Chapter 4 The Phantom #2
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 through it, 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.
Some of the rooms are occupied, mostly by women, and when I spot two beer cans lying on the floor of the passage, I begin to understand why such mirrors were installed. Someone did it on purpose so he could amuse himself spying on unsuspecting women.
As lord of the dead, I’m familiar with the lustful proclivities of humans.
When I first awakened, I had to bargain with the nearest human and arrange temporary possession of her body.
Shortly afterward, I had the delicious experience of residing in her body while she fucked her lover in a church sanctuary.
I felt everything—not just the carnal thrill of her orgasm but the passion flowing through both of them—the fierce love, the reckless devotion.
I tasted something like it once, long ago, when I pursued the Morrigan, the goddess of fate herself.
I lured her into my bed and, with that conquest, won the hatred of all the other gods.
It was a calculated move, an alliance of both pleasure and purpose. I did not love her.
Nor is this grimy passage a testament to love. Its walls are sprinkled with the fetid release of a pervert. I can practically smell the stale reek of his lust in the air.
“Here,” says Agnes from up ahead, pointing to the next mirror wall.
Quietly I move in beside her and look through the deceptive glass.
The young woman in the room is facing away from me. A short, tight leather skirt hugs her round ass, and dark brown hair swings against the smooth, bare skin of her back.
“I guess you’ll have to do,” she mutters, holding up a red shirt for inspection, her voice muffled by the layer of glass between us. Sliding the shirt over her head, she adjusts it before turning around.
She isn’t wearing anything beneath the silky material. Her breasts form two delicate points against the fabric.
My mouth is dry as bones. Perhaps I should not be watching. But I am the god of death after all. Surely that gives me some right to observe fully clothed humans from the shadows.
I drag my gaze up to her face.
She’s beautiful. Full, blood-red lips that match her shirt. White skin flushed faintly pink across the cheekbones. Dark eyes beneath black lashes.
“Christine?” I whisper to the ghost by way of confirmation.
I must have whispered louder than I thought because the girl startles, her dark eyes flaring wide. All the color drains from her face. After a second, she breathes a single word. “Angel?”
Fuck…
But I’m saved from answering by a quick rap on the door. A pert young woman with shiny black hair bounces into the room without waiting to be invited. “Are you ready, Christine?”
“Almost.” Christine casts a wary glance around her room before turning to her friend. “Hair up or down?”
“Down, of course. Men like it best that way, and if you’re looking to get laid, loose and long is the way to go.”
“Right.” Christine sprays something onto both palms, flips her head over, and shakes her fingers through her glorious dark hair. My jaw tightens, and blood rushes to my groin. Perhaps I am no better than the beer-drinking lurker.
No—I am better. My interest in Christine revolves around her voice and her music. It’s purely an artistic connection. This momentary physical reaction is a base human instinct, not worth indulging.
“You got condoms?” asks Christine’s friend, sliding a pink stick across her lips to give them a shocking level of gloss.
“I’m prepared. Don’t worry.”
“Shit, I don’t have my ID or my phone!” Christine’s friend exclaims. “I’ll run back and get them. Meet you in the lobby?”
Christine smiles indulgently, affectionately. “Of course.”
Her friend breezes out of the room. Facing the mirror, Christine casually hikes up her short skirt and adjusts the black, lacy panties she’s wearing underneath.
I swallow so hard, I nearly choke on my own tongue. I’m dramatically erect now, my cock pressing heavy and tight against the front of my pants.
“Feeling all right, sir?” murmurs the ghost at my elbow.
“Quiet,” I hiss.
Christine must have excellent hearing, damn her. She hastily pulls her skirt down and leaves the room at once with a nervous backward glance over her shoulder.
“I must follow her,” I tell Agnes. “What’s the fastest way out of here?”
“This way, sir.” Agnes leads me along the passage, through a concealed door in a storage closet, down a flight of steps, and along another hallway until we come to a side door.
The door yields easily when I open it, but I suspect it will lock behind me when I leave.
It’s no matter. I know other ways to get back into the theater.
Before exiting, I turn to Agnes. “You have served me well this evening, and I may need you again. Remain close by.”
“Of course. Happy to serve the god of the dead.” She straightens the brim of her flowered hat.
“Such service deserves a reward. Take my hand.”
Cautiously, she brushes her wispy fingers against mine.
Frowning, I concentrate for a moment, sorting through the powers I can still access. I siphon a pulse of focused energy from myself into the ghost, mentally shaping the magic to suit my intent.
“You now have a limited ability to interact with small physical objects,” I tell her. “Books, drinks, windows, light switches, that sort of thing. Enjoy it.”
“Thank you, sir,” she breathes. “Thank you!”
With a nod, I shove my way through the side door of the building and into the night.
A few dozen hurried strides later, I reach the front corner of the New Orpheum Theatre. I linger in the shadows, waiting for Christine and her friend to appear.
They leave the building together, talking in low tones. Their heels clip against the sidewalk as they head toward the parking lot.
I pace slowly after the girls, keeping my distance, wondering if I’m dressed casually enough not to draw attention to myself.
I’m wearing black pants, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and plain black loafers.
Fashion is one thing I struggle to understand.
There seem to be no rules, and yet people judge clothing choices harshly.
Why am I concerned about my clothing choices? If anything is going to attract attention, it’s the goddamn mask covering my face.
I should turn back. And yet I prowl after the pair like a guard dog, my eyes darting from side to side along the street, evaluating possible dangers.
In the corner of the parking lot, beside a streetlamp, three men sit astride beetle-black motorcycles. One of them notices the girls and jostles his friend’s arm. All three ogle the two women in a way I deeply dislike.
The first man wolf whistles, and the second shouts something about a “fine ass.” The girls ignore him and proceed to a car that I presume belongs to Christine, as she is the one who unlocks it.
I have limited experience with motorized vehicles, but even I can tell that this one is old and probably unreliable.
The passenger door squeaks loudly when Christine’s friend opens it, the driver’s side window seems to be permanently stuck a few inches open, and when Christine tries to start the engine, it wheezes and coughs several times before finally giving in with a rattling growl.
The tailpipe releases a loud bang, and rust sifts to the pavement as the car chugs away, leaving me behind.
I don’t approve of Christine’s method of transportation. She should drive something safer, something sleek and beautiful.
Now that the girls are gone, I stalk toward the men on the motorcycles, the ones who whistled and shouted.
I do not speak. I simply stare, a low growl rumbling in my chest, threat radiating from every pore.
I may not be able to access most of my power, but I have enough to infuse the very air with the fear of death.
“What you lookin’ at, motherfucker?” says one of the men. He’s belligerent, but I hear the sharp edge of fear in his voice.
“You’re hella creepy, brah,” squawks the second man.
“Let’s go,” suggests another.
After a moment’s hesitation, the leader nods. “Yeah, this mofo ain’t worth our time.”
They gun their engines and roar out of the lot. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. It feels good to instill fear in mortal hearts again.
My anger momentarily suppressed my lust, but the moment my mind returns to Christine, I am ensorcelled by the memory of her long, toned legs and those black lace panties. I could almost see through them, just enough to imagine what lay underneath…
Christine is gone now, out of my reach, headed into the city. She is looking for someone to fuck. And that makes me angrier than I have any right to be.
Tomorrow, Fate willing, she’ll meet me in the stairway again.
I should return to my lair and prepare some sort of lesson for her.
No matter whose dick she wets tonight, I will still possess her voice…
her soul. She’s too frightened to sing for anyone else, so that part of her will remain mine to treasure, mine to cultivate, if she will allow me to teach her.
Still, the idea of some leering idiot shoving himself inside her body unhinges me more deeply than I care to admit.
I hate the grating distress it causes in my soul, almost as much as I hate the lack of control I experienced tonight when my body responded to the sight of her.
I should not be so weakened or obsessed by the thought of touching mortal flesh.
I retrace my steps to the New Orpheum, descend to my lair in a storm of raw fury, and thunder my rage through the piano keys.
Music offers relief, solace, salvation. In the distant past, I enjoyed it, but I feel it so much more intensely now.
There is more variety in this era—countless instruments and genres and musical styles.
A vast world in which I can immerse myself when, like tonight, life seems untamable, and happiness flutters just out of reach.