Page 5 of Bewitched by the Phantom (The Bewitching Hour #6)

Chapter

Five

W e have a week before the voting begins, which means every day, we’re scheduled to have a soundcheck.

Today, there aren’t as many people milling around during our turn, as if the curiosity has worn off.

I’m thankful for it, because the moment I get on stage in my ripped jeans and oversized t-shirt, I feel so off my game, it gives me a headache.

“Come on, Chris,” Claudia groans. “You never miss that note.”

I press a hand to my forehead, frustrated. “I know. I know. I don’t know what’s up with me today. I just feel . . . off.”

“You’re not getting sick, are you?” Lidia asks, her brows furrowed. “If you get sick, we’re fucked.”

“No. I don’t think it’s that,” I reply, shaking my head. “I just . . . let’s run it again.”

We have an hour for our rehearsal today, so it’s not a big deal to repeat what we were doing, but the moment we launch back into the song, the sound of the speakers grates on my nerves. And when Claudia comes in with the bass line, I slam the music to a stop.

“That was sharp!” I growl.

Claudia frowns. “It wasn’t.” She looks me up and down. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem irritable.”

“What she means is you’re being a real bitch,” Vivian corrects, her brow raised. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I grumble. “Let’s take it from the top.”

But the moment we start singing again, my voice feels strange, like it’s slipping into something else. Strange harmonies that have no business belonging in the song echo across the amps and speakers and it sends a shiver down my spine. What the fuck is that?

Vivian stands behind her drum set when we finish, her eyes wide. “You good?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, uncertain myself.

“That sounded like . . .” she starts and trails off.

“There was someone else singing with you,” Lidia finishes. “Yeah, I heard that, too.”

“It’s probably just stress,” I say, pushing my hair out of my eyes. “It’s cool. We’ll be better tomorrow.”

But even to my own ears, it doesn’t sound believable. Especially not when I catch sight of the lead singer of The Cadaver Cantata watching us.

Frustrated with myself for dropping the ball today, I open my old, outdated laptop later that night and click open the chat box. The chat thread has been going on for years at this point, but it still feels just as exciting as my fingers fly across the keys.

I’m so sick of that infuriating, golden-masked bastard who keeps throwing me off my game , I type before hitting send.

The little bubbles pop up immediately despite his silence the last week, like he’s writing a response, but before any text comes back, they stop. I wait for a minute, before my fingers fly across the keys again.

Why aren’t you replying back to me? Are you ignoring me? I ask and hit send.

No bubbles pop up this time. My chest squeezes tightly at the thought that he could be cutting me off.

He used to respond immediately, but ever since we were invited to this competition, my Phantom has been more withdrawn.

He’s the reason I’m here, and if I’m being honest, I’m a bit co-dependent on our connection.

It doesn’t matter who he is at this point, or what he looks like.

I owe him. But right now, with the way he doesn’t respond, I feel far more vulnerable in a way I haven’t been in a while.

I miss him. I miss the certainty Phantom always gave me. But right now? He’s silent.

Angry, my fingers fly across the keys again. I thought you of all people would be on my side . I hit send.

There’s a long pause before the bubbles appear. I wait, anticipation making my stomach twist up in knots. When his reply comes through, it’s only a single line.

Some songs were written for you long before you knew the words.

It’s cryptic. It’s exactly the kind of poetic vagueness I used to love. Now, it only feels like a veiled warning, and somehow it only serves to piss me off more.

You’re a fucking asshole, too , I reply and slam my laptop closed.

I go to bed angry, my chest tight with the anxiety I feel.

If I’m off my game when the competition begins, we’re fucked.

This is the big leagues. If I fail, I let down the girls, and I refuse for us to have worked so hard only for me to fuck it up.

Still, my tension doesn’t let up, and I fall asleep with my hands clenched tight into fists.

When the dream begins, it’s strange. I’m no stranger to dreaming, to feeling like I’m somewhere else, but tonight, I dream in sound rather than only visions.

It starts like a memory. I’m a little girl, holding my hairbrush in a bedroom I barely remember and singing into it with all my heart.

But in the mirror, I dance in front of an older version of myself, reflected, full stage makeup on my face, as I sing a duet with a man in gold.

The dream shifts. The bedroom I’d been standing in warps into a ballroom made of amplifiers and .

. . are those bones? The golden-masked asshole from the Cadaver Cantata strides from the shadows, his bright blue eyes haunting even in the light of the chandeliers above us.

He takes my hand, pulling it up to his mouth to kiss the back of it, his eyes flickering with what I can only describe as hunger.

“Sing with me, angel” he whispers as he looks over the back of my hand up at me, “I’ll never leave you.”

The dream ends with a snap and I shoot out of the small, twin-sized bed with a start. My heart is racing, my head spinning, but the most important part? There’s a melody on my lips, just waiting to be let out.

I scramble out of bed and reach for the notebook on the small bedside table, my fingers frantically shoving the cap of the pen off. I hum the tune, desperate to get it down before it disappears. It’s perfect. It’s mine. And yet I know I’ve never written something like this before.

The door kicks open and Claudia walks in, rubbing her eyes. “Why are you singing right now so loudly?” she growls. “The walls are paper thin and it’s three in the morning.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I had to get this down.” And then I hum the tune again.

Claudia blinks. “Whoa. That’s good. Is that our next track?”

I pause, part of me wanting to tell her no and keep this to myself, but we’re a band. Any song I write, it’s all of ours. Still, it feels almost wrong to smile up at her and nod. Like I’ve told her a secret I didn’t want to tell.

Like I opened the doors to my dreams.