There was depth beneath this new arrival’s wounded veneer . . . the essence of light and life in its most raw form: the energy of rhapsody. Music pulsed inside her blood—uncultivated and untamed. He could sense that much.
His mouth watered, hungry to taste those melodies, mocking his struggle to rein in his cravings. He’d never seen the girl’s face in their subconscious interactions. It was always covered by her wild, black hair, or submersed in murky water as she fought to break out of the wooden crate that entrapped her. But he’d glimpsed her eyes many times—a bright, electrified green with widened pupils when they were filled with song, reflections of her heart chakra.
He had to see her up close, to be sure; regardless that he didn’t know her features, he knew her soul.
And if his suspicions were right . . .
What then?
Nothing.
His chest muscles tangled between despair and hope, anger and urgency. Whatever he discovered today, he couldn’t forget the reason she was here. She was a means to an end. Payment for an outstanding debt. Nothing more.
He glanced up at the underbelly of the opera house where the tunnel met the foundation. A trapdoor waited there, an entrance to the hidden passages in the building: mirrored walls—the perfect vantage points for viewing the inside of the foyer and classrooms. For him, they were windows, unbeknownst to the academy’s occupants. On their side, they simply saw spans of reflective glass.
Trepidation lumped in his throat at the thought of being so close to her. He could pretend the reaction was a byproduct of another time, another place; a dark and cruel past that cloaked and obscured any human interactions he had, like an octopus’s ink cloud. But there was more—this newly born possibility he dared not entertain—which threatened all of his resolve.
He slammed a fist against his thigh, using the flash of pain to give him clarity.
There was no room for hesitation.
If she was the one, he would have to get even closer. He would have to prey on her . . . disrupt her daily routine, seduce her curiosity, lure her into the depths of his home. His hell.
His fingers twitched in his gloves. There were steps to follow that would ensure success. Calling cards to leave, strange novelties that would drive her to seek out the illumination only darkness could provide. She would find him of her own free will; and she would find herself and her purpose, whether she was prepared or not.
Until then, he’d take no other chances of being seen. Patience was key. He’d already been waiting for what felt like an eternity. What were a few more weeks?
A disturbing mix of anticipation and dread grated along his spine. Mud sucking at his boot soles, he scaled the embankment’s slope toward the window.
Let the dance begin.
Mom and I climb the stone stairs to the entrance. A crow flutters by above us. I hesitate when I hear its cry—a strained mewl, like a kitten in distress. I shake my head. Now I’m not only seeing things, but hearing them, too? My nerves are all over the place.
The scent of wet soil mingles with the perfume of flowers and reels me back in, reminding me of my perennials at home. I won’t be there to fight off the weeds so they can bloom. I’ve always honored Dad’s memory by keeping his flower garden alive. Having already lost his violin, I don’t want to lose yet another tie to him.
I stall halfway up the stairs and glance again at the overgrown garden where the cluster of dead roses sways in the wind. Is that what the guy was doing earlier? Fighting a battle against weeds? Considering what was left in his wake, it looks more like he’s the weed himself, like the phantom in the stories—someone who contaminates his surroundings with death and violence.
An outcast like me . . .
I haven’t always affected things around me adversely. I used to be the one Dad would come to when any of his plants were dying. Maybe that’s why I’m here, to find that healing side again . . . to save this garden. Maybe that’s why the gardener’s glinting eyes appeared so familiar—it was my imagination, trying to revive those precious moments with Dad.
I’m totally losing it. I tap the end of my braid against my lips, nipping at the strands so they crinkle between my teeth.
“Rune, you’re chewing your hair, hon.” Mom pats my back.
“Did you see him?” I ask.
“Who?” She follows my gaze across to the garden.
“The guy by the roses earlier. He’s gone now. I think he works here . . .”
“What did he look like?” she asks.
“I could only see half his face.”
She rolls her eyes then looks over my head where the chauffer digs bags out of the limo’s trunk. “You’re not seriously asking me to believe you just saw the phantom in his half-mask, are you?”
“I didn’t say that,” I mumble around my wet hair. “Not exactly.” But now that I think about it, the side that was hidden from view could’ve had a mask.