Page 47 of Bewitched By the Phantom
The music dies in a shuddering gasp of feedback. The crowd is silent—eerily so. I stand center stage, still gripping the torn away mask in one trembling hand.
And before me . . .
Erik.
Unmasked.
His skin is like a mosaic of opposing truths—parts of him pale and luminous like moonlight on marble, other cracked and shadowed like porcelain. Thin silver veins shimmer beneath the surface, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat, like he’s resonating with it. His cheekbones are sharp enough to catch the stage lights like blades. His eyes glow with a golden fire that flickers like candlelight behind stained glass, beautiful, impossible. His hair falls in dark, ink-like waves, too black to be real, almost smoking at the end where the air touches it. The edges of his form shimmer faintly, like he’s not entirely solid, like a dream half-remembered.
He smiles, and you can almost forget that his teeth are slightly too sharp. His mouth is the kind that kisses like confessions and damns like gospel. There’s a hollow spot where his nose used to be, perhaps the most gruesome detail of him,but somehow, it works with the strangeness of his features. When he moves, his shadows seem to move first, an unnerving waltz that makes me feel like someone forgot to teach me the steps.
One side of Erik’s mouth is curled with impossible sensuality, the other warped and puckered, like a flame had once kissed him and didn’t let go.
And somehow, I’m not afraid.
Somehow, he is achingly beautiful. Not in the way humans are, but in the way that ruins you for anything else. He’s the kind of beautiful that looks at you and sees the song you never wrote.
No one moves, not even the cameras as they wait for a reaction.
“I told you he was a monster!” Raoul’s voice rings out, raw and full of betrayal. Desperation is in that tone, desperation meant for me but also toned just write for the crowd watching. He cares, but he cares about the cameras more. “Chris! Get away from him!”
I don’t move. I don’t scream. I don’t even bother to look at Raoul. Instead, I drop the mask to the ground. It clanks in the silence as I reach up and press my palm to Erik’s chest, right over his heart.
The cameras catch the way his throat shimmers, like a low, burning ember has been lit inside him as he responds to me, as he glows for me.
And so, I feed him.
“They only see you in shadow and scars, but I see galaxies in who you are,” I sing into the mic. “You were never a monster to me. Just a requiem aching to be set free.”
Erik’s lips part. He looks down at me like I’m something holy, like I’m everything he’s ever wanted within his grasp. His hand rises, tentative, cautious, as he brushes a stray green curlfrom my face. He touches me as if he’s afraid I’ll shatter without warning.
The crowd gasps, whispers rippling through the room.
“She’s touching him?—”
“He’s glowing?—”
“Is this part of the act?”
“No. This is real.”
Their whispers reach our ears, but I don’t pay them any mind, enraptured by the ghoul in front of me, by the shape of his face. I’ve gone so long without seeing his face, and yet, he feels so real to me, So whole. Like he was always meant for me.
Behind me, I hear Raoul make a strangled sound in his throat. That’s the only warning I get before he snaps.
His footsteps thunder across the stage. I turn just in time to see his face twisted with heartbreak and fury.
“He’s not human, Chris! He’s playing you! He’s a parasite!”
I turn to face him, standing in front of Erik as if I can protect him. Raoul towers over me as I hold out my hand. “Stop it. Just stop, Raoul!”
But Raoul doesn’t. Whatever anger fuels him makes him react like a beast. He lunges toward us, toward me, this six foot five rockstar flying through the air with the intention of slamming into me, into us, and doing who knows what. I see it, see what’s about to happen, but I’m incapable of moving fast enough to stop it.
Erik moves like death itself.
One moment, he’s behind me, his hands on my hips. The next, Raoul’s attack is met mid-air. Erik slams him back, inhuman strength clear in the way the stage groans beneath their feet.
“Donottouch her,” Erik growls, voice low, layered, and not quite of this world.
