Page 47 of Phantom
The verydarkworld.
Am I in a box?
My breath quickens until I see a gap in the wall, revealing a gentle glow beyond that.
Wait, no. That’s not a wall. It’s curtains.
Red fabric surrounds me and I sit up as I realize I’m snuggled in a king-size bed of silk sheets and thick quilting. The bed underneath me is heavenly cozy, no doubt contributing to the incredibly refreshed feeling underlying the weariness in my bones.
Where am I?
The gentle notes from my dreams flow through the curtains, caressing my senses. I pull the quilt aside and climb out of bed, sinking my bare feet into a thick, plush crimson carpet.
An IV stand is placed by the bed, but whatever bag that might’ve hung from it has been removed. I search my arms to find a small Band-Aid covering a cotton ball over the crook of my elbow.Iwas hooked up to the IV… but why?
A vague, hazy image filters into my mind of an older woman with kind, dark-brown eyes.
Dr. Portia. That was her name.
Answers piece together and break apart back into questions, creating and dismantling a confusing jigsaw puzzle of memories. Instead of staying put and trying to build a picture of what happened last night, I push open the curtains fully to assess my new surroundings.
The alluring scent of powdered sugar almost seduces a moan from me. I glance around to find the source and excitement zings through me at the sight of the white paper Café du Monde bag sitting on the bedside table. Beside it, an alarm clock reads six o’clock…p.m.
Holy shit, I slept all day.
My eyes widen at the revelation and I resist the urge to dig into the beignets so that sugar can solve all my problems. Instead, I observe the rest of the room.
The stone walls, recessed lighting, dim lamps, and rich black, crimson, and gold hues make the bedroom look like a modern version of the king’s room in every medieval movie I’ve ever seen. The thick carpet is actually one large rug that takes up the entirety of the walking space in the room. And stunning photographs of the world’s most impressive sites line the walls. I spin around to see them all until it dawns on me that there are no windows.
Am I underground?
Unsure, I continue my inspection by wandering toward the pictures in awe, slowly taking in gorgeous snapshots of places I’ve always dreamed of visiting, like the Colosseum, Machu Picchu, and the Sphinx. Scattered among the global wonders are photos of France and even New Orleans.
My fingers trace the gold filigree of one photograph in particular. The pianist in the band looks so familiar and my heart twinges when I realize—
“That’s your father.”
I jump back as if the photograph itself had spoken in the deep bass tone. Twirling on my heel to face the speaker, I feel my eyes widen on the man filling the doorway.
And I do meanfilling.
The ceilings must be nine feet tall, which if I’m still in New Orleans like I think I am, is really freaking impressive considering the city is barely above sea level in most places. The door seems to be an ordinary height, and yet the man staring back at me nearly touches the top of the frame.
His broad shoulders are covered by a loose-fitting white T-shirt but the corded muscles in his arms stretch the width of the long sleeves. Dark lines of a tattoo on his muscular chest and right arm bleed through the thin material. Gray sweatpants cover his strong lower body, but bare toes peek out from underneath his pant legs.
That little detail calms me for some reason. It’s a weirdly comforting vulnerability, but I’m not sure why.
My gaze travels up to meet midnight eyes. One sparkles like the stars in a moonless sky. The other is dull behind the bone-white skull mask that I’ve somehow already grown accustomed to. Strands of his thick black hair fall over his forehead, almost veiling his right eye, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
The uncovered left side of his face is striking. His skin is a pale ivory and unmarked, smooth but for the light scruff of a beard trying to form. That jawline is harsh, and it tics under my perusal. When I get to his lips they too form a hard line, but a slight twitch tells me he’s pleased with something.
Sol Bordeaux, the supposed Phantom of the French Quarter, and maybe my demon of music, ispleased. My pulse quickens at the thought that he could be pleased withme.
Somewhere along the way, during my examination, I lost my breath. My stomach tightens and I begin to feel hot all over.
He takes a step forward, but uncertainty over the desire pumping in my veins forces me to mirror his move backward. That twitch of a smile sinks to a frown before his delicious voice carries to me again. This time, concern laces each word.
“Are you alright?”
