With a faint squeak of anxiety, a tiny ghost drifts forward—a little girl who somehow managed to bring the ghost of a dilapidated stuffed rabbit with her into the afterlife. It floats behind her, towed by one ragged ear.
I modulate my tone still more, trying to be gentle despite therage and fear churning through my chest. “What did you see, little one?”
“I was playing in one of the bathrooms,” she says in a voice so high and faint I can barely hear her. “I saw the pretty singer, Christine, washing her face. Then three animals entered the room, and they changed. They turned into people. She fought, but one of them bit her, and then she stopped fighting. The big one carried her away.”
My teeth clench so hard they hurt. That must have happened to Christine while I was searching for Raoul. I failed them both tonight.
“Thank you, my dear. You’ve done well.” With a twitch of my fingers, I transform the ghostly stuffed rabbit, mending its threadbare appearance and frayed edges, giving it a bow and replacing its missing eye. The child coos with delight and clutches it to her chest.
“And the poet with the reddish-gold hair?” I demand of the other ghosts. “What news of him?”
Gradually, gathering bits of information from one ghost and another, I piece together the sequence of events. Near the end of the performance, a woman made her way past the security guards, none of whom stopped her. She entered Box Five and spoke to Raoul. He got up and went with her quietly—no sign of force or reluctance. They walked out of the theater, got in a black car, and drove away.
I do a quick online search for a photo of Philippa de Chagny and present it to the ghosts who saw the pair at various points during their exit from the theater. “Was this the woman?”
All of them affirm that it was. Which means Raoul left with his sister, apparently of his own free will, while Christine was kidnapped by three shifters, probably on Philippa de Chagny’s orders.
I only know Philippa de Chagny through Raoul’s brief mentions of her. Overbearing, dominant, exacting. A ruthless leaderdetermined to maintain control and accumulate more power. At one time, I might have admired her, but her behavior toward Raoul and her actions tonight have made us mortal enemies.
These events are partly my fault. I let my guard down. I saw Raoul becoming more relaxed, believing that his sister had accepted his decision, and I failed to recognize the true threat posed by the Shifter Collective. Though Raoul seems to have left the theater of his own free will, I can’t shake the sense that he is in just as much danger as Christine.
Wherever they are being taken or held, I can expect to encounter significant resistance when I go to fetch them. If I ever manage to find them again.
For a moment, I feel wretched, helpless, lost. An acidic sense of failure eats away at my soul, turning my stomach bilious. Heat rushes through me, and I run to the edge of the canal, bending over while my body heaves vomit into the black water.
I have never vomited before. I never wish to experience it again.
I rush to the bathroom and brush my teeth until all I can taste is mint toothpaste. During that process, my sense of helplessness shifts, transforming into a murderous intent, an all-consuming rage.
Philippa de Chagny thought she could take my darlings from me and suffer no consequences. She will soon discover just how wrong she is. Raoul does not belong to her anymore—he ismine. Christine ismine. And I will decimate this city, raze it to the ground if I must, but I will get both of them back.
I stride out again, back to the place where my ghosts wait for my orders. They are many yet not enough. I will need more.
After a moment’s consideration, I sweep my black coat around my shoulders and snatch up my favorite mask, the white one that conceals every part of my face except my mouth and jawline. I fit itinto place, feeling oddly comforted by its presence. It’s no longer a necessity, but for the task that lies ahead, it gives me the edge I need.
“Follow me,” I command the ghosts. They obey, trailing after me as I leave the lair and head for the stairway where I first heard Christine sing.
Since I met her, the wailing of the city’s dead has been fainter and farther away—a distant whisper in my mind. Whenever their laments grew too loud, I remembered her voice and let it fill my head, dispelling all unwanted sounds. But now, I turn my attention to that ghostly chorus, and I coax it forward in my consciousness. Louder and louder it grows with every flight of steps that I mount until I throw open the door at the very top of the stairway and step out onto the roof of the New Orpheum.
It’s a black night blistered with stars, and a brisk October wind rushes through my hair, catching my unbuttoned coat and billowing it behind me.
There’s a small building on the rooftop, probably constructed to protect equipment. I climb the iron ladder to its roof and stand there, gripping the lightning rod, looking out over the entire New Orpheum property and the river beyond. The lights of the city glitter like scattered diamond flecks on dark velvet.
Violence swells within me, a tide of magic surging deep in my psyche. As it rises, I hear the voice of the blond vampire who suppressed my powers. Her words are a law to my magic, a dam separating me from the flood of my true potential. I know why she closed me off from my powers—to protect human life from my destructive potential. But I need that magic now.
I strain against the insistent compulsion of her voice. I struggle until cold sweat breaks out over my entire body, but it’s no use. I can’t access the powers she sealed away.
To her credit, she left me with some magic, including my vocal abilities. Since I was put into this body, I’ve used my ventriloquism many times, thrown my voice at various distances and volumes. But I’ve never tested how far I can project or how loud I can be.
Whipped by the wind, standing beneath the arch of the star-flecked void, I let the consciousness of every ghost in the city fill my mind. Then I call to them, out loud.
It’s the language of my heart, the one I spoke on the Isle long ago, in ancient times—a tongue that few living humans would recognize or comprehend. Yet I know the ghosts will understand me. I am their lord, and my call has a power beyond the shape of words.
Magic floods out of me, spurring the sound of my voice to every corner of the city, to every churchyard and graveyard and morgue, every alley and attic and tunnel. It reverberates across bridges and thunders through homes, resonates with a sonorous threat and an irresistible command. It is a summons to every last ghost in the City of Music.
The effect is immediate. I can sense the pull, the onrush of hundreds of restless spirits straight toward the peak of the New Orpheum Theatre.
If I must fight to retrieve the people I love, the ghosts will be useful to distract and terrorize any shifters I may encounter. But I do not possess sufficient magic to make the ghosts corporeal enough to fight, which worries me. I wield limited shadows and mist, and I have godlike strength, but there is only one of me. I need more bodies on my side.
