstrous side of me. I feel my fangs slipping from their sheaths, even though I don’t need blood. I manage to keep them from elongating fully, but they swell against my upper lip as I reply, “You’re asking me to choose between you and Raoul.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I demand your entire focus, your undivided attention. Only when you fully trust me can I transport you to the peak of your true potential. You can play frivolous songs for drunken crowds, or you can soar to the heights of real excellence.”
“Some people do both,” I venture.
“This is not a debate, Christine. You must choose. I will accept no compromise. Tomorrow, when you sing the final solo, I will know your decision. Will you belong to the delicate poet, with his dramatic libretto and his mediocre music, or will you belong tome?”
His voice fades on the last words, growing more distant, and in the silence that follows, I sense that he has left me again.
But he was there. I heard his voice, melodic and lovely, fragile and powerful, rich with the heat of desire and the pain of rejection. I can’t deny it—he awakens a side of me that I keep concealed from everyone else. The passionate ambition I’ve been afraid to confess, the murderous rage I sometimes feel, the darkness my soul tends to inhabit.
Raoul is light and comfort, but the Angel is a dark, rich violence I can’t help but adore. I didn’t realize how much I missed him until I heard his exquisite voice again. If I could fuck a voice…
But ghosts don’t have dicks.
Maybe angels do. Maybe I should ask him.
Stop it, Christine.
Still pondering our conversation, I prepare for bed. I feel a little odd changing my clothes, because even though I’m pretty sure the Angel left, what if he can see me?
And then I smile, because what if he can?
13The Phantom
I left her alone.
And then I returned, and I lingered.
Guilt is a foreign sensation to me, but I feel a touch of it as I stand on the other side of the mirror, watching Christine. It must be guilt, this vague unease with my actions. The urge to go elsewhere wars with my desire to stay as close to her as possible.
Now that I know what she is, it all makes sense. The graceful power of her limbs, her superhuman stamina when she dances, the faintly feral quality of her smile sometimes when she thinks no one is watching.
I never thought I would be obsessed with a blood drinker, a nightwalker, an abhartach. Especially not after Gatsby and his vampires defeated me in the church at Wicklow. Ever since that day, I’ve carried a resentful grudge against their kind.
But Christine dismantled my walls before I knew what she was, and now I am defenseless, laid bare and vulnerable. If she sank her claws into my chest, cracked my breastbone apart, and extracted my heart, I would welcome the invasion. If she plunged her fangsinto my flesh again, I would instantly be transported to the farthest realms of bliss.
Even as I watch her, new strains of music unfold in my mind, wave upon wave of fully orchestrated sound. Stunning melodies, heavenly music, and yet none of it seems quite worthy of her.
After our tryst in the alley, I felt our connection had been sullied somehow…but now that I’ve adjusted my expectations, I realize that seeing the earthier, grittier, monstrous side of her has only deepened my obsession. It has given me something far more dangerous than love itself—it has given me hope. Because if she possesses secrets she must hide from the world, if she has a touch of the monster about her, perhaps she might come to understand me entirely. Perhaps one day, she could see me as I am and not be terrified.
That hope holds me captive as I stand in the dark corridor behind the mirror. It immobilizes me as Christine begins to remove her clothing. She sways her hips as she shimmies down the shorts. Pulls the flower-print tank top over her head slowly, almost theatrically. In her lacy bra and panties, she lifts both arms above her head and stretches, her beautiful body going taut, every lean muscle on display.
My breath catches as I realize she’s not simply undressing—she’s putting on a show for my benefit. The little devil has decided to tempt her Angel.
When she takes off her bra, I place one gloved hand on the mirror, concealing her chest from my sight. Or perhaps giving myself the illusion that I could touch her.
She climbs onto the bed, and my lungs tighten at the sway of her breasts. I’ve seen breasts in my forays through the human internet. They seem to pop up at the most inopportune moments. I’ve never felt anything but mild interest for them. But Christine is someone Iknow intimately. Her breasts seem designed to drive me to madness. Small yet plump and perfectly sized for my hands. Creamy skin, light brown nipples. I want one of those breasts in my mouth.
My hand curls into a fist against the mirror.
She leans over to the nightstand beside her bed and takes something from a drawer. Then she settles back on the pillows, arches her knees, and parts her legs.
