Chapter 20 Christine #3
Killed him for me. Killed without a second thought, without a trace of guilt or regret. As if it was the most commonplace thing in the world to end the life of anyone who touches me with the wrong intentions.
I killed the men who cornered me in the alley. They had trapped me, and their intentions were clear. I was at full strength then, able to protect myself in a way that I couldn’t today. If it hadn’t been for the Angel, I’d probably be dying with Buquet’s dick inside me.
I should be grateful, and I am. But horror churns in my heart.
Maybe it’s hypocritical of me, but watching the Angel kill someone has shaken me to my core.
It’s the way he did it—so calm, so casual.
Like he has done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.
Like human life means nothing to him. He dropped Buquet’s body as carelessly as I might pitch an empty bottle into a recycling bin.
It doesn’t fit with the mental image I’ve had of him ever since I first heard his lovely voice. I wanted him to be someone beautiful, remote, and sacred—a paragon of artistic loveliness and moral rectitude. Maybe a bit of angelic weakness, just enough that I could tempt him.
I never pictured a dark, lonely, exiled god with a tormented past and a storm of lust in his heart. I never imagined a masked murderer whose gloved hands would press me close to his body while I sucked down his scintillating, powerful blood.
If the Angel and I were together, what horrors might wait in our future? Two killers, prone to violence by our very nature…we’d corrupt each other even further, sink into an abyss of gore and obsession.
And Raoul—sweet, kind Raoul—we’d drag him down, too. He’s a wolf but not a hunter—a predator by blood but not by nature. We’d destroy the light inside him, entangle him in a trio of murderous monsters.
I can see the malevolent future, and to blot it out, I drink more deeply, inhaling the Angel’s life into myself. His blood swirls through my lower belly, stirring other cravings in my body. It’s an aphrodisiac, for sure, a fast-acting one that drowns my better judgment.
I’m starting to feel full, so I lean back, and with blood-wet lips, I kiss the Angel. I bite his mouth, and he groans, pain and need blended in blissful urgency. His fingers curl between my legs, and I gasp as tendrils of pleasure swirl through my body.
“I can’t have sex with you right now,” I exclaim breathlessly.
“There’s literally a body on the floor. No…
no, I can’t.” I disentangle myself and climb off the Angel’s lap before my willpower completely evaporates.
“Thank you for…um…for everything. I need to change, and you need to get rid of Buquet somehow, or there will be an investigation, and Raoul’s musical will be ruined. ”
“Yes.” He nods thoughtfully, rising and pulling his clothes back into place. “My ghosts and I will handle it. After the issue with Agnes, I will need to question them all to be sure they are trustworthy. But first, I’ll take you to your room.” He catches me up in his arms, princess-style.
“You can’t carry me through the halls like this!” I tap his arm furiously. “Put me down!”
“It’s my responsibility to take care of you. I promised Raoul I would.”
A pang flashes through my heart at Raoul’s name. “I can get back to my room on my own. Please put me down.”
His arms tense briefly, but to his credit, he respects my choice and sets me carefully on the floor again. “Very well. Shower and rest while I take care of this. No one will disturb you, I promise.”
“Not even you?” I give him a faint smile.
“Not even me.”
I hesitate, pressing a hand to my right side. The flesh is flawless again, but I feel as if there’s a phantom wound there, a lingering pain.
“Is Raoul all right?” I ask.
“He and I spent some time together, and then he returned home.” The Angel’s voice is low, almost tender. “I should text him. He will be waiting for news, wanting to know that you are safe.”
“Thank you for coming to find me.”
“My heart is a compass,” he replies softly. “It will always find you.”
A chill passes over my body at those words. I can’t tell if it’s fear or pleasure. Perhaps with him, it will always be both.
The Angel must notice my shiver, because he says, “Never fear, my darling. This little incident”—he jerks his head toward the body—“will not affect Raoul’s musical or your singing career.
In fact, after last night’s success, I suspect Gil Leveque will be far more amenable to the idea of making you the lead permanently. ”
“He won’t.” I shake my head. “Carlotta is too influential. Plus she’s having her birthday party here next week…the masquerade thing. It represents a lot of money and prestige for the New Orpheum, so Gil and Richards won’t risk offending her.”
“So…after the party would be the ideal time for them to see reason,” he muses.
I’m leaning against the wall, barely listening.
I feel as if I’ve awakened from a long sleep that was part blissful dream and part nightmare.
The music that twined softly around my soul in the Angel’s lair, the bodies that slid against me, into me…
the kisses and heartbeats we shared…those memories have faded, tainted by the terror that followed.
Blissful violence, sex, and blood interwoven in a way that my mind can’t reconcile right now.
I’m too exhausted to think clearly, and I need sleep, because tomorrow the New Orpheum is shifting into high gear for Carlotta Vanetti’s birthday masquerade, and I’ll be expected to carry twice my normal workload. That’s what I get for being so fucking dependable.
“I have to go,” I tell the Angel.
He nods absently, lost in his own thoughts. His expression makes me pause.
“You have scheming face,” I accuse him. “You’re plotting something. I can see it, even with the mask.”
“You think you know me so well, so soon?” He gives me a dreary half smile.
“Yes,” I reply, surprised by my own answer, but it’s true. I feel like I’ve known him for years. Like the god of death has been in my life for ages instead of mere weeks. And right now, I can sense the darkness in him surging, braiding itself together in filaments of dreadful intent.
“Leave me to my scheming then,” he says.
“What are you planning to do?”
“The idea is not quite formed. Not ready to be shared. Go, blood queen, songstress, muse of mine, before I forget that you do not wish to be fucked in the miasma of death.”
I leave him there with the corpse. But fear follows me, because if I can walk away so calmly from the scene of a murder, that must mean I’m already more of a monster than I want to believe.