Chapter 21 The Phantom
The Phantom
In the misty recesses of my mind lingers the memory of an ancient revel…
Imbolc, perhaps, or Samhain. Crude masks, painted bodies, rustic liquor brewed by farmers.
I attended the gathering, my face concealed, my nude form painted scarlet.
I was the most exquisite art they had ever seen.
They desired me, worshipped me, plied me with drinks and stroked my skin with eager fingers.
They did not know that Death walked among them.
That scrap of memory has frayed edges that taste of the grave. I can’t recall if I was there to bear witness to a plague or a poisoning, but I know not a soul at that revel lived to see the red dawn.
The memory surfaces more clearly than ever as I prowl the edges of the party that fills the twin ballrooms of the New Orpheum Theatre.
This party has kept Christine from me for a week, occupying her time and her thoughts.
I have tried to be understanding, but I crave her skin, her mouth, and her voice every second I’m conscious. My patience can only last so long.
I promised I wouldn’t watch her through the mirror.
Instead I left notes on her bed, requesting to see her, and she left notes in return…
excuses why we could not meet. Reasonable excuses, all of them, and yet I cannot help feeling that she has distanced herself on purpose, just like Raoul has.
His texts have been sporadic at best—updates about his progress as he adjusts to his new form.
His sister is thrilled that he can shift now.
She has things to teach him, responsibilities to lay on his shoulders, and he is understandably preoccupied.
They both have lives beyond my domain. I understand that, I do. And yet it is maddening to be trapped in the darkness below while they move through circles I can never enter.
That is why I decided to attend Carlotta Vanetti’s masquerade party. It provides the perfect opportunity for me to circulate among the humans without raising any suspicions. Both Raoul and Christine are here—one as an honored guest, the other begrudgingly invited as part of the Sidewinder cast.
Carlotta has been posting prolifically on all platforms about her status as the star of the show, clearly desperate to reclaim the attention the critics gave Christine after the preview performance.
Tonight, she’s dressed in a purple costume that screams to be noticed.
And it appears to be working. She cannot walk more than a couple of steps without a guest begging to take her picture.
I step aside to avoid being bowled over by three of Carlotta’s worshippers. One of them hesitates and gives me a wide-eyed look of admiration tinged with lust. I cock my masked head at her, and the girl blushes deeply before running after her friends.
I told Christine and Raoul I wouldn’t be here. That I despised such gatherings. That I had ghostly business to which I must attend. Lies, of course. Humans seem to frown upon lying, especially to loved ones, but in this case, it’s a necessity if I am to catch them both off guard.
I have waited long enough. It’s time for my wolf boy and my blood queen to understand where their true destiny lies. I will not allow anything to rob me of the only two people I treasure in this cursed life—my poet and my muse.
If I had to wipe every other living thing off the face of the earth in order to be with them, I would do it gladly, without a shade of regret. I will end a thousand souls if I can claim theirs.
My costume is not flamboyant, but striking.
It commands attention, so I stalk the edges of the room at first, lingering behind pillars, watching the guests dance and drink and laugh uproariously.
The aroma of goat cheese, delicate herbs, and salmon wafts past me as a server hurries by with a platter.
A garishly clad young man drops his drink, but the drinkware is acrylic, not glass, so there is no satisfying crash against the polished floor, only an impotent splatter.
Masked guests photograph themselves endlessly in front of brightly lit arches.
Voices mutter and squeak and bellow in the cloying, perfume-scented air.
Feet thump and tap and click against the floor.
Bodies whirl past, so many bodies—heavy bodies and slender ones, tall forms and tiny figures, voluptuous curves and sensuous angles.
At a masquerade, faces are obscured but also magnified.
Every mask demands attention; it steals a piece of its wearer’s soul and holds it out, pulsing and bloody, for the other guests to see.
This is who I really am, scream the masks.
This is what I wish I was, who I want to be.
The masks celebrate beauty, violence, creativity, lust, revulsion, humor. They are a twisted mirror of reality.
And in this fragmented reality, in this whirl of hidden faces and broken souls, the one truth is music.
Vicious, panting, tremulous, thunderous music, changing every few minutes yet always the same, speaking the language of humanity, lacerating the soul, stirring the blood.
I might have my musical preferences, but I am not immune to any of it.
There’s something in nearly every song that writhes in my veins, thrums along my bones, tries to wrench my heart from my chest. I have to hold myself inside, press that traitorous heart deeper behind my rib cage.
I’ve been ripped out of a body before. I won’t let it happen again.
This body is mine, this life is mine, and I will have joy.
I will have the one thing that music promises yet never delivers—happiness.
The incarnation of my future happiness is the two people standing on the opposite side of the room, so close to each other and so far from me.
Raoul wears a sleek, tailored suit and a close-fitting domino mask.
Christine’s lacy black gown clings to her subtle curves.
Her mask is heart-shaped—blood-red, glossy, and trimmed with pearls.
How do I know them with their faces covered?
By their proximity, by the slant of their shoulders and the tilt of their heads, by the slope of their necks and the angle of their hips, by the color of their hair and the way Raoul reaches for Christine’s arm, circling her wrist gently with his long fingers.
I know them by the surge of cruel adoration in my heart.
They appear to have made a tentative peace with each other, though I wasn’t privy to that conversation.
Jealousy, familiar and poisonous, coils against my ribs.
Their supernatural heritage is complication enough—they do not need the corrosive influence of a damaged god.
A better soul than mine would leave them alone.
For a moment, I imagine such unselfishness.
I picture myself taking a few possessions, departing from this place, and finding another haven.
But the only times I have ventured outside the New Orpheum were to follow Christine.
Those excursions were fraught with purpose.
The thought of leaving without her or Raoul sends a bolt of keen terror through my chest. I break into a chilled sweat, and my heart rate spikes, thundering in my throat.
The violence of the fear startles me. I hadn’t anticipated that response within myself—hadn’t questioned my aversion to being outside the New Orpheum.
I thought I was simply yielding to my summoner’s request that I stay hidden.
I did not realize that I am terrified, down to my very core, of leaving this place alone.
The realization chokes me, sends a red haze to my brain, colors everything around me in the raging hue of blood.
I, the god of death, refuse to be afraid. I fear nothing, not then, not now, not ever again.
Never again will I be taken beyond my own control, suffocated and imprisoned. Never again will I be torn out of my refuge, whether it be body or lair. Never again will I lose what’s most important to me.
To prevent such travesties, I will exert my remaining power, such as it is, over everyone here…
especially Raoul and Christine. I can feel them slipping away, wriggling out of my grasp before I’ve had a chance to show them all that I am, everything I can offer.
Only through my teaching can Christine rise to be the star she was always meant to be.
Only with my assistance can Raoul fulfill his true potential.
Only together can we turn this musical into a masterpiece that will captivate the world.
Then I will feel strong. I will have accolades; I will have reverence. I will have happiness and security.
This is my goal, and I will work to its end, manipulating this crowd, tugging their puppet strings, motivating first one, then another, until I achieve my purpose.
These puppets of mine are blithely ignorant of their fate. They do not know that Death walks among them, dressed in the color of blood.