Page 10 of Bewitched by the Phantom (The Bewitching Hour #6)

Chapter

Ten

I ’m paying closer attention now. I want to know exactly what is happening, so now, I see every little detail.

The way shadows seems to grow abnormally, stretching and moving with a mind of their own.

The way the mirrors seem to make my skin crawl now that I notice the half second delay.

The blank spot still on the rehearsal schedule.

The way a few of the bands known for partying seem to be quieter now, keeping to themselves and not speaking to anyone else.

I don’t even think I see them get up for food.

I’m so stressed out, that I find myself the next evening strolling into one of the empty rehearsal rooms with my guitar. Normally, we practice as a band, but I need some solo time. Nothing calms me like the feeling of my fingers dancing over the strings of my guitar.

I tape the electric guitar. “Let’s get you warmed up, Cynthia.”

Yes. I named my guitar Cynthia. Sue me.

I need this solo practice after a long day of weirdness and stress as we wait for the results of the first round.

Why does it take so long? Apparently, some of the voting has gone wonky and they’re trying to fix it.

Just another weird thing happening apparently.

I just need to breathe and make some noise.

I start with a raw, stripped-down version of “Lace and Lighting,” just my voice, Cynthia, and the hint of exhaustion I can hear in the lyrics.

It doesn’t make the tension in my chest ease, but it does help me take a few deeper breaths.

Just when I start to play another song from our setlist, I feel a pair of eyes on me.

I don’t look up, my instincts already telling me who is there.

“Do you haunt every dark corner in this place, or is it just me?” I ask, not looking up.

His warm chuckle washes over me. “Only the corners that sing,” he jokes.

I look up at Erik, at the way his golden mask shines in the low light. Someone hung up half dead Christmas lights in here and it casts a weird glow on Erik’s mask.

“You ever take that thing off?”

He touches his fingers to his mask. “Not often. Leaves everyone with an air of mystery.”

“Guess it’s part of your persona, huh.” I shrug. “It works for you.”

He smiles. “You practicing?”

“Not really. Just . . . needed some time to breathe.”

His eyes flick over to an old dusty keyboard in the corner. I don’t know who’s it is, but they really need to clean the thing up. That amount of dust shouldn’t be on it after a week.

“Do you mind if I play with you?” he asks.

I raise my brows. “Be my guest.”

He grabs the dusty keyboard and despite not plugging it in, it crackles to life the moment he settles it on the stand and takes a seat in front of it.

His fingers dance over the keys, testing them, before he looks up at me, his eyes bright.

The moment his fingers form a melody, I recognize exactly what it is.

The same melody that’s been haunting me for days now.

“Is this a joke?” I growl, staring at him.

“Why would it be a joke?”

“This feels like some sort of sick game you’re playing,” I point out. “You’re not some sick murderer, are you? Gonna chop me up in little pieces?”

“I wouldn’t chop you into little pieces,” he argues. “That would be a waste of a perfectly good body.”

I stare at him, and when his lips quirk up, I narrow my gaze. “This is funny to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he answers honestly. “Don’t worry so much, Angel. Just feel.”

“I told you not to call me angel,” I growl.

“But you’re my angel of music,” he purrs, and his fingers continue to play the melody again.

I listen to him play the song that’s haunting me, the words written on the scrap of paper in my mind.

He watches me despite his fingers playing on the keys, and it almost feels hypnotizing, like he’s trying to lure me into a trance.

It’s working.

The more his fingers play, the more my body starts to hum with it. I take a deep breath and scoot my chair closer to him, until we’re side by side. Then I lift my guitar and start to strum the same melody in a higher key. The words slip from my mouth before I’m even conscious of deciding to sing.

“ You move like a secret I used to keep. Your name tastes like verses I dream in my sleep. And every knot you play pulls my pulse away ,” I rasp.

His voice joins in, singing the same lyrics I do, as if he already knows them by heart. I should stop, should wonder what the hell is happening, but instead, I find myself leaning closer as the deep tenor of his voice joins with the alto of mine.

Our voices blend too perfectly, not just harmonizing, but melding. It’s unnatural, beautiful. My skin tingles with the feeling of it as we sing together. If I’d have been standing, my knees might have given out on me.

I don’t even realize I’m swaying toward him until the keys falter and our noses are nearly touching.

For a second, there’s electricity between, static that begs to be dispelled if we just touch flesh to flesh.

Which one of us would be shocked? Our bodies are close, our breath shared.

He reaches up and runs his hand along the guitar neck, like he’s memorizing the shape of my sound, like he wishes it was my neck instead.

He’s going to kiss me. I can feel it. And fuck me, I want him to. That terrifies me more than any of the weird shit going on around me. This feeling, this agony that I feel about this mysterious man should be a red flag. Not only is he my rival, but he’s also fucking weird.

“You vibrate with fire,” he whispers. “Like pure, pristine fire.”

“I don’t even know you,” I choke, curious and afraid at the same time. What would it be like to kiss him? What would it feel like?

He smiles and his words are low and amused when he says, “You’ve known me longer than you think, Angel.”

Panic spears into my chest and I pull away. “What does that mean?”

He stares at me, but he doesn’t answer.

I shoot to my feet, swinging my guitar onto my back and backing toward the door. My cheeks are hot, flushed. My heart is racing as his words echo in my mind. “This isn’t what I came here for,” I hiss, but it sounds like a lie. It feels like a lie.

I spin and storm out of the room, desperate to put distance between me and the singer.

I don’t know what just happened back there, but it isn’t right.

I can’t do this. I can’t be haunted by this masked asshole.

I have a task here, and he’s my enemy. I shouldn’t want to kiss him.

Oh god. Claudia is gonna have my head if she finds out I almost kissed our rival.

Once I’m back in my room, I lean against my bedroom door in relief, glad to shut myself away from the rest of the competition.

My phone beeps as soon as I lock the door and set down my guitar, letting me know that I have a message.

I hesitate, before reaching into my pocket and pulling it out. There, a message from Phantom waits.

I open it and stare at the words.

You sound even better with him.

I freeze and read it again. What the fuck does that mean? Did he hear us? Is he here like he said he would be? How else could he know?

The pieces shift in my mind, but nothing locks into place. All I know is Erik shouldn’t make me feel this way, but god, he does. And music has never felt more dangerous than it does when I sing with him.