Page 25 of Bewitched By the Phantom
“What?” Claudia asks. “What is it?”
I jerk my hand away and look at my fingertip where a drop of blood wells. “My strings. They’re . . .”
Erik’s face twists and he kneels down before me, getting eye level with the guitar. He reaches out a hand and presses a finger against one of the strings and immediately jerks his hand back. His eyes flick up to mine.
“Someone switched out your strings with silver. And silver has a way of fraying when tightened too much,” he says. “These things are going to be full of burrs.”
“Fuck,” I hiss, pulling it off. “I need my guitar for this song.”
“Maybe you can change the strings?” Nadia asks.
“We’re on in five minutes. That’s not enough time to completely restring my guitar. Who the fuck would have done this?”
Erik stands back to his feet and looks around, his eyes finding Raoul where he stands off the side with his own band.I follow his gaze to find Raoul staring over at us, his expression hard.
“You don’t think . . .” I begin, looking from Raoul back to Erik.
Erik focuses back on me. “It doesn’t matter right now. You need a guitar that won’t make you bleed, but I don’t mind bleeding for my muse.” He pulls his guitar over his head. “You play mine. I’ll play yours.”
My eyes widen. “I can’t let you do that. I’m sure someone will let me borrow one of?—”
He leans closer, dipping his head so his eyes are level with mine. “Angel, I insist.” He reaches for my throbbing finger, the one I’d pricked and lifts it in the air. “I will not let you hurt yourself.”
Before I can so much as complain or think to jerk away, he presses my finger in his mouth. The wet heat of his lips close around my fingers, licking the blood away, and I short circuit.
Claudia stares in open-mouthed shock between the two of us while my finger is in his mouth. My expression probably doesn’t look much different.
When he pops my finger free, somehow, it feels better. Hell, I don’t think it’ll bleed anymore.
“Um . . . thank you?” I say, staring at him.
He grins and straightens before taking my guitar from me and handing me his heavy golden one. “You’re welcome, angel. Now let’s go win everyone’s hearts.”
When they call us out on stage, I walk out there a little more confidently than I thought, my hands wrapped tightly around Erik’s guitar. Unlike mine, his feels different, warmer somehow. And when my fingers test the strings, I’m pleased to find it perfectly tuned.
When it’s our turn, we take our places and Erik steps up to the mic.
“We’re The Cadaver Cantata and Hell Hath Honey. And this is ‘Only Ever You,’” he says, before stepping back to allow me room to take up space beside him.
We’re sharing a mic for this song to make it feel more intimate. This competition is all about showmanship, and if we can convince the audience we’re singing to each other, our chances of winning are better. They need to remember us so they vote us into the final round when the time comes.
I start the song as we both strum. My only hope is that as Erik uses the pick I gave him, his fingers won’t hit the strings as badly.
“I woke with a song I’ve never sung. Your shadow on my tongue. A melody I shouldn’t know, but it fits me like your echo,” I sing.
Erik leans in. “You wear the past in every note, like ink beneath your throat. I traced the tune before you breathed. It waited here for you and me.”
The music slows and ebbs while we both lean in and sing the chorus. “Who wrote the stars beneath our names? Who set the stage before we came?”
I play the fuck out of Erik’s guitar as the chorus hits, jamming out as we both sing together. “And it’s only ever you, like lightning chasing through my veins. Every note, a ghost that knew we’d find our way again. Even if the sky forgets the moon, it’s only ever you.”
The people watching start jamming out with us, making me realize we’re probably killing this. If everyone watching is half this hyped, then we’re doing alright.
Erik leans in, his eyes on mine behind his mask. Curiosity eats at me. I want to know what he looks like, but part of the mystery makes it hotter. As our eyes meet and we start to sing again, the background fades away. The sounds coming from our guitars rises in the air, taking on a haunting quality.
“I bleed the chords, you catch the fall. You sing like you’ve lost it all. But every scream, every refrain sounds like it remembers my name,”I sing.
“I’ve gone through centuries and fire. Your voice is my only choir,” he returns, his eyes on mine. “If I vanish, if I fade, would you sing me home again?”
