Chapter 23 Christine
Christine
I’m drinking more than usual. Pretty sure I’ve got a right to after everything I’ve gone through in the past month…the past year…no, the past decade. My entire fucking life.
On the stage at the end of the room, the band is shifting aside, making room for Carlotta, who will, of course, be singing at her own party.
The gifts piled on tables in the lobby aren’t enough for her—she needs the spotlight as well.
Endless accolades. Her appetite for praise is voracious, but if I’m honest with myself, mine is, too.
Much as I’d like to think I’m better than her, I wouldn’t mind having millions of followers online and hundreds of adoring fans in person.
I think I’ve changed since I met the Angel. I’m hungrier now.
I throw back the rest of my drink, feeling the warm buzz along my veins.
When I told Raoul I couldn’t be with either him or the Angel, he looked crestfallen. Like I sucked all the joy out of his existence.
None of us have said it aloud, but it’s understood that he and the Angel are interwoven—a package deal.
I can’t have one without the other, couldn’t be satisfied with one without dreaming of the other.
I need them both, but it would be terrifying and toxic, so I have to tell myself no.
Raoul and the Angel weren’t part of the goddamn plan…
Not that I had a particularly good plan for my life, but still…
Firmin Richards appears before me suddenly, sweat filming his forehead above his mask. “Christine! It is Christine, yes?”
When I lift my mask slightly and nod, he shoves a handful of sheet music in front of my face, asking desperately, “Do you know anything about this?” Behind him stands the conductor, looking equally perturbed.
“What is it?” I ask blankly, staring at the papers.
“New sheet music. The entire score of Sidewinder has been rewritten. I just received this from a messenger—a messenger! Who uses messengers these days? And there was a note with it—” He breaks off abruptly and clears his throat. “What I need to know is did Raoul send this?”
I shrug. “How should I know?”
“You’re close with him. Both of you disappeared after the preview performance. There were rumors that you went off together. Did he mention rewriting the score?”
The conductor interjects. “The thing is, a composition on this scale would have taken weeks to complete, but Raoul didn’t mention a rewrite. Not once!”
“Maybe someone else changed the score.” I frown, confused by their panic. “You don’t have to use the new music.”
Richards’s face reddens, and he splutters incoherently, while the conductor says faintly, “But we have to. If we don’t, then—”
The two men glance at each other, as if startled by a shared secret. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I might be drunker than I thought.
“I can’t help you, gentlemen,” I tell them. “You’ll have to discuss it with Raoul. He never said anything to me about rewriting the score. Good luck with all that. I’m off to hear our prima donna sing.”
I saunter away from the two men. I can smell the fear on them. It’s practically oozing out of their pores, and it gives me an odd sense of satisfaction to see them so unsettled. The predator in me rejoices when pompous, overbearing men are reduced to quivering mice.
As I wander toward the stage, Carlotta cups the microphone, nearly kissing it with her scarlet lips. She’s boasting about having the lead role in Sidewinder. The cheers of the partygoers fill my ears, a vapid roar.
As a kid, I used to like watching the original High School Musical, and in this moment, Carlotta reminds me of Sharpay.
Talented, sure, and devoted to her profession, yet annoyingly desperate to be the center of attention all the time.
No one can say Carlotta doesn’t work hard—she does—and yet the effort is minimal compared to the work others have to put in to get even a fraction of the opportunities that seem to fall into her lap.
The band swells, a boisterous intro to her first song, and Carlotta smiles through it all, picture-perfect teeth and glorious hair and flawless makeup.
I don’t hate her beauty, though. I hate the saucy curl of her lip when she notices me down below, among her worshipful peons.
I hate the derisive droop of her fake lashes, the cocky flounce of her shoulders, like she’s saying, Hey, bitch, you had your one night of glory. The rest is mine.
That’s the part I hate. I want to bite her, and not in a sexy way. Let’s see how well she performs without vocal cords…
Carlotta opens her mouth and sings the first line.
Or she tries to. But instead of lovely, soaring notes, she croaks.
A collective gasp breezes through the room, and the band falters. I glance around surreptitiously, half-certain, in my buzzed brain, that I somehow made it happen, like the universe heard my violent thoughts and decided to take Carlotta down a peg.
Carlotta’s face freezes in a panicked smile. She holds up her hand, stops the music, and beckons for water. After gulping it down, she gives the guests an apologetic grin and tries singing a few notes.
Again, a horrible croaking sound emanates from her mouth—a dry, rasping horror instead of her beautiful voice.
“Oh, shit,” exclaims a girl near me with a surprised giggle. She’s been filming the whole time. “This is going straight to my socials. Carlotta Vanetti, croaking like a toad.”
It’s astounding how swiftly the current of the human heart can change. This girl is Carlotta’s guest—supposedly a fan, if not a friend—and yet she’s all too quick to gleefully capture Carlotta’s embarrassment and use it for engagement.
Impulsively, I snatch the girl’s phone and dash it against the ground. My heel descends instantly, grinding into the screen until it cracks.
“What the fuck?” squeaks the girl. “Are you crazy?”
I lean in, a hissing growl issuing from beneath my mask. The girl’s eyes double in size, and she backs off, clutching her friends. They hurry away from me, toward one of the security guards by the doors.
I’m about to get in big trouble, so I slip through the churning crowd of shocked partygoers. A wheezing, weeping Carlotta is being hastily escorted offstage by a couple members of her entourage. I dart behind the stage and out the rear door.
The area I’ve just entered is a green room for the band, littered with instrument cases, chairs, extra amps, and other equipment, as well as personal belongings.
Threading through the clutter, I step into the narrow hallway that connects this area with the rest of the building.
It’s dark here, and one of the overhead lamps is guttering like a flame in a high wind.
In one of its brighter flashes, I spot a tall, hooded figure halfway down the hall.
My heart jumps, and my gut twists with fear.
After the incident with the ghost and the assault by Joe Buquet, I’ve been jumpier than usual.
I probably have mild PTSD from the Buquet incident, and it would probably be worse if I weren’t already somewhat numb to the things that would horrify a normal human being.
Nothing could ever be worse than watching my brother and sister die.
For a second, I imagine their silhouettes in the hallway, too, flanking the hooded figure. I blink, and they’re gone. He’s alone, and he’s much closer to me now. The light flickers on the dark planes of his mask.
I sniff, trying to identify him by scent, but all I can smell is the heavy fragrance of cologne.
“Angel?” I venture.
“It’s done.” His smooth voice confirms my suspicions. “It’s all settled now. I have fixed Raoul’s music and given you the lead role.”
“What…what are you talking about?”
“The first time I told them to make you the lead, they gave you the understudy part instead.” His tone is tinged with frustration.
“Even after I secured you the role for the preview performance, those boneheaded managers couldn’t see reason—too blinded by Carlotta’s status to recognize the value of pure, natural talent.
I had to be more…persuasive. And now they have no other option.
The role is yours, and the improved score will ensure that this musical makes headlines. ”
“Wait.” I step back, staggering a little, bracing myself against the wall. “The first time? Did you try to force them to give me the lead?”
“I believe it’s called blackmail. I have become quite adept at it. There’s nothing quite so motivational as dark secrets.”
By the sound of his voice, I can tell he’s smiling under the mask, but I feel sick. Betrayed. “You didn’t think I could do this on my own.”
“I recognized the politics behind the arts,” he counters. “As I said, there’s more at play than talent.”
“I never wanted you to blackmail people to further my singing career.”
“I blackmailed them for other reasons, too,” he says defensively. “You should be thanking me for that and for removing Carlotta from your path.”
“Oh god.” I close my eyes. “So you messed with her voice? Is it permanent?”
“I used a little death magic to damage her vocal cords. It’s not permanent, but it will take her months to recover. I had to ensure she couldn’t come back and take the role of Eugenie from you.”
The horror of what he has done strikes deep in my soul. And yet he speaks about it so casually, as if his actions were the most rational thing in the world.
I struggle to keep my tone even. “You rewrote Raoul’s entire score because you believed you could do it better. Do you understand how deeply that will hurt him?”
“He knew it wasn’t perfect,” replies the Angel.
“And your score is perfect?”
“Yes.”