Page 20 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Paris

M eg wanted to review her notes before the large rehearsal today, but the Opéra wasn’t as quiet as she had hoped.

There were always people in the Opéra right at dawn: firemen on their patrols, the janitors burnishing the floors.

Today, a gaggle of singers passed Meg in the halls on their way to review the score of La Juvie .

Meg didn’t know any of them except Rose Carron, the newest leading lady, now that La Carlotta and Christine Daaé had destroyed one another.

Carron was talented, surely, but she didn’t burn with holy fire from within the way Daaé had.

At least she was an improvement from Carlotta, whose shrieking Meg could never stand.

There were other new singers since the Opéra’s reopening.

The mezzo who had replaced Adèle Valerius was making waves – she was rambunctious and bright but didn’t have Valerius’s gravitas.

Carlos Fontana and Robert Rameau were still the premier men of the company, but Moncharmin kept talking about adding more artists in every voice type so more performances could be possible.

Meg wondered what chaos an opera with multiple divas would beget.

Seeing Carron and thinking of Daaé brought Meg’s thoughts, once again, to the night the chandelier had fallen, when it was claimed Christine had disappeared right off the stage.

Meg had not seen it herself, and most assumed Daaé had merely run away in the chaos.

Maybe it was because Daaé was gone that the Phantom had returned with such violence. ..

Meg finally made it to the prop room, her heart racing as she entered and picked her way through the old furniture and debris to the corner where she had hidden the note and her detective’s journal.

The journal that was sitting on the floor, not hidden where Meg had left it.

“What are you doing there?” Meg asked, gooseflesh rising on her skin. She had been careful to put it away. And the note – where was the note!?

Meg rushed to the hiding place and riffled through – nothing.

She picked up the journal and shook it. Maybe the note was in there?

No, there was no trace. At least she had copied down the names.

She flipped to the page she knew held the ghost’s list, and her stomach dropped.

The list had been torn out, and on the page beyond it, a single word was scrawled in the same blood-red ink and jagged hand that had been in the note:

Stop.

The ghost knew she was trying to discover his plans. Meg, for the first time in her life, not only felt seen and important: she felt as if she were in terrible danger.

Geneva

E rik was tired down to his bones in a way he had not been for months. Not since he had terrorized the Opéra had he endured such an eventful and fraught night. Even then, there had not been so much whining from his – what to call them? Victims? Errant employees?

As if on cue, the man next to him groaned. Erik rolled his eyes.

“You’re being rather dramatic,” Erik sighed. “Your hand will feel fine in a few days.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” the man whimpered. Erik had no patience for his misery. How was he to have known the little solicitor had bones the consistency of toast? Erik checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes and exhaled in relief. At last.

“Now. Go. Do as you’ve been told and you will never hear from or see me again,” Erik told Martin (he had not bothered to remember the Christian name of Tissot’s associate).

“Yes. I understand,” the little man said, nodding so hard his body shook. He made a move to leave and Erik grabbed him, pulling him close with one hand while raising his mask with the other. The man yelped.

“I hope you do, because I do not make threats lightly,” Erik growled before pushing the man away. He rushed down the street, fully in view as he entered the bank. Once he was out of sight, Erik tried to breathe. Now for his part.

He adjusted his bearded, cumbersome mask, the sweat on his brow causing the papier maché to scratch horribly against his skin.

He hated this thing. He hated that he felt people looking at him as he crossed slowly to the bank, keeping his hat low and his collar high.

He hated everything about this, from the fear for Christine in his heart to the ache of violence in his hands, to the itch for death in his blood.

If something happened to her, there would be no end to the carnage. He swore it.

The sight of Bidaut waiting at the appointed spot, genially regarding the morning traffic and crowds in front of the Augsburg bank, only made Erik angrier. He wanted to have his hands around that neck, but he could do nothing until the telegram was sent.

Bidaut noticed him quickly and had the audacity to give a polite smile as Erik approached.

“Ah, you were almost late,” Bidaut said. “Shall we?”

“Are you in such a rush to take everything I have?” Erik asked, as cool and cruel as he could manage. “Surely, you’ve waited this long; a few questions won’t ruin your schedule.”

“I wouldn’t stall long if I were you, Erik,” Bidaut said with a shrug. “My associate has a strict deadline.”

“Is your man on orders to simply kill Christine in broad daylight?” Erik asked back, hating the images that filled his mind.

“You would know how easy it is to eliminate someone before those around them can even guess there is an assailant close,” Bidaut shrugged. “A sharp knife, a passerby on the street who bumps into a lone woman. Accidents happen.”

“She is not alone, you know. I wouldn’t leave her unprotected,” Erik countered. All night he had gone over the locks on Jack’s house and the many people in the residence. Jack himself wouldn’t let harm come to Christine if he could manage it. “This could all be a trick.”

“You know in your heart it’s not,” Bidaut said plainly. “It’s just money, anyway. Money you don’t need or, let us be honest, deserve.”

“What do you know about what I deserve?” Erik drawled. He didn’t like this conversation, but he wanted to keep it going as long as he possibly could. If he could glean some clues from Bidaut, all the better.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit uncouth to use an inheritance from a father you killed, that you kept from a brother whose life you ended,” Bidaut asked as if he was discussing the weather.

Erik was grateful for the mask now because it hid any shock that might have shown on his face.

So, this man thought he knew the circumstances of the death of Alfred and Antoine de Martiniac.

Very few people were aware of Erik’s involvement in his father’s death, and even fewer knew for sure that Antoine was dead.

No one but Erik, Christine, and Shaya knew it was Antoine who had killed their father, and that Antoine’s body now rested in Erik’s makeshift grave below the Opéra.

“Who told you that fascinating story, Monsieur Bidaut?” Erik replied, his mind filled with the hateful face of the one noble who had any chance at spreading such a story, but if de Chagny was aware of Erik’s continued survival, he would have been employing much blunter methods.

He certainly wouldn’t care about the money. “It’s quite outlandish, I must say.”

“Antoine had, if not friends, those invested in his financial affairs, whom he kept apprised of certain matters. That is all you need to know.” Bidaut was smart, not giving Erik any confirmation either way. “Now, I think we can stop stalling.”

“Why? This is such a fascinating conversation,” Erik quipped, but Bidaut laid a hand on his side, above where his pistol rested. The threat was clear, and Erik could only hope that he had given poor Monsieur Martin enough time. “Lead on then.”

Erik walked slowly behind Bidaut into the cavernous front hall of the bank, where they waited. He watched as Bidaut scanned the quiet lobby, taking stock of the men behind their brass bars opening up for the day, looking for someone specific...

“Is your accomplice sleeping in?” Erik asked, but it didn’t rattle the other man – assassin or paid detective, Erik was unsure of what to call him.

Just in time, a harried-looking banker with a white beard appeared at the back of the lobby and waved to Bidaut.

His bald head was shining with sweat, and he was out of breath, which Erik hoped indicated the sort of morning he was having.

“Good day, Monsieur Bidaut,” the man said in French, with a slight German accent. “And is this Monsieur Gilbride as promised?”

“Yes, Herr Knopf,” Bidaut replied. Knopf looked terrified as he surveyed Erik. He didn’t attempt to make himself look natural under Knopf’s gaze and fixed him with his more withering stare.

“Yes. I'm here, as promised,” Erik hissed.

“The paperwork is all ready,” Knopf said in a quavering voice. Erik and Bidaut followed the quivering man into the back of the bank, past accountants and clerks beginning their days amid quiet conversation. The place smelled of metal and paper – money. Erik detested it.

Knopf’s private office was small, and a desk with papers was set out already and prepared for them.

“This should be quick and simple, but you are free to read over the transfer paperwork, Monsieur,” Bidaut said.

“Oh, I trust everything has been done correctly,” Erik said casually, but made sure to fix Knopf with one more long look as he spoke. The man went even paler under his sodden beard. “Forgive me. I should take this off to make sure you know everything is above board.”

Knopf gave a cry and looked like he might faint when Erik removed the mask. Sometimes the fear and horror his face evoked was worth it, Erik thought. So too was the relief of fresh air against his skin. He turned to Bidaut, who didn’t seem shocked at all by his visage.

“Please sign,” Bidaut said, indicating the papers.

Erik did make a cursory read of the contract as he took up the quill and dipped it into the inkwell. All his assets held by the Augsburg bank were to be transferred to the care of a separate bank, where only the account number was listed. How very mysterious.

Erik marked the page without hesitation, though it was still odd to sign his full name. He imagined Christine’s face upon discovering that they had gone from having the means to go anywhere and do anything to having nothing. Would she still want him if that were the case? He hoped not to find out.

“There, easy,” Bidaut said cheerfully. “Herr Knopf, would you summon someone to send a telegram for me?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Knopf said and rushed from the office. Erik replaced his mask before looking back at Bidaut. He was holding out a telegram for Erik to examine.

“As promised,” Bidaut said as Erik took the paper. The message was short, in French: All is well. Go Home.

“This will ensure your agent in Lucca won’t harm my wife?” Erik asked, just as calmly as Bidaut. The other man nodded as Knopf returned with a young man in tow. Erik watched, holding his breath as Bidaut handed the boy the form and money to send the telegram.

“We need never see one another again,” Bidaut declared. “Our business is done. I bid you good day, gentlemen.”

Erik wanted to follow as Bidaut left, but he knew it would be suspicious.

“And my accounts are closed?” Erik asked lightly of Knopf when they were alone. The man nodded vigorously.

“Yes, good Monsieur, exactly as Monsieur Martin explained they were to be.”

Erik let out a sigh of relief. “Is London the farthest institution that could be reached?”

Knopf nodded vehemently. “And the safest. Monsieur, all of this is so irregular, I would ask that—”

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving.”

Erik was quick about it, moving through the lobby, where he finally saw Martin cowering in a corner.

Erik met his eye, to which Martin responded with an indication of left.

Erik nodded in thanks, and the man bolted.

He went, Erik noted when he exited, as fast as he could to the right.

Erik went left, and soon enough, he saw Bidaut’s brown bowler hat moving down the streets.

Once again, Erik was a ghost. He slipped like a shadow through the crowds behind the man who thought he could beat him, following down streets and alongside the river through the heart of Geneva.

It became clear where they were going: the other bank that was supposed to soon receive Erik’s money.

.. Had he not already sent it elsewhere, thanks to Martin.

It would be a while before Bidaut discovered the truth: he would be bleeding too profusely.

Erik was quick about it, rushing through the narrow back alleys and even scaling a building that got in his way.

He arrived just ahead of Bidaut as the man rounded the final corner, and Erik made his move.

Bidaut didn’t see Erik coming, not until it was too late and the blade was in between his ribs.

The man gave a soft grunt as Erik seized his arm and looked him in the eye.

“What was it you were saying about random collisions on the street?” Erik whispered.

The man seemed to be trying to talk through the pain.

“Please try not to die. That would be terribly inconvenient and break a promise to my wife. Though I also made a promise to you, and I’m a man of my word.

I couldn’t have you well enough to send another telegram or make any more trouble. ”

“I won’t be the one to make the trouble,” Bidaut gurgled, something mad in his eyes that sent a chill down Erik’s back. “She will. She’ll take any excuse to hurt your whore.”

Erik twisted the knife in Bidaut’s side, and the man grimaced. “And you thought I couldn’t accomplish anything with a letter opener.”

Erik encountered no resistance as he hauled Bidaut from the street (it looked as if he was guiding a friend to talk in an alley). He walked him further and further back until Erik pushed the man against a wall.

“Maybe I shouldn’t let you live,” Erik whispered and gripped Bidaut by the throat.

For the first time, Bidaut looked afraid, and it was intoxicating.

Erik squeezed, watching the fear spike even as the man struggled for air.

He saw so many other faces as he kept choking: the boy’s.

His brother’s. That villager in the Alps who had barely passed childhood.

Christine’s.

Erik let Bidaut go as soon as consciousness left him, allowing him to fall in a heap on the ground, the silver hilt of the letter opener still protruding from his side. He’d be fine. Probably. Erik didn’t have time to worry. He had a train to catch.