The truth sat immovable in Thorn’s chest, and he couldn’t decide if it was fear, rebellion, or something else entirely motivating his silence. Under the scrutiny of Erik’s studious gaze, he felt his insides quake.
“I was ashamed to tell you how I’d failed,” Thorn answered at last, to ease the tension between them. “I know you wanted to be the first to make contact.” The excuse drizzled from his tongue like honey, sticky enough to make a mess but sweet enough to soothe the ache.
“I will still be the one to lead her to her identity and purpose. To free her of her cancerous songs. You merely interacted for a moment. You did what you had to do.” Erik stood, tucking his shirt into his pants. His fingers crept toward his mask and trailed the edge that covered his missing upper lip. “Unless there’s more.”
The accusation resonated on silvery notes, rising like a creature with wings, fluttering gracefully over to Thorn and tugging with its audible beak at the secrets he held caged behind his ribs. Thorn cringed at the tension in his chest, as if his breastbone actually shifted from the strain. He told himself it wasn’t real . . . buried his secrets deeper to keep them contained.
He’d learned hypnotism from Erik, although he couldn’t utilize his shattered voice for it. His talent was with his eyes and his touch. Yet, knowing how to wield such a weapon didn’t make one immune to it. Resistance was a skill that took all of his will and concentration.
“You’re not hiding anything from me, are you.” It wasn’t a question, it was a dare, and it didn’t come from Erik’s lips. It gargled up from Ange’s bill, a dark, trumpeting croak . . . it burst out of the bubbles on the surface of the fish tank . . . it hummed from the strings of Thorn’s violin housed within its case on his floor.
The barrage of disembodied voices was disorienting, even knowing his father was behind it. The first time Thorn experienced Erik’s ventriloquist wizardry, he was a child and it was entertaining and silly fun. Thorn practiced on his own so he could throw his voice, too, but never became as adept as Erik. Over time, seeing his guardian utilize the trick as a weapon to torture victims until they bent to his dark whims, Thorn lost interest in it altogether.
Just as bad as watching someone else be a recipient of the technique was being one himself. Ange squawked and waddled at his feet, sharing his discomfort.
Her ruffled reaction shook Erik out of the perverse and savage game—his default when he felt threatened. As if waking from a fugue, he blinked behind his mask, then glanced from Ange to Thorn. “Forgive me.”
Thorn wasn’t sure if the apology was directed to him or the swan.
“I can sympathize with what you’re feeling,” Erik continued, clarifying. He bent to pick up Thorn’s violin case. “This girl’s rhapsody and beauty have reawakened your muse. But know this: it’s temporary. Inspiration is a fickle and vicious mistress.” Bitterness laced his words as he tossed the case atop Thorn’s bed. “Rune was born for one purpose and only one, and she will accept this. If she doesn’t come to us, I will capture her myself. I know every catwalk, maze, and trapdoor. I redesigned the damn opera house to make it so. If your way doesn’t work, we take her by force.”
“Like what you did the first time?” Thorn suppressed a snarl. “You’ve seen the consequences of those actions. The witch told you it wouldn’t be successful unless the girl agrees to the sacrifice. Don’t let desperation cloud your judgment. Don’t let impatience endanger what you’ve waited so long for. She’ll come to us as planned. On the night of the masquerade. I’ll see to it myself.” Thorn strove for sincerity, all the while his mind scrambled to find an answer to satisfy everyone in this jumbled and hopeless equation.
Impatience glittered within the depths of the mask’s eyeholes. “If your plan fails”—Erik held his mouth tightly closed, again throwing his voice—“I’ll burn the whole opera house to the ground this time.” His answer drifted through the door, rising from the cages in the parlor. A flutter of feathers, growls, and chatters followed—discontentment and confusion rippling through Thorn’s animals.
Thorn cursed under his breath and strode across the threshold to settle them. “Don’t my patients already bear trauma enough?”
Erik followed, but stopped in Thorn’s doorway, a menacing imprint against the calming blue that radiated from the aquarium behind him. “You’re right, of course. It was not my intent to upset them.” He used his own mouth now, all tenderness and humility. “Remember our pact . . . made in the sewers of Paris all those years ago. Everything I’ve ever asked of you has a purpose. And you’ve earned your place as my son by doing them. But this is different than our work with the animals. It involves a mortal soul. The witch said it has to be done on a night of liminality . . . when the boundary between the dead and living can be crossed. We need Rune in my laboratory by All Hallows’ Eve to complete the circle. Only when she’s with us at last, will our family be complete. A family that can endure forever.”
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