Jaw tightening, he secured the oars in their rowlocks and stretched his arms to reveal the skin between the cuffs of his sleeves and his leather gloves. The hot rush of vitality still pulsed red light through the veins in his wrists. He’d spent all afternoon in the graveyard. Being somewhere so devoid of life had drained him and prompted an unplanned visit to the garden.
He should never have risked roaming in such close proximity to the parking lot. Curse his weakness for the hybrid roses; there was no resisting their scent, their flavor, their ripeness.
Shrugging off his annoyance, he began to row once more, water slapping the sides of the cave. He hadn’t expected anyone to be on the grounds this early. Not with what was taking place inside the academy. All the students and instructors were preoccupied. The garden should’ve been safe and isolated.
But there she was—appearing out of nowhere—several hours sooner than he’d expected. Damn his carelessness. Thankfully, he’d had the sense to wear his hooded cape; otherwise, she would’ve seen him unmasked.
Still, all wasn’t lost. If he’d learned anything watching the years play out on a stage, it was improvisation. He used the unplanned sighting to his advantage, vanishing and leaving nothing but dead roses in his wake. Though he’d hated siphoning away their life essence, it was a necessary sacrifice. A calling card for her eyes only.
No doubt she was puzzling over the event this very minute.
The boat scraped to a halt on a muddy embankment. He stepped out, alerted by movement in the darkness. His cape swept his ankles as he pivoted sharply at the familiar musical sound—similar to a trumpet yet softer and lower pitched.
He cast one of his gloves into the boat’s hull and flourished his bared hand, beckoning the life-force of a thousand larval fireflies along the cave’s roof. In reaction, spindly strings coated with orbs lit up and illuminated the surroundings with a tender greenish haze—like strands of glowing pearls strung high overhead. This particular genus wasn’t indigenous to this place but had been brought from a foreign land and kept alive over a century through an exchange of energy.
Reflections of rippling water flashed across the smooth stone walls and the curved pilasters supporting the opera house above him. A red swan waddled from the shadows, trumpeting another greeting. She lifted her long, slender neck and clacked her bill, wings spreading as she fluffed herself out, magnificent and fiery-rich—the same depth of the blossoms he’d murdered earlier.
“And hello to you, sweet Ange.” He knelt and stroked her silken feathers, fingers leaving trails in the crimson plumes. “Holding vigil for our new arrival, are you?”
She nudged a strand of hair from his temple with her beak. He smiled at her affectionate fussing.
“You shouldn’t be this close to the surface,” he scolded. “Diable’s on the prowl. We wouldn’t want the devil to catch our little angel.”
The swan nibbled his thumb, as his warning echoed in the cave. His voice magnified—bass and rumbling—an alien sound, as if pebbles filled his vocal cords and ground together with each word. The gruffness made him wince.
“Go on now,” he whispered this time and stroked her shimmery neck before standing. “Make yourself scarce.”
The red swan watched him with milky blue eyes too perceptive for any ordinary bird, especially one that was going blind. She waddled to the water and skimmed across the surface—afloat and waiting.
He studied her inquisitive pose. “I can’t come yet,” he answered softly. “You know your way through all the booby traps. Go on home. I’ll follow soon enough.”
Her head bent on an elegant curl, a nod actually, as if she were royalty and he a peasant who needed her permission to stay. She sailed toward the depths of the tunnel—growing smaller in the distance. He watched until she resembled a velvety rose petal drifting atop a midnight puddle. Plucking his glove from the boat, he slid his fingers back into their sheath of black.
He studied the strands of bioluminescent larvae he’d awakened overhead, lost in thoughts of the girl. He’d never expected her to be the one. To step out of the visions he’d had since his childhood into this place and this time. It was all wrong.
Maybe he was mistaken.
His thumb pressed his left temple, rubbing the pounding throb there. But even if she was the one from his visions, it couldn’t change things. She was haloed by an aura that fluctuated between white and gray . . . purity and melancholy. She was unsettled at being here. Lost, even. The perfect foil to that other narcissistic and ambitious young prima donna who’d been brought in over a year ago due to her bloodline.