“I never said that,” I counter. “I simply pointed out where his strengths and weaknesses lie. Is it my fault if no one has ever told him the truth?”
“Speaking of telling the truth, you promised me answers. I want to see you. Now.”
After the glory of this night, simply pushing aside the mirror would be too prosaic. I can’t resist a little theatricality, so I let mist unfurl from my palms, filling the hallway and creeping around the edges of the mirror into her room.
I lift my hand, and the ghosts waiting along the passage each illuminate the candles they carry.
Christine advances cautiously and touches her fingertips to the mirror.
“You can see me.” Her tone is laced with accusation. “You’ve been watching me.”
I could explain that I was not the one who installed the mirror, but instead of making excuses, I simply admit the truth. “Yes, I have watched you.” I curl my fingers around the edge of the mirror and slide it aside, leaving a gap large enough for her to come through.
When I ordered an expensive, three-piece designer suit for tonight, I did not suspect I would be wearing it to meet Christine for the first time. I stand in the swirling mist, my heart thundering more ferociously than I thought it would, fighting the urge to reach up and smooth my hair as Christine steps through the opening.
She turns to face me.
And I find myself wishing for one power I do not possess—the ability to read a woman’s mind.
16Christine
There he is. The phantom, the Angel, not just in my head but right in front of me, close enough to touch, surrounded by swirling mist and floating candles. A white mask conceals his face, but I can see his eyes clearly. They’re a light honey color, practically golden. He’s breathing hard, lips tight, a muscle flexing along the hard line of his jaw.
He’s nervous.
I almost laugh. And I do smile, a wondering kind of smile, because he’sreal. He is both the masked stranger and the ghost with the beautiful voice. And judging by the candles bobbing in midair and the mist curling around his feet, he is definitely a supernatural being of some kind. Not a vampire, or he would have bitten me back. That’s a relief. The only other vampires I’m familiar with are the Progeny, my parents’ cult, and I couldn’t handle being around any of them.
“What are you?” I ask.
“We can’t talk here,” he replies. “Come with me.”
When he heads down the passage, I hesitate, partly out ofcaution and partly because I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this secret corridor exists.
He notices my hesitation and turns back. “I did not create this place, and I’ve only used it to watch over you.” He extends his hand, sheathed in a black glove. “Come, Christine.”
Slightly reassured, I venture forward and slip my fingers in his. Why does he wear a mask and gloves? Does he have a facial difference? Scars? Surely he must know that wouldn’t matter to me. As curious as I am about his face, I’m more interested in his powers…and his intentions. Does he want to fuck me again? I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. I’m not scared in the least because I overcame him physically last time, and I’m sure I could do it again.
Unless heallowedme to overpower him that night. He could be hiding secret reserves of strength.
“Why did you grab me that night in the alley?” I ask. “Were you going to hurt me?”
His head whips around, and he glares at me through the eyeholes of the mask. “Never. I was jealous, and I simply thought I would keep you there for a short while. Away fromhim. Truthfully, I acted on impulse, without a plan. Since then, I have striven to calculate each move I make.”
“Calculation is all well and good,” I reply. “But there’s something to be said for impulsiveness, too.”
He stares at me, and when I give him a little smile, he clears his throat and forges ahead. More candles float above us, near the ceiling, lighting our way. Even when we emerge from the narrow passage into an empty part of the building, the candles mark our path, clusters and rows of them, from pale, narrow tapers to fat, creamy columns dripping wax onto the floor. The mist precedes us, too, shrouding our steps and flowing up the walls like the white froth ofocean waves.
Down he leads me, through doors I’ve never opened, along steps I’ve never seen, to lower levels that haven’t been used in decades. He flings open a pair of metal doors, and their raucous groan gives way to distant strains of music. I gasp, still clinging to his hand, gazing at the wide space before us.
Between broad stretches of gray concrete, there’s a glimmering black canal with a motionless water wheel at the end close to us. I’m not sure how far the canal goes, but I suspect it must empty into the Cumberland River or an underground offshoot thereof.
Banks of candles light the way, softening the effect of the ancient gears and machinery I glimpse in the corners of this subterranean lair. We’re coming into a living area of sorts, set apart from the rest of the industrial space by wooden screens and partitions draped with luxurious silk hangings. There’s a central space with a record player, a piano, a cello, and a range of other instruments, several low bookshelves stuffed with books, two worn leather chairs cloaked in blankets, an old-fashioned steamer trunk, and an antique coffee table cluttered with sheet music. Off in the corner stands a desk with a laptop on it. To my right is a closed door decorated with swirling vines that he must have painted himself, and beyond the living area lies a raised platform with a gigantic bed on it, half-hidden by a luxurious abundance of black velvet curtains.
This living space was curated by someone with old-fashioned tastes who prizes the patina of age and enjoys all things luxurious and comfortable. He likes textures and patterns, from the plush rugs layered across the floor to the silky shawls and soft woolen blankets draped over the screens and the furniture. The microwave, the small refrigerator near the desk, and the laptop seem to be the only concessions to modern convenience. Even the lamps are old-fashioned, ifpricey. I spot a banker’s desk lamp with a green glass shade and three Tiffany lamps that look old enough to be genuine.
“This is your home?” I glance from the living area to the cold black water of the canal.
“This is where I live.”
