Again, a horrible croaking sound emanates from her mouth—a dry, rasping horror instead of her beautiful voice.
“Oh, shit,” exclaims a girl near me with a surprised giggle. She’s been filming the whole time. “This is going straight to my socials. Carlotta Vanetti, croaking like a toad.”
It’s astounding how swiftly the current of the human heart can change. This girl is Carlotta’s guest—supposedly a fan, if not a friend—and yet she’s all too quick to gleefully capture Carlotta’s embarrassment and use it for engagement.
Impulsively, I snatch the girl’s phone and dash it against the ground. My heel descends instantly, grinding into the screen until it cracks.
“What the fuck?” squeaks the girl. “Are you crazy?”
I lean in, a hissing growl issuing from beneath my mask. The girl’s eyes double in size, and she backs off, clutching her friends. They hurry away from me, toward one of the security guards by the doors.
I’m about to get in big trouble, so I slip through the churning crowd of shocked partygoers. A wheezing, weeping Carlotta is being hastily escorted offstage by a couple members of her entourage. I dart behind the stage and out the rear door.
The area I’ve just entered is a green room for the band, littered with instrument cases, chairs, extra amps, and other equipment, as well as personal belongings. Threading through the clutter, I step into the narrow hallway that connects this area with the rest of thebuilding. It’s dark here, and one of the overhead lamps is guttering like a flame in a high wind. In one of its brighter flashes, I spot a tall, hooded figure halfway down the hall.
My heart jumps, and my gut twists with fear. After the incident with the ghost and the assault by Joe Buquet, I’ve been jumpier than usual. I probably have mild PTSD from the Buquet incident, and it would probably be worse if I weren’t already somewhat numb to the things that would horrify a normal human being. Nothing could ever be worse than watching my brother and sister die.
For a second, I imagine their silhouettes in the hallway, too, flanking the hooded figure. I blink, and they’re gone. He’s alone, and he’s much closer to me now. The light flickers on the dark planes of his mask.
I sniff, trying to identify him by scent, but all I can smell is the heavy fragrance of cologne.
“Angel?” I venture.
“It’s done.” His smooth voice confirms my suspicions. “It’s all settled now. I have fixed Raoul’s music and given you the lead role.”
“What…what are you talking about?”
“The first time I told them to make you the lead, they gave you the understudy part instead.” His tone is tinged with frustration. “Even after I secured you the role for the preview performance, those boneheaded managers couldn’t see reason—too blinded by Carlotta’s status to recognize the value of pure, natural talent. I had to be more…persuasive. And now they have no other option. The role is yours, and the improved score will ensure that this musical makes headlines.”
“Wait.” I step back, staggering a little, bracing myself against the wall. “Thefirsttime? Did you try to force them to give me the lead?”
“I believe it’s called blackmail. I have become quite adept at it. There’s nothing quite so motivational as dark secrets.”
By the sound of his voice, I can tell he’s smiling under the mask, but I feel sick. Betrayed. “You didn’t think I could do this on my own.”
“I recognized the politics behind the arts,” he counters. “As I said, there’s more at play than talent.”
“I never wanted you toblackmailpeople to further my singing career.”
“I blackmailed them for other reasons, too,” he says defensively. “You should be thanking me for that and for removing Carlotta from your path.”
“Oh god.” I close my eyes. “Soyoumessed with her voice? Is it permanent?”
“I used a little death magic to damage her vocal cords. It’s not permanent, but it will take her months to recover. I had to ensure she couldn’t come back and take the role of Eugenie from you.”
The horror of what he has done strikes deep in my soul. And yet he speaks about it so casually, as if his actions were the most rational thing in the world.
I struggle to keep my tone even. “You rewrote Raoul’s entire score because you believed you could do it better. Do you understand how deeply that will hurt him?”
“He knew it wasn’t perfect,” replies the Angel.
“And your score is perfect?”
“Yes.”
“God, you are unbearable.” I seize my mask and toss it aside, losing all attempts at composure. My voice shrills and shakes with anger. “You complete narcissist. You self-absorbed piece ofshit. You honestly believe you have the right to mess with people’s lives like this? You think you’re still a god? You’re not. At best, you’re a deeply disturbed man with a few supernatural powers.”
He stands rigid, every line of his body tense and rock-hard.
