Chapter 16 Christine
Christine
There he is. The phantom, the Angel, not just in my head but right in front of me, close enough to touch, surrounded by swirling mist and floating candles.
A white mask conceals his face, but I can see his eyes clearly.
They’re a light honey color, practically golden.
He’s breathing hard, lips tight, a muscle flexing along the hard line of his jaw.
He’s nervous.
I almost laugh. And I do smile, a wondering kind of smile, because he’s real.
He is both the masked stranger and the ghost with the beautiful voice.
And judging by the candles bobbing in midair and the mist curling around his feet, he is definitely a supernatural being of some kind.
Not a vampire, or he would have bitten me back.
That’s a relief. The only other vampires I’m familiar with are the Progeny, my parents’ cult, and I couldn’t handle being around any of them.
“What are you?” I ask.
“We can’t talk here,” he replies. “Come with me.”
When he heads down the passage, I hesitate, partly out of caution and partly because I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this secret corridor exists.
He notices my hesitation and turns back. “I did not create this place, and I’ve only used it to watch over you.” He extends his hand, sheathed in a black glove. “Come, Christine.”
Slightly reassured, I venture forward and slip my fingers in his.
Why does he wear a mask and gloves? Does he have a facial difference?
Scars? Surely he must know that wouldn’t matter to me.
As curious as I am about his face, I’m more interested in his powers…
and his intentions. Does he want to fuck me again?
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.
I’m not scared in the least because I overcame him physically last time, and I’m sure I could do it again.
Unless he allowed me to overpower him that night. He could be hiding secret reserves of strength.
“Why did you grab me that night in the alley?” I ask. “Were you going to hurt me?”
His head whips around, and he glares at me through the eyeholes of the mask. “Never. I was jealous, and I simply thought I would keep you there for a short while. Away from him. Truthfully, I acted on impulse, without a plan. Since then, I have striven to calculate each move I make.”
“Calculation is all well and good,” I reply. “But there’s something to be said for impulsiveness, too.”
He stares at me, and when I give him a little smile, he clears his throat and forges ahead.
More candles float above us, near the ceiling, lighting our way.
Even when we emerge from the narrow passage into an empty part of the building, the candles mark our path, clusters and rows of them, from pale, narrow tapers to fat, creamy columns dripping wax onto the floor.
The mist precedes us, too, shrouding our steps and flowing up the walls like the white froth of ocean waves.
Down he leads me, through doors I’ve never opened, along steps I’ve never seen, to lower levels that haven’t been used in decades.
He flings open a pair of metal doors, and their raucous groan gives way to distant strains of music.
I gasp, still clinging to his hand, gazing at the wide space before us.
Between broad stretches of gray concrete, there’s a glimmering black canal with a motionless water wheel at the end close to us. I’m not sure how far the canal goes, but I suspect it must empty into the Cumberland River or an underground offshoot thereof.
Banks of candles light the way, softening the effect of the ancient gears and machinery I glimpse in the corners of this subterranean lair.
We’re coming into a living area of sorts, set apart from the rest of the industrial space by wooden screens and partitions draped with luxurious silk hangings.
There’s a central space with a record player, a piano, a cello, and a range of other instruments, several low bookshelves stuffed with books, two worn leather chairs cloaked in blankets, an old-fashioned steamer trunk, and an antique coffee table cluttered with sheet music.
Off in the corner stands a desk with a laptop on it.
To my right is a closed door decorated with swirling vines that he must have painted himself, and beyond the living area lies a raised platform with a gigantic bed on it, half-hidden by a luxurious abundance of black velvet curtains.
This living space was curated by someone with old-fashioned tastes who prizes the patina of age and enjoys all things luxurious and comfortable.
He likes textures and patterns, from the plush rugs layered across the floor to the silky shawls and soft woolen blankets draped over the screens and the furniture.
The microwave, the small refrigerator near the desk, and the laptop seem to be the only concessions to modern convenience.
Even the lamps are old-fashioned, if pricey.
I spot a banker’s desk lamp with a green glass shade and three Tiffany lamps that look old enough to be genuine.
“This is your home?” I glance from the living area to the cold black water of the canal.
“This is where I live.”
“Alone?”
His lips tighten. After a moment he says, “I have the ghosts.”
“The ghosts?”
With a sigh, he lifts his hand, and suddenly the entire vast space is filled with ghostly figures, each holding one of the candles. The spirits seem to be from every conceivable time period, and some of them bear grotesque death wounds.
I claw at the Angel’s arm, pulling myself tighter against his side and whispering hoarsely, “What the hell?”
“Thank you for your loyal service,” he says to the ghosts with another wave of his hand. “You may leave us for tonight.”
The ghosts set their candles down and disappear. A shuddering breath of wind passes through the room at their departure. The Angel sends a few tendrils of mist to douse most of the candles, leaving a few of them alight near his living space.
I thought I had seen plenty of strange and supernatural things, but that was deeply unsettling. I’m glued to the Angel’s side, gripping his arm like it’s my tether to existence.
“You’re safe,” he says. “They know how important you are to me. They would never hurt you.”
My breathing slows a little. Guilt etches at my ribs because Raoul promised me the same thing tonight, sweet man that he is, yet I left him alone with unanswered questions and came down here with the stalker he fears is a threat to me.
It’s a mess, to be sure. And the only way to untangle it is to persuade the Angel to confess everything.
I relax my grip on his arm to something more like a caress. “Now will you tell me who you are?”
“I should tell you who I was, but I’m not sure you’re ready to know that. I could play for you first while you recover from seeing the ghosts. And perhaps you would like something hot to drink.”
“Or something strong to drink,” I mutter.
“I’m rather fond of rum.”
“That’ll do it.”
While I sink into one of the leather chairs, he fetches me a glass of rum, the honeyed kind that goes down easily.
I sip it slowly as he seats himself at the piano with a flourish and begins to play Piano Concerto No.
2 in G minor, Op. 22 by Camille Saint-Saens.
He flies through it with the practiced ease of a virtuoso, with the violent passion of an obsessed muse.
Even though I was forced to study some classical music, it has never been my preferred genre. But when he plays, it’s compulsively addictive. I have to listen, and the longer I listen, the more I crave.
I sense the change when he leaves Saint-Saens behind and forges into some new place, something wild and uncharted and raw.
I’m convinced he’s creating the piece on the spot, birthing it straight from his mind through his fingers, and it’s more ferociously beautiful than anything I’ve ever heard.
I’m being laid bare, my beating heart exposed to the music, and he’s plucking my heartstrings with every haunting interlude, pumping his artistic frenzy straight into my veins with every roaring crescendo.
I have never heard anyone play like this, not even when I spied on my father’s clients, not even when I idly browsed music videos online.
Those performances were technically great, but this one isn’t just flawless—it’s for me.
I gave him my soul tonight, and he’s giving me his in return.
He’s tearing his own consciousness open, transporting me to blissful heaven, crashing with me into the darkness of hell.
By the time he’s finished, I’m transfixed, my pulse racing and my drink forgotten.
He swings around on the piano bench and faces me.
For one tense, electrifying moment, my eyes lock with his. Then I grip the arms of the chair and launch myself out of it toward him.
His arms clasp tight around me as I collide with his chest. I kiss him brutally, desperately, hungry for his pain and mine.
My tongue lashes into his mouth, and he opens wide, letting me in.
His hand clamps around the back of my head, forcing a harder kiss, like he can’t get enough, like he’s as desperate to be inside me as I am to be part of him.
I don’t care what he is or who he was. My hands claw at his shoulders, raking him closer, and I’m hungry, I’m starving, not for blood or sex, but for everything, every morsel of the creature who could produce that music.
We tumble off the piano bench and crash to the floor, bruises and pain. He rolls me onto my back, kisses me with a degenerate fervor that makes me want to scream yes, but I can’t spare any breath. I shove his jacket off his shoulders; he flings it aside.
I don’t like the mask. It’s getting in the way, and I want to see all of him.
I reach for it, tuck my claws beneath the edge, pry it up just a little—