Raoul was fully prepared for Philippa to retaliate. He thought she might withdraw funding from the musical, which Erik promised to supplement from his own investments. But the funding has held up, and there’s been no response or retaliation at all.
As the weeks have passed, I’ve noticed Raoul relaxing more and more. Still, Erik insisted that we have extra security in place just in case Philippa decides that opening night is the perfect time to interfere with Raoul and his show.
So far, there’s been no sign of anything wrong. But we’ve barely started the first act.
I need to stop fretting over things that aren’t currently happening. I have to keep my mind clear and focused if I’m going to make Erik and Raoul proud tonight.
Closing my eyes, I mentally rehearse the first few bars I’ll sing once I step onstage.
The music rises and crests. The chorus dancers shift to the left and right, making space for my entrance.Three, two, one…here we go.
***
And then it’s over.
I’m standing with Erik, our clasped hands held high. We did it.
He performed his poignant solo in the second act—so much more hauntingly beautiful with its new orchestration. When I sang my final number to close out the last act, I hit the high note with more strength and clarity than ever before.
Each ensemble song, the bits of dialogue in between, theclimactic fight, the passionate kiss—we did everything, and we did it beautifully. There were a couple of missteps and a fumble with a prop, but it didn’t matter. We had the audience in the palm of our hand. I could feel their intensity, their attention. The roar of applause that greets us is proof of that, and so is the thunder of the audience leaving their seats, giving the entire cast a standing ovation.
When I look up at the tall, black-haired god beside me, I spot tears glittering in his eyes. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to him, experiencing this praise. Finally, he is receiving the worship he deserves.
I peer at Box Five, but I can’t see into its shadowed depths. Raoul was supposed to come down during the final song so he and the managers could walk onstage and receive their accolades, too. But when I glance offstage, he isn’t waiting with Gil and Marj.
Where is he?
After a minute or two, during which the clapping starts to slacken, Gil and Marj walk out onstage without Raoul. Gil tries to take Marj’s hand, but she shakes him off and waves to the crowd instead. We turn the audience’s attention to the orchestra and the conductor, who performed a miracle by learning Erik’s new score so quickly. After they’ve received their applause, we bow, and the curtain falls.
“Where is Raoul?” I whisper to Erik.
“Our poet may have been too emotional to appear before everyone.”
I shake my head. “This is his dream come true. He would have wanted to be onstage, no matter how hard he was crying.”
Cast members are crowding around, congratulating us and each other. Their faces shine with exuberant triumph, but a shadow of dread has fallen over my heart.
Erik pulls me close and bends down to speak in my ear. “I’ll check Box Five and confer with my ghosts. Wait for me in your dressing room.”
The grim look on his face tells me he’s worried about the same thing I am. Despite the security in place throughout the theater, it’s possible the shifters entered the building to reclaim the rogue member of their pack.
I head for my dressing room, removing pieces of my costume as I go—the gloves, the hat, the bow at my neck. I exchange congratulations and thanks with people along the way, but I manage not to get caught in conversation until a woman steps out in front of me. I recognize her as one of the wardrobe crew. She’s carrying a large cup covered with quirky stickers.
I’m opening my mouth to say something like “Good work tonight!” but before I get the words out, she lunges forward, sending the icy, slushy contents of her cup all over my face, my hair, and the front of my dress.
“That’s for Carlotta!” she yells, and she runs off, pursued by a security guard and two crew members.
For a second, I’m so shocked from the cold that I can’t breathe. Then I’m seized with the violent urge to chase that woman, drag her down, and sink my fangs into her throat. It’s all I can do to curb the hunting instinct that roars through my body.
I manage to accept the handfuls of paper towel that a sympathetic cast member hands to me. She bobs at my elbow, cooing with soft concern, offering to escort me to my dressing room and help me clean up.
“I’m fine,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll just go take care of this in the bathroom.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she scurries away.
With the rage I currently feel, I don’t trust myself in the communal bathroom, nor do I want to walk all the way to my dressing room with crimson slush dripping down my face. The last thing I want to do is answer questions about what happened or give Carlotta’s rabid fan any further attention. Instead, I head for the broken-down bathroom I used before.
There’s a burly security guard standing nearby, hands on his belt, keeping a watchful eye on this less-traveled backstage area. Even though I can defend myself easily, his presence is comforting.
