Page 27 of Bewitched by the Phantom (The Bewitching Hour #6)

Chapter

Twenty-Six

T he music dies in a shuddering gasp of feedback. The crowd is silent—eerily so. I stand center stage, still gripping the torn away mask in one trembling hand.

And before me . . .

Erik.

Unmasked.

His skin is like a mosaic of opposing truths—parts of him pale and luminous like moonlight on marble, other cracked and shadowed like porcelain.

Thin silver veins shimmer beneath the surface, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat, like he’s resonating with it.

His cheekbones are sharp enough to catch the stage lights like blades.

His eyes glow with a golden fire that flickers like candlelight behind stained glass, beautiful, impossible.

His hair falls in dark, ink-like waves, too black to be real, almost smoking at the end where the air touches it.

The edges of his form shimmer faintly, like he’s not entirely solid, like a dream half-remembered.

He smiles, and you can almost forget that his teeth are slightly too sharp.

His mouth is the kind that kisses like confessions and damns like gospel.

There’s a hollow spot where his nose used to be, perhaps the most gruesome detail of him, but somehow, it works with the strangeness of his features.

When he moves, his shadows seem to move first, an unnerving waltz that makes me feel like someone forgot to teach me the steps.

One side of Erik’s mouth is curled with impossible sensuality, the other warped and puckered, like a flame had once kissed him and didn’t let go.

And somehow, I’m not afraid.

Somehow, he is achingly beautiful. Not in the way humans are, but in the way that ruins you for anything else. He’s the kind of beautiful that looks at you and sees the song you never wrote.

No one moves, not even the cameras as they wait for a reaction.

“I told you he was a monster!” Raoul’s voice rings out, raw and full of betrayal. Desperation is in that tone, desperation meant for me but also toned just write for the crowd watching. He cares, but he cares about the cameras more. “Chris! Get away from him!”

I don’t move. I don’t scream. I don’t even bother to look at Raoul. Instead, I drop the mask to the ground. It clanks in the silence as I reach up and press my palm to Erik’s chest, right over his heart.

The cameras catch the way his throat shimmers, like a low, burning ember has been lit inside him as he responds to me, as he glows for me.

And so, I feed him.

“They only see you in shadow and scars, but I see galaxies in who you are,” I sing into the mic. “ You were never a monster to me. Just a requiem aching to be set free. ”

Erik’s lips part. He looks down at me like I’m something holy, like I’m everything he’s ever wanted within his grasp. His hand rises, tentative, cautious, as he brushes a stray green curl from my face. He touches me as if he’s afraid I’ll shatter without warning.

The crowd gasps, whispers rippling through the room.

“She’s touching him?—”

“He’s glowing?—”

“Is this part of the act?”

“No. This is real.”

Their whispers reach our ears, but I don’t pay them any mind, enraptured by the ghoul in front of me, by the shape of his face. I’ve gone so long without seeing his face, and yet, he feels so real to me, So whole. Like he was always meant for me.

Behind me, I hear Raoul make a strangled sound in his throat. That’s the only warning I get before he snaps.

His footsteps thunder across the stage. I turn just in time to see his face twisted with heartbreak and fury.

“He’s not human, Chris! He’s playing you! He’s a parasite!”

I turn to face him, standing in front of Erik as if I can protect him. Raoul towers over me as I hold out my hand. “Stop it. Just stop, Raoul!”

But Raoul doesn’t. Whatever anger fuels him makes him react like a beast. He lunges toward us, toward me, this six foot five rockstar flying through the air with the intention of slamming into me, into us, and doing who knows what.

I see it, see what’s about to happen, but I’m incapable of moving fast enough to stop it.

Erik moves like death itself.

One moment, he’s behind me, his hands on my hips. The next, Raoul’s attack is met mid-air. Erik slams him back, inhuman strength clear in the way the stage groans beneath their feet.

“Do not touch her,” Erik growls, voice low, layered, and not quite of this world.

Raoul staggers, stunned, but not finished by a long shot. He lashes out again, a wild punch that Erik barely dodges. The cameras swarm around them, capturing everything, televising this moment for all the world to see.

We scatter, Claudia shouting orders to the crew and stagehands as panic erupts around us.

“Everyone get out of the blast zone! Go, go, go!” she orders, as the two men slam against each other, throwing punches, slamming each other into the stage, against the levers, stumbling into the drum set and sending it scattering.

“Stop it!” I scream, not sure what to do. Both men tower over me. If I get in between them, I have no doubt I’ll take a punch to the head I can’t handle. “Erik! Raoul!”

They slam away from the levers and roll off the stage as they wrestle for the upper hand.

It’s clear Erik is going easy on Raoul, like he’s still trying not to hurt him as they throw punch after punch.

I know that’s for me, not for Raoul’s benefit.

Raoul tries to wrap his arm around Erik’s neck, trying to choke him out, but Erik slips away from him and hits him in the ribs.

Something cracks and I frown, looking up for the source of the sound.

It’s only then I realize that the massive, garish chandelier someone had hung for dramatic effect is swinging precariously.

I follow the rope line that holds it up only to realize the levers are loose, and the rope is slowly creaking as it slides free.

It’s right above Raoul and Erik as they fight, the crowd pressing back to give them more room. I leap off the stage, rushing toward them.

The chandelier shudders, and then gives one final, fatal creak.

“Erik!” I scream.

But Erik is already moving before I can save him.

He spins, wrapping me in his arms, before we dive away from the stage.

The chandelier crashes behind us in an explosion of gold and glass and thunder.

The crowd screams around us as the chandelier crashes against half of the stage and right where we’d all been standing.

The stage cracks under the force. Sparks fly as the bulbs explode.

Smoke begins to billow through the air like some furious spirit has been summoned, flames licking along the few things that can burn in the room.

Security surges forward, trying to gain control of the situation.

But by the time they reach the wreckage, we’re already gone.

Only the broken stage and shattered chandelier remain.

And a mask—charred and cracked—lying in the debris like the last remnant of a legend.