Chapter 27 Christine
Christine
Opening night. At last.
Shrouded in shadow, I wait offstage for my cue.
The merry voices of the chorus fill my ears, softly punctuated by a couple of terse whispers from the backstage crew. There’s so much vibrant movement and glorious sound ahead of me, beneath the bright lights of the stage, yet the space around my body feels quiet, dark, and still.
My stomach flutters and rolls, the familiar pit of nausea tightening in my belly.
My palms are sweating. But none of those symptoms deter me now, because I’ve been on that stage many times.
I know that I can act, dance, and sing all at once.
I was born to do this, and that certainty is a refuge in my heart, a cool, peaceful oasis that keeps me calm at my core no matter how anxiously my body may react.
I’ve learned that if I endure the symptoms of stage fright without panicking about them, I can move through them.
When I step onstage, a different part of me takes over, unleashed from all the chains I’ve worn throughout my life and the barriers I set around myself—the walls that were meant to protect me from the world and the world from me.
A few months ago, I couldn’t have imagined doing this. I couldn’t have pictured singing in front of one person, let alone playing the lead for a musical. Not to mention costarring with the angel-voiced god of death.
The change in my confidence was mostly gradual, a slow transformation. But there were leaps in my growth, like the day I auditioned, the time Raoul sang with me at the Alouette, and the preview performance when I sang Eugenie for the first time.
I’ve always known the vampire side of me was an asset, but over the past few weeks, as we’ve rehearsed Sidewinder with its new score, I’ve realized just how useful vampirism is, how far it can propel me toward the new dreams that twirl through my brain at night when I’m lying in the lair below the theater, sharing the big bed with Erik and Raoul.
My nature as a vampire gives me the edge I need.
It makes me faster, stronger, more graceful, more passionate.
I’m less prone to injury and therefore less fearful of hurting myself, which spurs me to take greater risks with my dancing.
My vocal cords recover quickly, so I can devote myself fully to belting out huge notes without worrying that I’ll strain my voice.
Can it be that after so many years, I’m starting to move past the basic acceptance of my nature toward actually loving what I am?
Part of me still resists the idea of appreciating my vampire side, as if by being grateful for its benefits, I’m somehow betraying my siblings and forgiving my parents. I’m not sure how to fully get past that twinge of guilt and reluctance every time I feel pleased with myself.
One thing is certain, though—I’m healthier than ever, thanks to my two new blood sources.
Both Erik and Raoul recover quickly after I drink from them, so I don’t have to worry that I’m taking too much.
Erik’s blood gives me a hit of ecstatic power I’ve never gotten from anyone else, and Raoul’s blood supplies a sensation of wholeness and strength that makes me feel like I could run across the entire continent without stopping.
And the best part is I don’t ever have to go hunting for strangers in bars again.
If I really am starting to love every part of myself, I owe a lot of that growth to Erik and Raoul.
Erik is still in his dressing room. He’ll be here soon, ready to go onstage shortly after I do.
Raoul managed to replace my former costar without too much fuss from the other directors, and even though I feel bad for Rune, I much prefer starring opposite Erik.
He’s naturally theatrical and lends a depth to the character that Rune just wasn’t capable of.
Gil and Marj were curious about Erik, of course, demanding to know who he was and where he came from.
Somehow, Erik concocted a brilliant backstory for himself, complete with online sources to back up his origins.
It was enough to silence the directors, if not to completely allay Marj’s suspicions.
But at last she tapped her mouth with one shellacked fingernail and said sharply, “Well, he’s easy on the eyes.
Let’s do it.” And Erik proceeded to charm her and everyone else at each rehearsal after that.
I stretch my neck to one side, then the other, wondering how Raoul is doing in Box Five.
He’s probably up there worrying and tearing his program into tiny pieces.
Erik and I have struggled to soothe Raoul’s anxiety these past few weeks, ever since we returned from our road trip and he made the break with his family and the Shifter Collective.
Raoul refused to end things with his sister in person.
I’m still not sure if that was the right choice, but it was his decision.
He bribed one of the staff at the de Chagny house to pack up some of his things and bring them over to the New Orpheum, and then he sent his sister a long email explaining why he would no longer live in the house or assume any responsibilities with the pack.
Raoul was fully prepared for Philippa to retaliate. He thought she might withdraw funding from the musical, which Erik promised to supplement from his own investments. But the funding has held up, and there’s been no response or retaliation at all.
As the weeks have passed, I’ve noticed Raoul relaxing more and more. Still, Erik insisted that we have extra security in place just in case Philippa decides that opening night is the perfect time to interfere with Raoul and his show.
So far, there’s been no sign of anything wrong. But we’ve barely started the first act.
I need to stop fretting over things that aren’t currently happening. I have to keep my mind clear and focused if I’m going to make Erik and Raoul proud tonight.
Closing my eyes, I mentally rehearse the first few bars I’ll sing once I step onstage.
The music rises and crests. The chorus dancers shift to the left and right, making space for my entrance. Three, two, one…here we go.
***
And then it’s over.
I’m standing with Erik, our clasped hands held high. We did it.
He performed his poignant solo in the second act—so much more hauntingly beautiful with its new orchestration. When I sang my final number to close out the last act, I hit the high note with more strength and clarity than ever before.
Each ensemble song, the bits of dialogue in between, the climactic fight, the passionate kiss—we did everything, and we did it beautifully.
There were a couple of missteps and a fumble with a prop, but it didn’t matter.
We had the audience in the palm of our hand.
I could feel their intensity, their attention.
The roar of applause that greets us is proof of that, and so is the thunder of the audience leaving their seats, giving the entire cast a standing ovation.
When I look up at the tall, black-haired god beside me, I spot tears glittering in his eyes. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to him, experiencing this praise. Finally, he is receiving the worship he deserves.
I peer at Box Five, but I can’t see into its shadowed depths. Raoul was supposed to come down during the final song so he and the managers could walk onstage and receive their accolades, too. But when I glance offstage, he isn’t waiting with Gil and Marj.
Where is he?
After a minute or two, during which the clapping starts to slacken, Gil and Marj walk out onstage without Raoul.
Gil tries to take Marj’s hand, but she shakes him off and waves to the crowd instead.
We turn the audience’s attention to the orchestra and the conductor, who performed a miracle by learning Erik’s new score so quickly.
After they’ve received their applause, we bow, and the curtain falls.
“Where is Raoul?” I whisper to Erik.
“Our poet may have been too emotional to appear before everyone.”
I shake my head. “This is his dream come true. He would have wanted to be onstage, no matter how hard he was crying.”
Cast members are crowding around, congratulating us and each other. Their faces shine with exuberant triumph, but a shadow of dread has fallen over my heart.
Erik pulls me close and bends down to speak in my ear. “I’ll check Box Five and confer with my ghosts. Wait for me in your dressing room.”
The grim look on his face tells me he’s worried about the same thing I am. Despite the security in place throughout the theater, it’s possible the shifters entered the building to reclaim the rogue member of their pack.
I head for my dressing room, removing pieces of my costume as I go—the gloves, the hat, the bow at my neck.
I exchange congratulations and thanks with people along the way, but I manage not to get caught in conversation until a woman steps out in front of me.
I recognize her as one of the wardrobe crew.
She’s carrying a large cup covered with quirky stickers.
I’m opening my mouth to say something like “Good work tonight!” but before I get the words out, she lunges forward, sending the icy, slushy contents of her cup all over my face, my hair, and the front of my dress.
“That’s for Carlotta!” she yells, and she runs off, pursued by a security guard and two crew members.
For a second, I’m so shocked from the cold that I can’t breathe. Then I’m seized with the violent urge to chase that woman, drag her down, and sink my fangs into her throat. It’s all I can do to curb the hunting instinct that roars through my body.
I manage to accept the handfuls of paper towel that a sympathetic cast member hands to me. She bobs at my elbow, cooing with soft concern, offering to escort me to my dressing room and help me clean up.
“I’m fine,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll just go take care of this in the bathroom.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she scurries away.