To Outwit an Angel

14. Slippy-Slidey Socks

Sharlene's POV:

I faced Loretta in the doorway of her dressing room. She was a fright, her hair in loose strands about her head and her face flushed and damp.

 "Why were you crying?" I asked, taking her hand into mine.

 I guided her toward the sofa and lowered her into it, never removing my hand from hers.

 "Because this is awful, Sharlene! All we did was save your stupid performance! We didn't save that man, and we didn't save the chandelier! We're stuck here forever, and I'm convinced we're both going to die sooner rather than later!"

 I laughed ruefully and retorted, "I don't think you can die when you're already dead."

 Lori's face dropped, and she crumpled into herself, more tears slipping down her cheeks.

 "We're dead, Sharlene. We're dead, and this is the worst thing that could have happened to us." She said, her voice cracking.

 "It's not all bad, Lori. Listen to me." To stop her cries, I grasped both her hands in my own and squeezed them gently. "This is not the worst thing that could have happened, per se. You can still run off with the Phantom, can't you?"

 Lori shuddered, visible fear crashing over her tearstained face.

 "No. I couldn't, Sharlene. I'm terrified of him."

 A sly smile spread over my lips.

 "So you realize Raoul is the better choice now?" Before she could respond, I added, "speaking of which, what were you two doing?"

 "Just talking on the roof." She shrugged. "He isn't as bad as I thought, Sharlene. He's nice enough, and I'd say we're friends now, but I don't know if I'd like to marry him."

 So there was no trouble there. Good. I had worried about that after walking in on them earlier. With that concern settled, my smile became a grin, and I sighed loftily.

 "Young people like you would never understand a man like that."

 My joking tone proved my lack of sincerity, and I even won a smile from Lori, which was a wonderful sign.

 "Very funny," Lori said, "but what are we going to do now? How are we going to survive this disaster?"

 I shrugged. A man had still totally died, but what were we supposed to do about it? Resurrect him from the dead? Next time, we'd simply have to use more formaldehyde on the Phantom.

 "I don't know. Next time, we'll—" That funky twinge twisted in the back of my skull again. What had I been saying? Right. Formaldehyde. The fact that Christine was a milksop for not just dumping a bottle of acid down the Phantom's throat and calling it a day. "We could have used more formaldehyde, you know, and killed that villain when we had the chance. But no! Of course not! Some people are too sensitive to do the simplest things, just because they're a little brutal!"

 Christine recoiled, snatching her hands out of mine. Why were we holding hands? Why was she in my dressing room to begin with? Less and less of this situation was making sense.

 Her visible confusion was honestly insufferable. My eyes narrowed, as I rose from my kneeling position on the floor. I pointed toward the door, the very image of imperiousness.

 "And why are you even here? Get out of my sight right now, Mademoiselle Daaé!"

 "Sharlene!"

 The miniature headache returned, only to dissipate a second later.

 "Lori, oh my God!"

 "You did it again," Lori cried, rising from the sofa, "you became the real Carlotta. You spoke French and everything!"