Page 18 of The Kiss Of Death
“No,” the woman from the choir grimaced at us both.
“Okay.”
Yas and I ran out of the hall like thieves chased from a palace, laughing. We parted ways. She had her theater class, and I had to return to my dorm to grab my violin. I couldn’t afford to be late for my next class. I made a mental note to register for the fencing club after.
I stopped in my tracks in front of the opera house and quickly glanced around me. I wanted a moment of privacy, alone. My stomach tightened into a knot as I read the victims’ names on the plaque.Monique Bellfieux. Richard Greenwald. Hortense Zuckaria. Diana Caron.My fingers grazed the last name on the plaque, and I clenched my violin case.
The bell rang, pulling me out of my reverie. I had to hurry. But as I was about to leave, I spotted Levi sauntering past me, probably exiting the sciences building, wearing his Tactician black and purple uniform. His eyes locked on mine, and then they fell to the green ribbon I used for my ponytail, his hands casually resting in his pockets. I adjusted my skirt, as perinstinct, my mind stuck between trying to avoid him and still having hope that I could fix my mistakes despite the fact he loathed my entire existence.
“Levi, I—”
He halted, assessing me with a raised eyebrow. I remembered our church group motto, “Kindness will heal even the darkest souls,” but facing him, I was mute. I didn’t know what to say.
“Having a great first day, Mercier?”
“Yes,” I said, pinching my brows together. His being nice and calling me by my last name didn’t add up. “And you?”
“Before running into you, I was.”
This sounded more like him. “Right.”
He hummed, his eyes landing on my violin. I clutched it tighter.
His lips curled. “What are you doing here? Enjoying a little tragedy?”
“No! Who could enjoy something like that?” I blurted out.
“Who knows, the human race is horrible. The fewer people around, the better,” he said flatly, his words bleeding through me, my heart clawing in my throat. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I think you’ll want to get to your next class.” He had his handsome, cruel smile sewn on his face, too stretched out to be real. “We can’t have you late on your first day and make a bad impression.”
My eyes widened. Right. The bell. I had to get to class before it rang a second time. “I-I need to go.”
I dashed through the buildings, weaving past students clad in their uniforms. Thank god it was on the ground floor. Once I found the correct door number, I knocked and pushed the door open, gathering my breath.
“I trust you’ve all come prepared,” Professor Delgado paused, his gaze landing on me. “A latecomer. I guess every class needs one. You must be Dalia Mercier.”
I opened my mouth to speak. I’d still made it before the bell rang a second time; I was still on time.
“That wasn’t a question. Sit down.” He pointed at the spot next to him, right in the front row of the students forming a circle, each one carrying their own musical instruments.
I took the seat, the room smelling of rosin from the bows. Rental violins, cellos, flutes, and pianos were scattered about, each waiting to be played. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again and—”
The second bell rang.
“Don’t be sorry, it’s fine.” His lips twitched into a smile under his black mustache. “I’m the one who’ll be sorry if you’re late again because then I’ll have to kick you out of my class. I’m expecting you to be ready when the first bell rings.”
I swallowed, shrinking into my chair. I’d just been reprimanded by a soloist for the Royal Theater of Madrid; a composer who’d had most of his research books published; a professor whose students had taken the most prestigious positions in some of the best philharmonics in the world.
“As I was saying before our interruption.” Mr. Delgado paced the room, his black hair tied back in a bun. He reminded me of what I imagined Count Dracula would look like. “I overheard some of you gossiping about the rumors surrounding the upcoming reopening of the opera house for next spring.”
My heart tightened, and a hush fell over the room. Apparently, we all had the same dream.
“If these rumors turn out to be true,” he said sternly, “and if you believe performing at the Pantheon Opera will be handed to you simply because you’re a student here, you’re mistaken. Only the most exceptional performers will receive the honor toaudition, and it’s highly unlikely that any first or second-year students will be selected.”
I rubbed my hands together. It wouldn’t be easy, but we had a whole year to prepare.
Professor Delgado’s stern countenance and sharp, critical eyes scanned the room until they settled on me. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I replied with a smile.
“Now, when I call your name, you’ll introduce yourself. You, the student with the badly shaved mustache and strawberry hair—you go first.”
