“Alone?”
His lips tighten. After a moment he says, “I have the ghosts.”
“The ghosts?”
With a sigh, he lifts his hand, and suddenly the entire vast space is filled with ghostly figures, each holding one of the candles. The spirits seem to be from every conceivable time period, and some of them bear grotesque death wounds.
I claw at the Angel’s arm, pulling myself tighter against his side and whispering hoarsely, “What the hell?”
“Thank you for your loyal service,” he says to the ghosts with another wave of his hand. “You may leave us for tonight.”
The ghosts set their candles down and disappear. A shuddering breath of wind passes through the room at their departure. The Angel sends a few tendrils of mist to douse most of the candles, leaving a few of them alight near his living space.
I thought I had seen plenty of strange and supernatural things, butthatwas deeply unsettling. I’m glued to the Angel’s side, gripping his arm like it’s my tether to existence.
“You’re safe,” he says. “They know how important you are to me. They would never hurt you.”
My breathing slows a little. Guilt etches at my ribs because Raoul promised me the same thing tonight, sweet man that he is, yet I left him alone with unanswered questions and came down here with the stalker he fears is a threat to me.
It’s a mess, to be sure. And the only way to untangle it is topersuade the Angel to confess everything.
I relax my grip on his arm to something more like a caress. “Now will you tell me who you are?”
“I should tell you who Iwas, but I’m not sure you’re ready to know that. I could play for you first while you recover from seeing the ghosts. And perhaps you would like something hot to drink.”
“Or somethingstrongto drink,” I mutter.
“I’m rather fond of rum.”
“That’ll do it.”
While I sink into one of the leather chairs, he fetches me a glass of rum, the honeyed kind that goes down easily. I sip it slowly as he seats himself at the piano with a flourish and begins to play Piano Concerto No. 2 in G minor, Op. 22 by Camille Saint-Saëns. He flies through it with the practiced ease of a virtuoso, with the violent passion of an obsessed muse.
Even though I was forced to study some classical music, it has never been my preferred genre. But when he plays, it’s compulsively addictive. I have to listen, and the longer I listen, the more I crave.
I sense the change when he leaves Saint-Saëns behind and forges into some new place, something wild and uncharted and raw. I’m convinced he’s creating the piece on the spot, birthing it straight from his mind through his fingers, and it’s more ferociously beautiful than anything I’ve ever heard. I’m being laid bare, my beating heart exposed to the music, and he’s plucking my heartstrings with every haunting interlude, pumping his artistic frenzy straight into my veins with every roaring crescendo.
I have never heard anyone play like this, not even when I spied on my father’s clients, not even when I idly browsed music videos online. Those performances were technically great, but this one isn’t just flawless—it’s forme. I gave him my soul tonight, and he’s givingme his in return. He’s tearing his own consciousness open, transporting me to blissful heaven, crashing with me into the darkness of hell.
By the time he’s finished, I’m transfixed, my pulse racing and my drink forgotten.
He swings around on the piano bench and faces me.
For one tense, electrifying moment, my eyes lock with his. Then I grip the arms of the chair and launch myself out of it toward him.
His arms clasp tight around me as I collide with his chest. I kiss him brutally, desperately, hungry for his pain and mine. My tongue lashes into his mouth, and he opens wide, letting me in. His hand clamps around the back of my head, forcing a harder kiss, like he can’t get enough, like he’s as desperate to be inside me as I am to be part of him.
I don’t care what he is or who he was. My hands claw at his shoulders, raking him closer, and I’m hungry, I’m starving, not for blood or sex, but foreverything, every morsel of the creature who could produce that music.
We tumble off the piano bench and crash to the floor, bruises and pain. He rolls me onto my back, kisses me with a degenerate fervor that makes me want to screamyes, but I can’t spare any breath. I shove his jacket off his shoulders; he flings it aside.
I don’t like the mask. It’s getting in the way, and I want to see all of him.
I reach for it, tuck my claws beneath the edge, pry it up just a little—
He freezes, his hands locked around my wrists, keeping me from moving the mask any farther. His mouth is bruised and bleeding. I slide my tongue over my teeth and realize my fangs emerged without me realizing it.
“Do not touch the mask,” he growls.
