Page 129 of The Failed Audition

I’m out of Phantom for good.

Tonight of all nights.

Not long after, I teeter in my high heels along the uneven cobblestone, inside The Masquerade’s lobby. Blood drips down my forehead, and I am one-hundred percent mooning people on the slots. I’m pale. Close to crying. And just really, really wanting to erase myself.

For just one moment.

Please.

“Thora!”

My heart lurches, and I rotate towards the voice.

Nikolai is running down the east wing, past a 24-hour café and gift shop, silver and purple paint streaked over his eyes. But it can’t mask his raw concern.

I sway to a stop, queasy and despondent, too many feelings entering me at once.Don’t cry.His distraught presence tries to puncture the dam I’ve built. I skim him quickly: shirtless, red slacks, hair slicked back—he’s in his costume. I check the giant 1920s inspired clock that hangs in the center lobby. Amour is still playing, isn’t it?

“Thora…” He reaches me, his phone in a fist. His other hand holds my face, scrutinizing the line of blood. His eyes flit rapidly over my features, studying my state of being.

“What happened?” I ask him.

He flies over my question. “A guy hit you with something,” he states, brushing my hair back and examining the cut. His phone rings incessantly, adding to my confusion. He lets out an irritated growl at his cell, ignoring the call.

I hone in on that phone. “Did Amour end?” I think I know the answer. And it scares me.

“Thora—” His phone rings again. He curses under his breath, presses another button, and slips it in his pocket. He holds my face once more. “What the fuck happened?” The distress in his eyes nearly sweeps me backwards.

I open my mouth to gush forth the night’s events, but those words aren’t the ones that come. “Why are you here? I mean,howare you here?”

He breathes heavily, like I’m chasing him up a mountain with these questions. He’s making me just as out of breath with uncertainty. He glances over my shoulder, and before I have time to capsize his previous assumptions, he storms towards Phantom, where I just left. Where I amneverreturning.

I sprint around him, almost face-planting with these stupid heels. But I manage to place my palms on his chest, in a runner’s stance. “Stop.” I try to push him backwards with all my might.

“We’ve already played this game before.” He peels my hands off.

That’s right. We did this in The Red Death. And I lost. But I foolishly never stop trying.

My failures are finally starting to catch up to me.

“What are you planning on doing?” I question with a frown.

“Do you even know what you look like right now?” His voice is gritty with anger. “You’re pale. You’re bleeding, and I have no idea—”

“I hurt myself,” I tell him. “I smacked into the hoop. Okay?” I try to push him back again, but he’s not budging. And he’s stillglaring at the direction of Phantom, as though my pain and all the answers lie there.

His phone rings again. “Goddammit,” he curses and puts the cell to his ear. He shouts Russian, and my insides start to twist again.

He left Amour for you.

I shove him in the chest, pissed, tears welling. “Go back…right now, go back.” He still has time. He can make the last act, right?

Except for the firm hand on my shoulder, Nikolai ignores me, focusing on his phone conversation. He can’t be here right now. I grip his wrist and try to yank him towards The Masquerade’s globe auditorium, marching ahead.

His foreign words accelerate, and then he shouts at me, “Thora!” Just my name, his arm hooking around my waist and drawing me back into him, so quickly. He spins me and opens my jacket, skimming the length of my body, noticing my wardrobe for the first time.

He must have seen my exposed bottom, when I tried to tug him in the other direction. I swat his hands off and point towards the auditorium. He shakes his head likeno.But he only speaks Russian, to the phone line, trying to multitask between me and someone else. He touches his bare chest, as if ready to give me his nonexistent shirt.

His costume just reminds me where he should be.

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