The two ghosts don’t question my orders or demand anything in return. They simply whisk away obediently, leaving me to wonder why I didn’t think of this sooner. If I am to be haunted, the least the spirits can do is serve me, their rightful master.
I raise my voice, addressing the remaining ghosts. “The rest of you, spread out through this building. I have learned some of its secrets, but I need more. I want to know every passage between the walls, every dark corner, every neglected hallway where someone might pass unseen. Learn it all, and bring the information back to me.”
The ghosts linger for a moment, whispering and muttering, but when I snap, “Go!” they scatter in a frenzy of frightened obedience.
For once, my lair is blessedly quiet, and I am alone.
I wander among the things I have collected—forgotten pieces of furniture from the lower storerooms of this building, cast-off items I have discovered during my midnight strolls through the neighboring streets. I have been watching a show about reclaiming old pieces and transforming them into objects both glorious and useful, and I’ve made several such attempts, with varying degrees of success.
I am especially pleased with one of my finds—a giant rectangular mirror, heavier than a human male could move alone but no challenge for my godly strength. The mirror’s frame is encrusted with elaborate carvings that delight my soul in a way I don’t quite understand. They are beautiful, and I’m beginning to comprehend that I love all things that are beautiful. Perhaps I always have, and I spent so long slumbering in the dark that I’d forgotten.
Standing before the mirror, I survey myself. My form is familiar, a replica of the aspect in which I walked among humans long ago. My body is beautiful, and so is my face—with one notable exception.
Gingerly I remove the mask I’m wearing, one of several I’ve collected in different colors and styles.
On the right side of my face, open red gashes score the flesh, wounds that haven’t healed since they were inflicted by the wicked little artist who created this body for me. And those wounds aren’t the worst of it. If I leave the mask off for more than a few seconds, dark tendrils will begin to creep from the cracks in my flesh, writhing into the air like living worms. They spiral outward, sprouting tiny leaves, growing thicker and longer with every second until I smash the mask back into place.
The moment I cover my scars, the vines burst into dark dust and disappear. Despite how easy they are to dispel, they unsettle me deeply. They remind me that though my body may appear human, I’m far from it. I am no longer Cernunnos, god of death, nor do I fit into any of the human roles I most admire—composers, connoisseurs, patrons of the arts known for their power and good taste. With my limited powers and this grotesque face, I’m left to exist as a masked wraith—a phantom ravenous for everything I cannot possess.
When I feel like this—maddened and unsatisfied—the only thing that helps is playing music. I’ve collected numerousinstruments, but my favorite is an upright antique piano I purchased from a place called eBay. I tuned it myself after watching instructional videos on the laptop.
Learning to play the piano was the work of a few days, and I like to amuse myself by mimicking the style, speed, and skill of the world’s most talented pianists. There’s a piece called “Rush E” that some of them find particularly challenging but which serves as a light exercise for me.
I seat myself on the padded bench and slide back the piano lid. This time, when my fingers find the keys, they don’t ripple into the melody of theHammerklavier, “La Campanella,” or any of my familiar favorites. The girl’s voice lingers in my mind, liquid and thrilling, steeped in the deepest longing. My fingers drift into a new pattern, a trickle of notes in tribute to that voice, to words softly spoken in the dark.Are you an angel?
“Christine,” I murmur, and I play a delicate little melody, as crisp and lovely as her name.
Until now, all my musical endeavors have been mimicry of others. But after this encounter with her, something in my mind is unlocked, and I am not merely imitating, butcreating. The wonder of it astounds me, and I laugh, plunging headlong into a flood of wild melody that ismine, that isnew, never before heard upon the whole earth. My fingers fly with frenzied grace over the keys, hammering and thundering, rippling and dancing. By the end of the madness, I’m sweating, my chest is heaving, there are tears in my eyes and laughter on my lips.
For the first time since I came back to life, I am healed. I am happy.
The satisfaction only lasts until the echoes fade. Panting, I stare at my trembling fingers. When I glance at the clock on top of the piano, I realize that hours have passed. I was lost in the whirlwind of my mind, and I don’t remember any of the music I created.
“My lord,” breathes a voice by my ear, and I leap up with a cry of startled rage. The ghost Agnes flits backward swiftly. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
“What have you learned?” I growl.
“I know where she lives…the Christine girl,” Agnes says. “If you come with me, I can show you, take you there by secret paths. There’s a passage behind the rooms, and you can see her through the mirror. Come, come, we must hurry. She’s getting ready to leave.”
“Leave?” I frown. “What do you mean?”
“She likes to go out most nights.” The ghost arches a disapproving brow. “She enjoys drinks and men. At least that’s what I overheard. Some of the other dancers and theater employees talk about her behind her back. They say she’s a little slut.”
A burst of concussive power surges out of my body, blasting the ghost back several feet.
She wails and cringes. “Forgive me, sir! I was only repeating what they said!”
My reaction surprised me nearly as much as it did her. I’m not sure how I released so much magic at once, nor could I control it, which is unsettling.
I straighten my shoulders and beckon imperiously to the ghost. “Lead on then.”
Agnes sails ahead of me along the walkway by the canal and up the stairs at the end. We mount a few flights and take a circuitous route through the building. The ghost pauses at a pile of boards and debris slanted against the wall, and when I bend to look behind them, there’s a space just large enough for me to slip through if I bend low and angle my body to the side.
The passage beyond was clearly not meant for common use. It’s a gap between walls, with clusters of pipes and wires running throughit, making my progress difficult. Despite my height and the breadth of my shoulders, I manage to navigate each obstacle.
Dust rises into my nose. I suppress a cough, shielding my lower face with my sleeve as the ghost leads me onward. The lack of light isn’t a problem for me; I can see better at night than normal humans, and Agnes gives off a faint glow of her own.
The passage widens slightly. We walk past cramped apartments, each one visible through a pane of glass. “Two-way mirrors,” says Agnes. She doesn’t whisper, but since her voice is only audible to me unless I dictate otherwise, it makes no difference. I, however, have to be cautious that I don’t stumble and make a sound that might betray my presence.
