A/N: Hope you aren't too mad, but I may have taken a creative liberty... let me know what you think~
The dance school was still closed. Again, she made her way to it, just to be greeted with a bundle of maintenance workers. Apparently, it was worse than she thought. The wood must have warped from the excessive water spill or something. It may not be available for another week!
She had slept for almost an entire day, and was feeling refreshed as she wandered lightly about the city. The day was young, but she could hardly wait for the night. She promised herself that she wouldn't stay out so late again, but with the studio's repairs, perhaps becoming a night owl wouldn't be too much of a problem.
Heading back to the hotel, she changed, relishing the feel of denim on her legs.
Adventurous, she picked a cafe at random and sat at one of the many, elegant tables outside, enjoying the sun on her skin. All the scene needed was a book or good conversation. Rurik was usually busy drafting and editing during the day, so she had hours of good ol' fashioned solitude ahead.
In Indianapolis, she treasured moments of isolation. Self-reliant, she had scorned company. Yet, now she found herself thoroughly bored and on edge. There seemed to be too much to do and see, and yet she had no desire to accomplish anything.
It was then that she realized that sight-seeing or lounging would not sate her thirst. She knew that what she really wanted to do was sing. The angel had created an itch that was now absolutely loathsome to ignore.
I wish I could sing with him now, she thought wistfully, glaring at the sun.
Then again, why couldn't she? Was there a rule that angels were unavailable during business hours? It may be potentially dangerous avoiding the far more alert guards, but it wasn't unthinkable. The Opera House was always horribly busy.
Giving a gander to the time, her stomach swirled at the thought of doing nothing for another six hours. Slumbering for so long had given her ample energy which sat unused in her system, taunting her.
"Screw it," she mumbled under her breath, and jumped out of the chair, leaving her espresso.
With a buzzing purpose, she arrived at the familiar, grandiose building quickly.
When she usually came here, it was after a shower or straight from practice. Today, however, she was dressed properly for the occasion. In her favorite faded jeans, she went with a thin, alluring see-through, cream-colored blouse that flowed nicely as she walked. Dark-chocolate hair worn in long waves for once and neat toes exposed in relatively chic sandals, she had a rush of confidence which invigorated her further.
Women in France were far more modish than her, wearing trends that hadn't even crossed the ocean yet. Nevertheless, she felt she had done her civic duty as she represented her Midwest style. It was purposeful, too, for the officers would definitely not recognize her, what with actual makeup on.
Even though it was unnatural, the universe did not fight her. The routine was becoming simple, and she gracefully made a way for the usual spot. Sentimental, she did pause for a moment to appreciate Persephone before turning the corner into the door-ridden hall.
The entryway stood as it always had and she entered.
It seemed different in daylight. Even though there were no windows, the aura of sunlight still permeated, making it seem far less threatening. Encouraged by this, she pondered bringing cleaning supplies to spruce the space up a bit. The dust was beginning to get on her nerves.
Nevertheless, she spotted the clear space on the floor from her last sit. Trying to mimic the outline, she was pleased when only a smattering of dirty powder marred the hem of her pants. Yet, it also made her feel constrained to remain in one spot, so she instead decided to stand. Eyes adjusting, she lit the candles, and stood, facing the larger mirror.
Skin going clammy, there was a mysticism to the ritual. The flickering of wicks, the haunting reflection, and the forgotten room added to the experience. All it needed was the alluring, addictive, supernatural voice that seemed to live within the very walls.
In a happier mood, she decided to forgo the tragic melodies. Her nerves began to excite as she readied her lungs.
"Say you'll love me every waking moment.
Turn my head with talk of summertime..."
Snapping his head up, hands frozen on the ebony keys, he immediately hopped over the bench and sprinted into the tunnels.
"Say you need me with you now and always."
Running like a dog returning to its owner, he quieted his steps the closer he got to the two-way mirror. Throat caught, he took a moment to marvel at her beauty.
She had always been lovely to him, but now she was all the sweeter, like strawberries with a dollop of cream on top.
Standing with poise, she was directly in front of him. Eyes closed as she sang, chin tilted upward, he could watch her for eternities.
"Promise me that all you say is true.
That's all I ask of you."
And what was it she was singing? A love song? To him?
Jubilant, euphoric, he could hardly believe it. His insecurity threatened to sting him the more hopeful he became, but he did not heed it.
Silence reigned, and she opened her doe eyes and peered expectantly into the reflection, a sparkle of joy twinkling in her pupils. It was clear she was waiting for his response, the electric air was still, the calm before the storm.
Not wanting to disappoint, a new voracity colored his tune. He unleashed his voice, breaking the dam.
"Let me be your shelter. Let me be your light."
When the sound reverberated, it took all of her strength not to collapse. It had been the stuff of Olympus before, but now it was Apollo himself. Completely engulfed in his enthralling harmonies, she swayed like a charmed snake.
Without even noticing the lyrics, she could only marvel.
It was bitter when it ended, like swallowing chalky pills. It had stunned her to the point where singing back felt wrong.
Seeing her reaction at first gave him even more bursts of buoyancy, but now she wasn't answering.
Did he do something wrong?
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she collapsed to the ground, knees no longer holding her. He cringed, and despair entered back into his soul. Tears were threatening, her lip quivered. Had it been so horrible? Like watching a train wreck, he dared not move or breathe as she desperately tried to get a hold of her emotions.
Depression sobered the once radiant mood, his worst fears confirmed. He had made himself vulnerable, of course she would spite him.
As she composed her turbulent thoughts, she knew that this duet, this back-and-forth was not enough for her.
"Angel," she called normally, throat thick.
Like a hopeless romantic, his interest sparked.
"Please," she begged, water dripping daintily down her olive cheeks. "Come to me."
His very blood sought to obey, but he knew he needed a dash of time, needed an appropriate entrance. Storming out of the mirror now might send her into shock.
Not knowing whether to sing or speak, he instead thought of a third option. Searching his pockets desperately, he luckily found a scrap of paper and pen, which he kept with him when inspiration hit. Smoothing out the crumpled sheet as best he could, he scribbled a message onto it.
Through a small slit in the secretive doorway, he shoved it through.
A blizzard of warring emotions plagued her heart. How could she possibly expect an appearance? Wasn't this all just in her head anyway?
Then, in the mess, something glided toward her. It fluttered softly and then landed peacefully on the ground. Picking it tentatively up while wondering where it had come from, she held it to her face.
It was a scrap of paper, completely ordinary. Yet the script upon it was lavish, with swirling, cursive letters that flirted with perfection.
It said:
"You shall know me."
Gasping, she scrambled backward into the vanity desk, rattling it loudly.
Then...it was real! she screamed within.
He quickly dashed away. It was time.
Fear and anticipation threatened to continuously overwhelm her. But there was also a drive to know the truth, to match face and voice. Inside she knew there was a chance this was no angel or god at all, but still enraptured by his song, the warnings of reason faded.
Eagerly, she jumped to her feet, brushing herself off nervously. When did he intend to come? Was he here now? Thousands of humming questions purred, dazing her. Somewhere in this haze, there was a distinct buzz. It came from below, centered in her forgotten satchel. It was her cell, she figured. Mindlessly, she picked the purse up and took out the phone.
Rurik's name lighted up the screen and for some strange reason she answered, but did not speak into it.
"Hello? Hello? Nadya?" came the faint murmur.
"Yes?" she squeaked after a minute.
An exhale of relief.
"Nadya where are you?" it tried again. "I've been trying to reach you all day."
Perplexed by the franticness in his tone, she was beginning to snap back to reality when it started again.
"Flattering child, you shall know me."
Losing any control or self-awareness, she barely whispered:
"Got to go."
She dropped the phone.
"What is that voice?"
"See why in shadow I hide."
Eyes widening, her body and mind could not deny his pull.
"Look at your face in the mirror."
She complied, but only saw herself.
"Who is that there?!" Rurik bellowed.
"I am there inside."
A terrible form emerged from the deep shadows hidden within the mirror. Barely noticeable at first, she narrowed her eyes to see him, but then he was suddenly there, in full view.
Clad in simple clothes, he wore a worn black leather jacket and tattered, darkened jeans. His hair was wild as it crept over his forehead. It was as dark as the gloom that surrounded him, making it difficult to discern man from shadow.
What stood out was his pallid, ghostly skin, but even more so was the haunting mask that sat upon the right side of his face. It was a brilliant golden color, exuding an angelic sparkle in the midnight background; however, it was also alarming. She recognized the stereotypical tragedy face of the theater, with its hyperbolized frown, but this interpretation was far from cliché.
It appeared hand-made, with painstaking detail that she could not spot but which nonetheless gave it an otherworldly aspect. For a moment, she wondered if it was the original inspiration, the first tragedy.
Where the frown pulled down, it cut off, revealing his thin, pale lips.
Like the mirrors, they stood facing one another. Then, before she could awaken from the trance, his paranormal mouth opened, gaping.
But instead of atrocious teeth or a cobra's tongue, there was only the same splendor.
"I am your angel of music. Come to the angel of music."
It consumed her again and, as if separated from her body, she began to move toward him. His long, spindly hand extended to her, encouraging. A marionette, she could not refuse him.
"I am your angel of music. Come to the angel of music."
Captivated by the man and the music, she could not look away from his burning stare. An ever flaming fire flickered in his cobalt irises, hot as hell, cold as ice, the ninth ring of Hell come to life.
They were only a foot apart.
"Come to the angel of music."
There was no going back, she placed her hand in his.