The thing she’s holding is small and pink, and it makes a soft buzzing sound as she runs it over the thin material of her panties. Christine’s head tips back on the pillows, and her lips part, a faint moan issuing between them. She glides the toy over her underwear with expert strokes, slow circles. A wet spot forms quickly, slicking the delicate fabric to the shape of her sex.
I’m burning alive. Scorched from the inside, my whole body straining as I fight against the desire to touch myself. My cock is painfully swollen, hard as a rock, and my balls ache.
I didn’t have much self-control in the alley. Nor can I hold back now, not for more than a moment or two. With shaking hands, I open my pants and take myself out, venting a silent groan as my fingers close around the burning shaft.
Christine is whimpering, lifting her hips off the bed. It’s similar to the pelvic exercise I had her perform during one of our lessons…only this time, when she surges upward, she lets out a soft, urgent whine in the shape of a word: “Angel.”
I grit my teeth in agony and press my fist harder against the mirror while my gloved hand rubs my cock. It doesn’t feel nearly as good as the silken wetness of her pussy.
I could have her again. I’ve detached this mirror at the edges so it can be shifted aside—that’s how I brought Christine back from the stairwell when she drank herself to sleep after her audition. Ididn’t want to carry her through the main hallways, so this corridor was the best option.
If I slid the mirror aside now, charged into her bedroom, and jerked the panties off her legs, I could bury myself to the hilt in the slippery heat between her thighs. It would feel infinitely better than this frantic rubbing. But once Christine realizes I’m not a ghost but a man with a raging lust for her, she might be frightened. And she would be still more disturbed once she realizes that we’ve fucked before. I can imagine her screaming, shrinking away from me. Running to Raoul for refuge.
Revealing myself now can only end in the destruction of the fragile connection I’ve crafted between us. I will show her the truth soon…perhaps tomorrow, after she triumphs onstage and she’s flush with gratitude for my tutelage. The timing has to be right—
“Oh god, Angel!” moans Christine, and she pins both thighs together around the little toy, squirming wildly as she comes.
I open my mouth in a voiceless cry as I come, too, sprinkling the back side of the mirror with my release. A hoarse gasp bursts from my throat without my permission, and Christine lifts her flushed face with a cunning expression that tells me she heard the sound.
“Are you there?” she whispers.
I don’t answer. I stroke myself once more, then put my cock away and fasten my pants while I watch her remove her sticky underwear and replace them with a fresh pair. She washes her hands, pulls on a loose T-shirt, and climbs into bed. The light switches off, and I’m left in darkness.
The loneliness crushes me like an avalanche. All I want is to lie beside her, hold her, feel her breathing while she sleeps. I want to pull her against my chest and sing my most beautiful melodies softly in her ear. I want to go where she goes, love what she loves, make myentire world revolve around her, if only she will be entirely devoted to me alone. If only she will save me from this wretched solitude. I cannot bear it much longer.
The walk back to my lair feels longer than ever, and when I reach it, I wave aside the drifting ghosts who advance eagerly to make their daily reports. Though I would never admit it aloud, their presence is slightly comforting. It keeps my quarters from feeling so terribly cold and hollow.
“I’m tired,” I tell them. “Give me your reports tomorrow.” I strip off my gloves and toss them aside, then pluck my phone from my pocket and check for new messages. There are none.
I shower for a long time, then fling myself naked into the sheets, where I writhe restlessly for a few hours. Was Christine able to fall asleep right away? If so, I envy her.
At last, I pick up my phone again and watch several videos of kittens yawning and mewing. I’m convinced they have some sort of magic to charm the unwary. There’s no other explanation for the way I find myself smiling as I watch them. Their tiny, fluffy forms and huge eyes seem to unlatch something that has been locked tight inside my chest for a very long time.
I switch to my phone’s contacts and scroll through the names of every pawn I possess within the New Orpheum—over a dozen now, each one ignorant of the others, each terrified to disobey me or speak of me lest I reveal their darkest secrets.
At the bottom of the list, under “Z,” I saved a number that’s connected to the debit card my summoner left me—a backup number to be used to confirm identity. I suspect it’s his real number, a way to contact him.
The name on the debit card—Erik Lind—is a false one, of course. I’ve heard my summoner called both Ian Holcum andLloyd-Henry Woodson, though he seems to prefer Lloyd. As a gancanagh-shifter hybrid with so many enemies, it makes sense that he would have several aliases. But with the bank account and the other scraps of information he left me, I’ve built up an entire online presence. For all intents and purposes, IamErik Lind.
Erik is a decent name. Perhaps I should adopt it permanently. I can’t very well introduce myself to Christine as Cernunnos, former god of death, now the phantom dwelling beneath the New Orpheum Theatre.
I toy with the idea of contacting my summoner. But a flicker of fear accompanies the impulse—the fear that the one who gave me this identity could take it away. Better to leave him to his own devices while I continue with my plans.
The idea of me, a god, fearing anyone is so repulsive to me that I seek out immediate distraction, scrolling up through my contacts again until I reach “R,” for Raoul.
I begin typing a message to him. Simple, succinct. A test to see if he is as sleepless as I am.
Christine sang well tonight.
Almost immediately, he replies.Yes.
You sang well also.Why am I complimenting the bastard who wants to steal my beautiful protégé away from me?
Raoul responds with,Who are you?
A dull question. One you know I won’t answer.
Fine, he types back.Why aren’t you asleep?
