I stumble into the moonlit foyer in search of my tote bag. It’s ten after twelve, and I’m so wired I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight. Maybe never again.
I didn’t read Christine’s notes. And I haven’t told Aunt Charlotte anything about Etalon. Every time I try to say his name, the tattoo around my wrist and arm stings as if electrified, a sensation that spears like a high-voltage burst into my throat and across my tongue so I can’t speak. Maybe the cord that would never break is snapping after all, and unraveling everything inside of me along with it. Or worse, maybe Etalon tricked me and our so-called bond was some vampiric ploy to make it impossible for me to turn against him.
He’s been lying to me about everything else. Why not that, too?
Since I can’t confess anything to my aunt, I asked her if I could spend the night in her room. I want to feel safe, and I finally know she only wants what’s best for me.
What hurts is I thought that was true of Etalon, too. Did I misread his auras on the rooftop? Wasn’t he worried for me?
Then again, he led me to the rave club where I almost killed Jax.
The hospital wristband and IV tube used to lure me there take on a whole new twisted meaning now. How can cutting out my voice be done without killing me? My welfare’s probably not even a consideration. It’s hard to believe that the guy who was so careful not to pull my hair when he was tying my blindfold could be so detached about helping the Phantom carve Christine’s songs from my body.
A lead weight rests in the pit of my stomach. The thought that Etalon doesn’t care, after all the nights he inspired me to love music again, gave me fantasy dances, and shared intimate secrets, gores deeper than anything he could do with a scalpel.
I can’t imagine what they’re planning for my voice once they have it. Put it in a jar like a trapped bug? House it inside a field mouse for my second cousin to capture, mount, and slap on the wall, like one of those stupid singing fish plaques?
I sniffle. It’s crazy, horrific, and demented.
Diable scampers around in the shadows as I search for my bag. Even thinking of how affectionate he was earlier doesn’t comfort me. Maybe he’s never been my guardian at all; maybe he’s actually my jailer.
It’s dead silent in the school. The cat’s collar is the only sound, which for some reason disturbs me more than the rustles I heard behind the phantom cutout earlier. My aunt had offered to come with me to get my pajamas, but I turned her down. Now I’m regretting that.
I was trying not to be a complete coward. Aunt Charlotte said she’ll arrange everything—my transfer back to my school in the States, limo ride to the airport and a ticket for the first available flight tomorrow, and a made-up excuse for Mom. I hate to run away like this. I don’t want to leave my friends with all of them thinking I’m a jerk. I don’t want to leave them period.
I’ve actually come to like this place: the rehearsals, the kooky teachers, the weekend trips to Paris. Even my time in the garden.
The chapel flits through my thoughts. A knot swells in my esophagus—a burning sob I refuse to release. I grip my throat as dread creeps across my mind, taking the shape of that heartbroken water-goblin princess, Rusalka, from Antonín Dvo?ák’s fairy tale opera, as she sings her final song to the moon, a sacrifice she’s willing to make for a chance at happy ever after.
Not me.
I finally know the truth . . . all of my family history, everything about the violin . . . and I don’t want to relinquish my gift. It is mine. I did earn it. I realize that now. I earned it because Dad gave up his life to give it to me, unintentionally or not. I lost the person I loved most in this world. If that’s not earning everything that came of that sacrifice, nothing is.
Dad wanted me to have this talent, this voice. It made him happy. And it’s an integral part of me. Enough that I’ll fight for it till my final breath.
I’m not weak. I know who I am now and why this happened, at last. I’m stronger than when I first got here. Like Etalon said, I’m a psychic vampire with the power to “consume, transmit, and manipulate life-forces.”
But so are he and Erik . . . and they’ve had a lot more practice at it.
That sob I’m fighting breaks loose.
I squint in Diable’s direction. He’s found my bag in a splay of moonlight, next to the hall leading to the theater. I didn’t drop it over there, yet it’s open, and everything has spilled out.