Chapter 12 Christine
Christine
I don’t know Raoul well, but when he picks me up, I immediately sense that something is wrong. It’s odd that I can tell. Almost like I’m attuned to him.
He’s smiling as usual, polite and kind as always, and yet there’s a forlorn sadness in those pale green eyes of his. Maybe pain sings to pain, grief recognizes grief, and that’s how I know he’s hurting.
When he halts at a stoplight, I reach over impulsively and squeeze his hand. “Thanks for this. Whatever this is.”
He glances over, a naked sweetness and vulnerability shining in his gaze for a second before he conceals it with a broad grin. “Tonight is your first time performing for an audience. Small venue, cozy vibes, friendly crowd, okay? Zero pressure. Just you and me, having some fun with a song or two.”
My heart thrills with panic. “And why are we doing this?”
“So you’ve got a little experience under your belt before tomorrow night.”
I swallow the lump of terror trying to crawl up my throat. It’s sweet that he’s doing this, and honestly, it’s a good idea. But that doesn’t make it any less scary.
“You know ‘The Fighter’?” he asks. “Carrie Underwood and Keith Urban?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, it’s one of my guilty pleasure songs. The lyrics aren’t really that deep, but—”
“There’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure,” I tell him. “If a song touches your heart, makes you feel something, that’s damn good music. No guilt involved.”
He brightens. “I like that. Anyway, I think it’s a good choice for us—easy lyrics, simple melody, a crowd favorite. It’s low-pressure, not vocally challenging…just plain fun and good feelings. There’s one big note for Carrie’s part, but you’ve got it, no problem.”
“Okay.”
“I just want to show you that performing doesn’t have to be this huge scary thing. It can be such a rush, especially when you’re vibing with the audience.”
I curl my fingers tight and try to breathe normally. “Not sure I believe you, but I’m willing to be proven wrong.”
“Sweet.” He turns into a public parking lot.
“Come on. Let’s do this!” He scans the QR code on a nearby sign to pay for the spot, then reaches behind the front seat of his truck to get his guitar case.
“This is my favorite baby.” He opens the case and lifts the guitar reverently from its bed.
“1958 Gibson LG-0, beautiful mahogany. Rebuilt it myself with help from this older guy who owns a guitar shop. We did the frets, nuts, saddle, top braces, back braces, everything. Not long ago, I put in a really nice hybrid system, transducer and mic with a built-in preamp, plus battery pack and volume control…best decision I ever made. It sounds absolutely golden, and it’s great for playing live.
And I’ve got this solid-state amp…” His voice trails off, and he winces. “Sorry, I get nerdy about this stuff.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s cute.”
“Yeah?” He grins, hopeful. Adorable.
“Can I help carry something?”
“You can carry the Gibson, and I’ll get the amp. It’s nowhere near as heavy as a tube amp, but still—”
I grab the amp case and lift it easily.
Raoul’s eyes widen. “You’re strong.”
“I’m a dancer.” And a vampire, but my simple excuse seems to satisfy him.
After closing the guitar case, he practically bounds up the sidewalk toward the bar, and I can’t help laughing at his puppy-dog energy.
He’s got the slim build and delicate jawline of a male fashion model, and the glasses add this layer of bashful intelligence to his look, making him even sexier. I think I’m in trouble.
The Alouette has a cozy interior with a colorful, bohemian vibe that eases my nerves a little.
The low stage is constructed of warm-toned wood and draped with tattered rugs in various faded patterns—probably a tripping hazard, but nobody seems to care.
There’s a motley collection of overstuffed couches, small painted tables, and slouchy chairs, perfect for curling up and enjoying good music.
In the center, there’s a clear space for anyone who might want to dance.
Mosaics and autographed portraits cover the walls.
Raoul introduces me to the DJ, Andre, who greets him with a drawling “Whassup” and a fist bump.
“Y’all can go on after these folks.” Andre jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the trio onstage and mutters confidentially, “They been playin’ this sad shit for half an hour. It’s melancholy as hell, and my people are ready for something cheerful, you feel me?”
“I got you,” Raoul promises. “I don’t have a drummer tonight. You wanna do a beat for us?”
“Sure, man.” At the end of the song, Andre ushers the trio offstage to scattered applause, then lifts the mic to his lips and croons, “Listen up, folks, we got us a treat tonight. My boy Raoul is a kick-ass songwriter and a bona fide magician with that Gibson of his, and he’s gonna sing for us along with the beautiful Christine Daaé.
This is her first time performing for an audience, so y’all be good now. Let’s give her a hand!”
My cheeks burn as Raoul tugs me forward. I step onto the low wooden platform, and he points me to a stool, plugging in his amp before taking the other one. Andre hands me his mic and seats himself at the house drum kit, just offstage.
My primary heartbeat is sky-high, which makes the beat of my second heart all the more noticeable, and even though I’ve lived with it since I was eight, it’s unsettling. My palms turn slick against the hard plastic of the mic.
“Hey.” Raoul’s voice brings my attention to his face. The stage lights gleam on the black rims of his glasses. “You’ll do great. Just keep your eyes on me. Here we go.”
He adds a few extra flourishes to the intro, showing off his guitar skills, and I see the crowd start to perk up and take notice. As he starts to sing, he keeps smiling at me, his green eyes shining like he’s having the time of his life.
His enthusiasm suffuses the very air, warms me right up, and steadies the trembling of my hands and knees.
It’s contagious, that smile of his. I can feel an answering smile spreading across my own face.
Renewing my grip on the mic, I chime in right on cue.
Somehow, the sound of my own voice is reassuring, too.
My voice is my instrument, the one I’ve been polishing under the guidance of the Angel.
Thanks to him, I’m more confident than ever about what I can do. I’ve got this.
Raoul gives me a wink and adds a sassy run on the guitar before he sings the next verse.
When I join him on the chorus again, I relax even more, because the crowd is jiving and dancing with us, and I can feel their energy, just like he said.
Our chemistry attracted them, and their response feeds us in a cycle that’s nothing less than magical.
When we’ve finished “The Fighter,” we move on to “Shallow.” The crowd is singing along with us now, and the way I’m belting the notes would make Lady Gaga proud.
It’s actually fun. I’m singing in public, I’m enjoying myself, and it’s all because I’m with Raoul.
This is no gloomy, echoing stairwell with ghostly acoustics and a mysterious, masterful voice to guide me.
This is hearty, healthy freedom in a room full of laughter and light.
Until Raoul’s fingers slip, and he strikes a horrible, disjointed chord. He keeps playing, and the crowd shrugs it off, but when I glance over at him, he’s no longer looking at me. His eyes are fixed on something across the room.
When I follow his gaze to the back of the crowd, I spot a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black hoodie, wearing a white mask that covers everything but his beautifully carved lips and his strong jaw. Menace radiates from him—a dark dominance that grips me even from this far away.
Terror blazes over my body like the shock of ice-cold water.
It’s the man from the alley. The one who grabbed me. The one I bit and fucked. The one who knows what I am.
He’s here.
But why does Raoul seem to recognize him, too?
The people around the stranger seem oblivious, dancing blithely to the music while he stands among them, a towering figure garbed in black.
A lot of odd people pass through Nashville on a daily basis—the city is sometimes called “Nashvegas” or the Vegas of the South.
Still, the fact that no one is weirded out by a masked visitor sends a chill writhing up my spine.
It’s almost like Raoul and I are the only ones who can see him.
Raoul glances over at me, and I look at him at the same moment, as if by instinct.
He forces a bright grin, a wordless directive to keep singing, so I inhale deeply, using my diaphragm as the Angel taught me, and I pour all my fear and frenzy into the song.
Raoul’s voice twines with mine, harmonizing so smoothly I could almost imagine I’m singing with the Angel himself.
Except the Angel’s voice is wilder, fiercer, capable of the richest depths and the most delicate high notes, while Raoul’s voice is a golden tenor with the faintest country twang.
We finish the song, and when the crowd clamors for another, I hesitate, my mind blank. Raoul looks uncertain, too. But just as our hesitation becomes awkward, a voice whispers right beside my ear…a voice I know all too well.
“‘Nothing Breaks Like a Heart.’”
I whip around, but no one is there.
That was the Angel’s voice. I’d bet my fangs on it.
Swallowing, I catch Andre’s eye and say, “Should we do ‘Nothing Breaks Like a Heart’?”
He nods, and Raoul exhales with relief, strumming the first chords.
My right knee presses Raoul’s, the touch grounding me as I plunge into the wild darkness of the song. We keep it up-tempo, and he switches between echoing and harmonizing as I sing my best smoky impression of Miley Cyrus.
Somewhere along the way, I lose my fear of the audience. The only source of terror now is my secret, which the hooded stranger holds behind his silent mask. He’s closer now. He glided nearer to the stage before I knew he was moving.