Chapter 13 The Phantom
The Phantom
I left her alone.
And then I returned, and I lingered.
Guilt is a foreign sensation to me, but I feel a touch of it as I stand on the other side of the mirror, watching Christine. It must be guilt, this vague unease with my actions. The urge to go elsewhere wars with my desire to stay as close to her as possible.
Now that I know what she is, it all makes sense. The graceful power of her limbs, her superhuman stamina when she dances, the faintly feral quality of her smile sometimes when she thinks no one is watching.
I never thought I would be obsessed with a blood drinker, a nightwalker, an abhartach. Especially not after Gatsby and his vampires defeated me in the church at Wicklow. Ever since that day, I’ve carried a resentful grudge against their kind.
But Christine dismantled my walls before I knew what she was, and now I am defenseless, laid bare and vulnerable.
If she sank her claws into my chest, cracked my breastbone apart, and extracted my heart, I would welcome the invasion.
If she plunged her fangs into my flesh again, I would instantly be transported to the farthest realms of bliss.
Even as I watch her, new strains of music unfold in my mind, wave upon wave of fully orchestrated sound. Stunning melodies, heavenly music, and yet none of it seems quite worthy of her.
After our tryst in the alley, I felt our connection had been sullied somehow…
but now that I’ve adjusted my expectations, I realize that seeing the earthier, grittier, monstrous side of her has only deepened my obsession.
It has given me something far more dangerous than love itself—it has given me hope.
Because if she possesses secrets she must hide from the world, if she has a touch of the monster about her, perhaps she might come to understand me entirely.
Perhaps one day, she could see me as I am and not be terrified.
That hope holds me captive as I stand in the dark corridor behind the mirror.
It immobilizes me as Christine begins to remove her clothing.
She sways her hips as she shimmies down the shorts.
Pulls the flower-print tank top over her head slowly, almost theatrically.
In her lacy bra and panties, she lifts both arms above her head and stretches, her beautiful body going taut, every lean muscle on display.
My breath catches as I realize she’s not simply undressing—she’s putting on a show for my benefit. The little devil has decided to tempt her Angel.
When she takes off her bra, I place one gloved hand on the mirror, concealing her chest from my sight. Or perhaps giving myself the illusion that I could touch her.
She climbs onto the bed, and my lungs tighten at the sway of her breasts.
I’ve seen breasts in my forays through the human internet.
They seem to pop up at the most inopportune moments.
I’ve never felt anything but mild interest for them.
But Christine is someone I know intimately.
Her breasts seem designed to drive me to madness.
Small yet plump and perfectly sized for my hands.
Creamy skin, light brown nipples. I want one of those breasts in my mouth.
My hand curls into a fist against the mirror.
She leans over to the nightstand beside her bed and takes something from a drawer. Then she settles back on the pillows, arches her knees, and parts her legs.
The thing she’s holding is small and pink, and it makes a soft buzzing sound as she runs it over the thin material of her panties.
Christine’s head tips back on the pillows, and her lips part, a faint moan issuing between them.
She glides the toy over her underwear with expert strokes, slow circles.
A wet spot forms quickly, slicking the delicate fabric to the shape of her sex.
I’m burning alive. Scorched from the inside, my whole body straining as I fight against the desire to touch myself. My cock is painfully swollen, hard as a rock, and my balls ache.
I didn’t have much self-control in the alley. Nor can I hold back now, not for more than a moment or two. With shaking hands, I open my pants and take myself out, venting a silent groan as my fingers close around the burning shaft.
Christine is whimpering, lifting her hips off the bed. It’s similar to the pelvic exercise I had her perform during one of our lessons…only this time, when she surges upward, she lets out a soft, urgent whine in the shape of a word: “Angel.”
I grit my teeth in agony and press my fist harder against the mirror while my gloved hand rubs my cock. It doesn’t feel nearly as good as the silken wetness of her pussy.
I could have her again. I’ve detached this mirror at the edges so it can be shifted aside—that’s how I brought Christine back from the stairwell when she drank herself to sleep after her audition. I didn’t want to carry her through the main hallways, so this corridor was the best option.
If I slid the mirror aside now, charged into her bedroom, and jerked the panties off her legs, I could bury myself to the hilt in the slippery heat between her thighs.
It would feel infinitely better than this frantic rubbing.
But once Christine realizes I’m not a ghost but a man with a raging lust for her, she might be frightened.
And she would be still more disturbed once she realizes that we’ve fucked before.
I can imagine her screaming, shrinking away from me. Running to Raoul for refuge.
Revealing myself now can only end in the destruction of the fragile connection I’ve crafted between us. I will show her the truth soon…perhaps tomorrow, after she triumphs onstage and she’s flush with gratitude for my tutelage. The timing has to be right—
“Oh god, Angel!” moans Christine, and she pins both thighs together around the little toy, squirming wildly as she comes.
I open my mouth in a voiceless cry as I come, too, sprinkling the back side of the mirror with my release. A hoarse gasp bursts from my throat without my permission, and Christine lifts her flushed face with a cunning expression that tells me she heard the sound.
“Are you there?” she whispers.
I don’t answer. I stroke myself once more, then put my cock away and fasten my pants while I watch her remove her sticky underwear and replace them with a fresh pair. She washes her hands, pulls on a loose T-shirt, and climbs into bed. The light switches off, and I’m left in darkness.
The loneliness crushes me like an avalanche.
All I want is to lie beside her, hold her, feel her breathing while she sleeps.
I want to pull her against my chest and sing my most beautiful melodies softly in her ear.
I want to go where she goes, love what she loves, make my entire world revolve around her, if only she will be entirely devoted to me alone.
If only she will save me from this wretched solitude. I cannot bear it much longer.
The walk back to my lair feels longer than ever, and when I reach it, I wave aside the drifting ghosts who advance eagerly to make their daily reports. Though I would never admit it aloud, their presence is slightly comforting. It keeps my quarters from feeling so terribly cold and hollow.
“I’m tired,” I tell them. “Give me your reports tomorrow.” I strip off my gloves and toss them aside, then pluck my phone from my pocket and check for new messages. There are none.
I shower for a long time, then fling myself naked into the sheets, where I writhe restlessly for a few hours. Was Christine able to fall asleep right away? If so, I envy her.
At last, I pick up my phone again and watch several videos of kittens yawning and mewing.
I’m convinced they have some sort of magic to charm the unwary.
There’s no other explanation for the way I find myself smiling as I watch them.
Their tiny, fluffy forms and huge eyes seem to unlatch something that has been locked tight inside my chest for a very long time.
I switch to my phone’s contacts and scroll through the names of every pawn I possess within the New Orpheum—over a dozen now, each one ignorant of the others, each terrified to disobey me or speak of me lest I reveal their darkest secrets.
At the bottom of the list, under “Z,” I saved a number that’s connected to the debit card my summoner left me—a backup number to be used to confirm identity. I suspect it’s his real number, a way to contact him.
The name on the debit card—Erik Lind—is a false one, of course.
I’ve heard my summoner called both Ian Holcum and Lloyd-Henry Woodson, though he seems to prefer Lloyd.
As a gancanagh-shifter hybrid with so many enemies, it makes sense that he would have several aliases.
But with the bank account and the other scraps of information he left me, I’ve built up an entire online presence.
For all intents and purposes, I am Erik Lind.
Erik is a decent name. Perhaps I should adopt it permanently. I can’t very well introduce myself to Christine as Cernunnos, former god of death, now the phantom dwelling beneath the New Orpheum Theatre.
I toy with the idea of contacting my summoner. But a flicker of fear accompanies the impulse—the fear that the one who gave me this identity could take it away. Better to leave him to his own devices while I continue with my plans.
The idea of me, a god, fearing anyone is so repulsive to me that I seek out immediate distraction, scrolling up through my contacts again until I reach “R,” for Raoul.
I begin typing a message to him. Simple, succinct. A test to see if he is as sleepless as I am.
Christine sang well tonight.
Almost immediately, he replies. Yes.
You sang well also. Why am I complimenting the bastard who wants to steal my beautiful protégé away from me?
Raoul responds with, Who are you?
A dull question. One you know I won’t answer.
Fine, he types back. Why aren’t you asleep?
I am thinking of everything and nothing.
He sends back a laughing face, to which I raise an eyebrow and respond, And why aren’t you asleep?
A pause, and then he texts, Horny.
I’ve encountered the word. It means to be preoccupied with sexual desire or need. Can you not view some nude images of women or men and pleasure yourself?
Raoul sends another laughing face. Pleasure myself? You mean jerk off? What century are you from?
I send him a row of skulls.
He replies, Can I call you?
Surprise flutters through my stomach. After giving it careful thought, I conclude that a call won’t pose any greater risk than texting.
Very well.
My phone buzzes a moment later, and when I answer, I can hear Raoul breathing quickly, as if he’s nervous.
For two full minutes, neither of us speak. We simply exist in silence, linked by the sound of each other’s breathing.
“I don’t know why I asked if I could call you,” he says at last.
“I’m not sure why I answered.”
“Goddamn, your voice is beautiful.” He sounds reluctant to admit it. He clears his throat and says more forcefully, “Maybe I called to tell you to back off. To leave Christine alone. You scared her tonight.”
“What are you, her guard dog?” I ask dryly.
“Maybe.”
“If you’re the dog, I’m the master.”
“Master…” He gives a ragged laugh. “You’re a stalker. A bully.”
“I am neither and more.”
“What do you want from her?”
“Everything.”
“Does Christine know who you are?”
“No one knows me completely.”
“Yeah.” Raoul’s tone shifts, a note of sadness in his voice. “I feel that.”
“What do you want from Christine?”
“Her talent, obviously, for the musical. And…I knew her in school, when we were kids. She protected me once. I think I’ve loved her since that day.”
My jealousy revolts at the idea of a prior claim, but I stay silent, waiting for him to continue. The more weaknesses he reveals, the easier it will be to defeat him.
“I want her,” he says quietly. “But I’m not sure she’s the only one I want. God, I should not be saying this, but…I’ve thought about you for weeks. Ever since you and I…”
His voice trails off, but I know what he means. I felt the raw heat thrumming between us when I held him against the wall with my body. But I’ve made up my mind about who I want. It’s Christine and no one else.
“Let me be clear—you and I are enemies. Rivals.”
“Right.” He releases another low, breathless laugh. “Then why does the very sound of your voice make me hard?”
“You’re mentally unhinged,” I suggest.
“Probably true. Go on. What else am I?”
“You’re a talented poet. Your libretto is perfection.
A little melodramatic for some people perhaps, but I happen to enjoy dramatic language.
I could find nothing upon which to improve.
Your skills as a composer, however, are lacking.
And you do not possess the genius necessary to create truly remarkable orchestration.
The bones of the musical are good, but not great.
You have only come this far because of money and prestige, I would guess.
Your family is wealthy, and they have influence in the right circles. ”
“All true.” His voice sounds odd, slightly jerky, as if he’s making some rapid, rhythmic movement. “Keep talking. Please.”
I hesitate, listening to his huffing breaths. “Are you jerking off to my criticism?”
“Please keep talking to me.”
I hesitate, trying to analyze the heat flooding my chest, the ripple of excitement in my stomach.
My voice, my compliments, and my thoughtful critique have a profound effect on this man.
I enjoy power, specifically power over him.
It cannot hurt to indulge in this strange kind of dominance a little more.
“Despite Christine’s talent, your musical will ultimately fail,” I continue.
“Unless you yield it to someone with greater genius than yourself. But I suspect your pride wouldn’t allow you to hand over control to anyone else.
You are proud, aren’t you, Raoul? Proud yet insecure, because someone has been telling you lies about yourself for years, and you no longer know what to believe.
Believe me. You sing well, you play well, you compose well, but your poetry—it’s fucking godlike. ”
Raoul chokes out a cry, and I tighten my grip on the phone as my mind paints an image of him coming to the sound of my voice.
“Do you want to know my favorite line in the musical?” I ask quietly. “It’s the phrase about ‘humans plucking endlessly at the fragile threads of immortal patience.’”
He sobs out a gasp.
“I’m ending this call,” I tell him. “And then you will send me a picture of the mess you made. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he whispers.
I end the call and count to twenty before the photo appears. Raoul’s bare thigh and a fold of his sheets, spattered with cum. A dark delight surges through me as I murmur, “Good boy.”
Then I send him one final text.
Tomorrow Christine will sing for me, not you. She will give her soul into my hands, and she will be mine.