I nod.
“Jippetto is the last of that clan. They were known in otherworldly circles for working with a special wood that could trap the essence of a spirit. But the black heartwood they used was rare, and grew only in one place. Deforestation decimated their supply along with their craft. Erik’s violin was the last instrument they made. Jippetto preserved his family with what little wood he had left. Within these three mannequins are his mother, Adella, and his two twin brothers, Kendric and Kestrel, who died of pneumonia.”
I glance from each painted face to the next, seeing new depth to their eyes. I almost expect them to move. Suppressing a shiver, I rest my hands beside a gray cloth napkin, the teacup cradled between them. Steam rises up like a spectral omen. “Poor Jippetto. But what does this have to do with—”
“I came here right after I heard you talking to your aunt,” Etalon interrupts. “I asked Jippetto to be honest . . . to tell me all he knew about Erik’s history with the Strad. Just like what your aunt said—Erik thought he could let the violin go.” Etalon motions me to the empty chair. The one reserved for the caretaker. I sit with my hands on my knees, my body tense. “For three decades, he tried to find a replacement, but nothing could match the purity and resonance of the original instrument. In the 1950s he launched the search for the craftsman, in hopes he could have another made. When it led him to Adella, who was on her deathbed, he learned the truth about the enchanted wood’s capabilities. He explained how he’d played for Christine as she died. How she’d sang for him. Adella told him that Christine’s voice was trapped within, and that she could be revived one day via the instrument. That when her soul was reincarnated, it could be reunited with her voice. He knew then that the violin was irreplaceable.”
I rub my sweater where it covers the scar on my knee. “So why didn’t he steal it back from us? I would’ve thought he’d move heaven and earth . . .”
Etalon props his hands on the table. “Even someone as brilliant and unrelenting as Erik can’t outthink destiny. Adella cautioned him that since a duet of love had trapped the voice, it would take the same purity of emotion to release it. So he was powerless, for he couldn’t predict who would have Christine’s soul, much less make himself love them. The only thing he could do was keep tabs on your family and violin from afar, and wait for any sign of her rebirth. When he heard about me as a child, about my angelic singing, he assumed I was her, reborn. He was partly right. Since you and I are twin flames, I’m one part of her soul, and you’re the other. But that never occurred to him as a possibility. He almost turned his back when he saw I was a boy and that I could no longer sing at all—” Etalon’s tremulous voice cracks.
My chest aches on the memory of his nightmare experiences in the human-trafficking world. I cup my palm over his hand. “I’m so sorry for what those bastards stole from you.”
His fingers fist beneath mine. “Yet we were going to do the same to you.”
“Were . . .” I whisper, to comfort him and assure myself.
His fingers relax. “How could we be so blind? Had we followed through . . . we would’ve deserved the same end as my jailors.”
The confession triggers a profound realization. “That’s how Erik found you. That’s how you became his son. He saved you from them, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He killed them all and absorbed their cumulative life years. Then he brought me here. Took me in. Cared for me. I owe him . . . everything.” He slumps his broad shoulders. The suspenders draw his shirt tight so the knit conforms to every muscle. “He has another side to him. One that wants nothing more than to be a good father. And he is a good father.”
My heart breaks to hear him try to convince me. Or is he convincing himself?
“I had my awakening when I was fourteen. Erik knew it was time, he sensed it, and led me to a whorehouse so I could feed off a woman’s energy. She was older . . . in her twenties. I crept into her bed and her dreams, and had my fill of both. After I recovered from the energy surge, I couldn’t stop remembering that another creature had done that to my own mother, spawning me, leaving her to face it all alone. The guilt became too great, and I told Erik I would never feed again. Not like that. That I’d rather starve and die. He came up with the idea for the rave club to save me, once again. A heartless beast wouldn’t do something so accommodating for a child who wasn’t even his by blood, would he?”