“Yep. I’d come out to go to the bathroom and saw the mirror door opening, with you sneaking through. I decided to retrace your steps after you dropped the key.” Sunny unties the string from the letters.
I grapple for them but she jerks away. The papers go flying, sending Diable darting up the spiraling staircase to the mini-loft. I crouch to gather the letters before Sunny can. My brain flips through uncountable scenarios, trying to find one that will explain all of this.
“Whoa. That’s creepy as hell,” Sunny says from where she’s picking up behind me.
My shoulders stiffen as I turn.
Her face is so pale her freckles stand out like specks of mud on a whitewashed fence. She holds up a sketch of the disfigured Phantom similar to the one Etalon showed me on the rooftop. It must’ve been stuffed inside the stack of letters. Brownish-red spatters fleck the background, like aged blood. Sunny’s trembling finger points to the bottom, beside the signature, where Christine scripted the words: Guard your throats and hide your eyes. He’s not dead, you fools. Legends never die.
Seated on his bed, Thorn slipped his feet into his new socks and wiggled them. The colorful faces on the toes appeared to dance in the hazy blue light of his aquarium. He smiled, then shoved his feet into his boots, tying the laces up to his calves, his mind on those moments spent with Rune in the aviary.
He’d read the insecurity in her aura—sensed she was worried he’d think her gift was childish. It was such an intimate and kind gesture. One that made him feel treasured and gave him hope. He’d wanted to share that hope, share that energy she inspired in him.
Holding her in his arms, tasting his name on her lips, had been even sweeter than he’d ever imagined it could be. As were her whimpers asking for more.
And her voice when he played for her? Seraphic, just as Erik always said. Thorn knew they were taking a chance dressing her as Christine. It could backfire, presenting her as the object of Erik’s desire. That’s why Bouchard and Rune’s aunt were there. As backup. He hated putting Rune in danger, but she was stronger than she realized. She would discover that tonight.
He hadn’t told her everything about the ballad. He wanted to spare her the knowledge that Erik often sang it, with tears in his eyes, to the body in the cryo-chamber. Some images were too morbid and tragic for anyone to have to live with. It was enough Thorn would never stop seeing it himself.
He smoothed the hems of his black scrub pants into place over his boots before pulling on the matching top, saturated with the scent of rubbing alcohol. He had to look the part of the surgeon. He’d wear the lab jacket, too, to cover up the ribbon imprint on his arm. That’s the last thing Erik needed to know about.
Thorn stood, checking his room, assuring everything was in place. He’d already emptied the aquarium of the fish. Freed them in the river from where he caught them; though he’d left the aquarium filled with water and the light on, to keep Erik from noticing the change. All of Thorn’s animal patients were free, and he’d never have to alter another voice. In the chapel was a suitcase holding his scant possessions: clothes, a few half-masks, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, some soap, the fairy tale book Rune gave him, and the Stradivarius.
If he escaped alive tonight, Erik would disown him, or, worst case, chase him down until he’d had his revenge.
The thought not only filled Thorn with dread, it also made his heart sink. Yet, one thing buoyed it: imagining a life that was above ground, with no masks or cellar labs or deadly traps. A life among people who had jobs, who went to dinner and attended the opera houses as guests . . . not eternal ghosts haunting the performers within.
He wanted to take Rune to Paris every morning with sunshine warm on their faces, and let her shop to her heart’s content, or duck into an antique bookstore during a rainstorm and read together all afternoon. Or walk alongside cafés and elegant gardens—holding hands until the sun disappeared, then sit with her in front of the Eiffel Tower all lit up like a beacon—and kiss her face in the glow of yellow light.
To be a real couple. To have real friends. To blend in, except when they were alone and could let their inner beasts out to play.
That telling moment in the sewer twelve years ago kept surfacing like an omen: “You could still have a normal life,” Erik had said. “Your perfect face, flawless features . . . they’ll earn you a place of respect and power in that world. You can blend in, even rule, where I never could.” And Thorn’s na?ve, childish answer: “I don’t want to blend. I want to belong.”
He didn’t belong. Not here. Not anymore. He didn’t belong up there, either. The only place he belonged was with Rune. But since that meant living up there, well, he’d warmed to the idea of blending.