Page 16 of Bewitched by the Phantom (The Bewitching Hour #6)

“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? ”

We launch back into the bridge and the chorus, building it all, and our harmonies join together, rising in the great acoustics of the power plant. Just like before, it feels different to sing with Erik. Euphoric and important, as if this means something while we sing.

The song ends and we’re both panting by now, our foreheads pressed together for the final note as the drums wind down. Those in the crowd cheer and whoop, but I can only focus on the man in front of me.

“Thank you,” I say into the mic and pull away, knowing we’re in front of everyone but the temptation to kiss him is so strong, I have to forcibly pull myself away from him. The other bands are waiting.

We leave the stage and the moment we get off, Claudia pumps her fist in the air. “That was fucking epic! We killed that!”

“We did,” Erik’s drummer nods. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it goes viral.”

“You think it will?” Claudia gushes.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “It has to. You heard the way those two sounded together. Regular old souls, them two.”

I flush. “Whatever.” But then I look at Erik’s hands when I realize they’re stained with dark red. “Oh, fuck. You’re hands.”

“I’m fine,” he says, smiling.

“No, you’re not.” I grab his sleeve and pull him after me. “I’m gonna go bandage him up. You guys behave and let me know if they tell us anything.”

Erik lets me tug him behind me in amusement to our apartment, where I carefully set down his guitar on my stand before taking mine and setting it in the corner. I’ll have to address those strings later. I don’t know who thought they could sabotage our fucking set, but I’m going to find out.

“Can you take your coat off?” I ask him, gesturing to the very cool old timey jacket he wears on stage. He shrugs out of it immediately and sets it on the bed. “Sit.”

He does so without complaint, seemingly enjoying me bossing him around.

I search around until I find the first aid kit that every apartment has before coming back in and plopping a chair in front of him. Pulling the alcohol wipes out, I lift his hand up and inspect his fingers.

“Fuck. They cut you up real bad,” I murmur. I shake my head. “Why do that? We could have borrowed a guitar.”

He meets my eyes. “Some things were made to be played in pain, angel.”

Frowning, I start to wipe the dark blood from his fingers so I can get a good look.

The blood is darker than I’ve seen, almost black, and it gives me pause that I try not to linger on.

Mostly because I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

Despite using a pick, his fingertips are all pricked with small holes from the burrs.

I reach for the antiseptic and carefully dab a little on each wound.

Then I wrap each fingertip with a band aid.

“There. As good as rain,” I say, leaning back.

He flexes his fingers curiously, as if he’s never had a band aid on him before. “Do these help the healing?”

I furrow my brows. “Well, yes. They keep dirt and stuff from getting in the wounds.” I tilt my head. “You’ve never used a band aid before?”

He blinks. “Oh, of course I’ve used bandages before.”

I raise my brow and point at him. “See, that’s weird. You do a lot of weird things.”

He smirks. “Do I?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” I chastise. “We both know you do them. Now, is it because you’re actually weird or because it’s part of your persona?”

He shrugs. “Who knows?”

I reach up and touch his mask and he curls his fingers around my wrist, as if to stop me from removing it. “Who are you behind this mask?” I ask.

His eyes search mine. “Maybe I don’t exist at all behind it.”

“You do,” I reassure him. “I see you.”

“Do you?” he asks. He presses his lips to the palm of my hand.

I sigh. “You know we’re supposed to be enemies, right? Like, we’re rivals and all that?”

“Enemies can’t enjoy kissing each other?” he asks, a grin splitting his lips.

I snort. “They don’t usually enjoy that, no.”

He presses another kiss to my palm. “That’s the thing about enemies though. They write the rules. No one tells them how to live.”

“You’re . . . not wrong.” I gently pull my hand back and he lets me, his eyes hungry for more. But I have a guitar to completely restring and I really shouldn’t have my wicked way with this man despite the high of performing with him. “I need to get those silver strings off my guitar,” I murmur.

“I’ll help you,” he declares, reaching for the guitar. He smiles at me, and somehow, despite the darkness that swirls around him, he’s more sunshine than Raoul can ever hope to be.

“Only if you don’t have anywhere else to be,” I muse, reaching for a new pack of strings.

“Oh, angel,” he purrs, “there’s nowhere else as important as being right here with you.”

My chest squeezes. I should say something snappy back. Maybe be an asshole, but instead, I find myself flushing and looking away. Something about Erik just feels . . . right.

Despite the weirdness. Despite the unusual ticks.

Something about him feels so familiar, I let him stay in my room long after we finish stringing the guitar. Even if that seems like it’s a massive mistake.