“Confidence comes through mastery.” The way he speaks is old-fashioned, elegant, precise, and despite the undeniable sexiness of his voice, there’s a wraithlike quality to it that sends chills over my skin.
“I can’t afford singing lessons,” I tell him. “I can barely find time to keep up with my dancing.”
“Ah, you’re a dancer. Of course you are. With a voice like that, your body must obey the call of the music.”
“I guess so.” I never really thought about it like that, but it’s true. For me, music and movement are intimately connected. When I’m listening to a song I love, I can barely hold myself still. I feel as if I want to accentuate the melody with my limbs, illustrate every phrase with the lines of my body.
“Tell me your name,” he says.
“Christine.”
“Christine.” The consonants bounce crisply from surface to surface throughout the stairway. He whispers it then, intimately soft, an echoing hiss. “Christine.”
A tremor, half terror and half delight, runs through my body.
“Come back tomorrow around this time,” he says. “You’ll sing for me again, and I’ll teach you how to master your voice.” There’s a faint clang, like a metal door closing. I think it came from somewhere overhead, but it’s impossible to be sure.
“What’s your name?” I call into the darkness. And then, because I can’t help myself— “Are my parents all right in the Afterworld? Are they happy?”
My voice drops as I ask the last question. No need to shout—I suspect he isn’t there any longer. I’m not sure a ghost or an angel would know the answer, or that I’d want to hear it even if he could tell me about my parents’ current state of existence. But the question plays in my head anyway, over and over, with a bitter addition of my own.
Are they happy? Because they don’t deserve to be.
4The Phantom
When she sings, the chaos of my mind is quiet.
The first time I heard her was weeks ago. I was restless, aimless, my mind churning endlessly with the doleful dirges of ghosts. I wandered farther than I usually do during daylight hours, and by the will of the Morrigan, I heard her sing.
Her voice is bliss. Like clear rain, like warm earth, like the brilliant sun above and the liquid lake below. I knew I would risk anything for the exquisite pleasure of hearing it again, so I returned to the stairway over and over, wishing that she might be there. I never saw her, but sometimes I was fortunate enough to hear her. Other times, I returned to my lair unsatisfied.
After weeks of this, I became conscious of the powerful urge to singwithher. And still it took me days before I yielded to the impulse. I feared I might drive her away.
But she didn’t run from me. She was wary, of course, but not afraid. At the end of our brief conversation, I opened the door for future encounters. I must wait and see if she walks through it.
I have never given a lesson in music. But that voice—that pristine,perilous voice—is too precious to lose. I must enjoy it as often as possible. Which means I will have to teach myself how to instruct her properly. The golden-haired vampire may have shut down most of my powers, but my mind remains intact. I am a god, with superhuman intelligence and an almost infinite capacity for learning.
The vampire’s directive has dimmed my memories, though, specifically the ones related to my past existence and the use of my powers. I can barely recall what transpired the first week after I was put into this body, nor can I remember what my original goal was once I rose from my enforced slumber. But now, for the first time in ages, I have clarity. I have a purpose.
I will be Christine’s angel, and I will teach her to sing.
For the next hour, I pace along the brink of the canal that runs beneath the New Orpheum Theatre, gnawing my lip, pondering how best to pursue this task. If I am to become this young woman’s teacher, I must know more about her. I need to know where she resides. I must understand why she is so reluctant to perform. The humans in the videos on my laptop seem all too eager to put on a show for swarms of screaming fans. Some of the singers don’t even possess superior vocal qualities, merely a flair for the dramatic. But the young human who sang for me today—she has raw talent. All she needs is a little polish and the courage to sing from the deepest places of her heart.
As usual, a few dozen ghosts are drifting through my lair, moaning and muttering, with the occasional intermittent wail. Until now, I’ve never spoken to any of them, not wanting to encourage their presence, but it occurs to me that they might prove useful. Perhaps they, like me, would appreciate a purpose—a goal to achieve.
“You there.” I point to a pale, forlorn-looking female spirit with a long dress and a flowered hat. “What’s your name?”
The ghost halts mid-wail. “Me, sir?”
“Yes, you.”
Her eyes go vacant for a moment as she struggles for words. “I think it’s Agnes, sir.”
“And you.” I turn to a dark-skinned man in a bloodstained dinner jacket who is constantly mooning about and sucking on a cigarette in a silver holder. “Your name?”
He bows to me, an impressive feat since he’s floating in midair. “Benedict, my lord.”
“The two of you will follow a young woman named Christine. She just left the rear stairway. Follow her until midnight, and when you return, tell me everything you’ve learned about her.”
