Page 22 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Christine felt like some restraint on her soul that she hadn’t known was there had suddenly been released. A weight lifted as Howard smiled at her. “I know who I am. You’re right.”

“Good girl.” Howard squeezed her hand. “Let’s deal with this harpy. Have you any ideas other than slapping her again? I don’t think that will make her talk, despite how satisfying it might feel.”

Christine laughed weakly and shook her head. “I guess we will keep her here until Erik comes back. I can’t make this sort of decision without him. I don’t want to endanger you or Jack though. I’m sorry to involve either of you.”

“We are helping you because your goodness is clear,” Howard replied with a reassuring squeeze of Christine’s hand. “I also don’t want to see your life destroyed before I can hear this music of your husband’s. It’s made Jack brave enough to get involved, so it must be quite impressive.”

“He’ll be delighted to share, I’m sure. Until then, is there a cellar here?”

“Where else would they keep the wine?” Howard asked back with a wink.

The scene was unchanged when they entered, save for Jack sporting a deeper frown.

“Have you talked her out of her hysterics?” Pauline purred as she caught Christine’s eye.

“Help me with her,” Christine ordered Jack and wrench Pauline up by the arm, holding her tight enough to smart.

At least she could make her hurt as they dragged her to the door down to the cellar.

God, Erik wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow – did she need to find this creature a bucket?

Food? How was she to eat if she was bound?

“Having second thoughts, Christine?” Pauline asked. “You look ill.”

“I’ll make you look worse if you keep talking,” Christine spat back. Her captive only laughed as they shoved her into the dark.

“You would know about monstrous looks, wouldn’t you, dear?” Pauline called as they shut the door on her.

Christine leaned against it once it was locked, sighing and looking at Jack. “I need to get tickets as soon as possible for New York.”

Paris

“I need to talk to someone ,” Meg blurted out as she and Rochelle left rehearsals. Blanche and Marie were ahead of them, talking amongst themselves, and Meg had seized the opportunity to confess to her friend.

“You seem quite capable of that,” Rochelle replied, cool and calm as ever.

“About the—” Meg lowered her voice, “the ghost.”

“Are you still on about that?” Rochelle laughed. “Do you think he handled Sabran like he did my dear Tremblay? Again, we should be grateful.”

“I do think that, and I think there’s more to this,” Meg countered.

“Then go talk to them,” Rochelle said, nodding at Blanche and Marie.

“I don’t want to endanger them and you—” Meg gulped as Rochelle gave her a withering look. “I need help in this from someone strong,” Meg countered. “Someone else who has seen him and knows he’s... more.”

“I saw a shadow, Meg.” But Rochelle looked dubious, and she had stopped walking, allowing Meg to draw her into a quiet corner. “But I guess this is more interesting than gossip about who will be cast in the new productions.”

“Do you remember the note I showed you? That I took from my mother?” Meg asked, her heart beginning to speed up. “Sabran was on it, and he was assaulted just like Tremblay.”

“Yes, that was curious,” Rochelle muttered.

“I hid the note in a prop room, and it was taken,” Meg hissed. “The ghost wrote to tell me to stop!”

“And why haven’t you?!” Rochelle squawked. “Dear lord, Meg. Two grown men far stronger than you have been seriously hurt. If the ghost has warned you to stop interfering, you should listen.”

“It doesn’t feel right!” Meg protested. “I need to know what’s happening and why now. I need to talk to someone who knows more than me.”

“That’s a long list,” Rochelle sighed. “Why not ask your mother? She’s his box keeper.”

“She’d only scold me,” Meg sighed. “Do you think Jammes might know more than she lets on?”

“Why Jammes?” Rochelle asked. “Because she’s been even more horrid since we reopened?”

“She was close friends with Julianne Bonet – and she was Christine’s dresser.”

“Then talk to her, you ninny.”

“She quit, don’t you remember?” Meg said. “No one has seen her since the night the chandelier fell. If she were around, she’d be my first interview.”

“I didn’t realize she was gone,” Rochelle muttered, and Meg glared at her. “Oh, don’t be dramatic, costumers come and go as fast as choristers. Though now that you mention it, I heard a rumor about her – she was seen talking to the Persian. So was Jammes, I think. Why not talk to him?”

“The Persian?” Meg echoed. Everyone knew of the strange foreign man who came and went throughout the Opéra.

He had not been seen backstage for a while, but he had a new box, which had been a topic of gossip for a brief period.

Monsieur Gabriel had even seen the ghost and the Persian talking together in the hall once.

“Mademoiselle Giry!” Meg nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her name in such a deep voice. “I was hoping to find you. Good day, Mademoiselle Moreau.”

It was d’Amboise, the patron who had told them about Tremblay. His hair was slick against his head, and Meg could smell the cologne wafting off him in waves.

“Why were you hoping to find me?” Meg asked, blunt and bored.

“To invite you to dinner after the next performance. I have learned that no patron has ever taken you out,” he said with a wicked smile.

“Meg is not available for dinner,” Rochelle said, placing a protective arm around Meg. “She’s fifteen.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Meg asked as Rochelle unceremoniously hauled her off.

“But Monsieur Goncourt would like to meet you too!” d’Amboise called, and that made Meg’s stomach drop even more as Rochelle rushed them down the hall, away from the flummoxed patron.

“Goncourt was on the list!” Meg whispered to Rochelle. “I could warn them!”

“It’s not worth the risk,” Rochelle answered with a dark glare. “Trust me. If the ghost is going after patrons, it’s best to stay away.”

“Is that all?” Meg dared to ask. She remembered the night the light had gone from Rochelle’s eyes. She had hoped it would begin to return now that Tremblay was gone, but there was no such luck.

“You’re naive, Meg, and a fool. Keep out of all of this,” Rochelle said flatly.

“But the ghost—”

“Maybe it’s not him,” Rochelle shrugged. “Spirits move on, don’t they? Maybe something else took his place.”

Lucca

E rik made no attempt at subtlety getting off the train.

His mind was on fire with worry and rage, in no small part thanks to the letters retrieved from Tissot’s desk that he had finally been able to read.

Thank heaven he had more important things to do than rush back to Paris and rip apart whoever it was using his name to some mysterious ends at the Opéra.

One fool at a time, he told himself as he ran from the station and through the darkening streets of the city.

What if he had taken too long? What if he was too late and Christine. ..

No, he couldn’t think like that. He would feel it, Erik told himself, if something horrible had happened to her.

He had always believed in the unseen world, in spirit and magic, if only as a comfort in his darkest hour.

What he shared with his Christine felt like that – a connection that went beyond mere love to something transcendent.

She could feel him when he watched her, and he knew in his soul that if harm came to her, he would feel it too.

That was what he told himself over and over as he rushed to Jack’s house, his lungs burning with the effort, each stride on the cobblestones shaking his teeth.

He had to be in time. There was the door, and there was light in the upper windows of the house.

There was no crowd looking over a bloody body, no commotion. That was a good sign.

Erik burst into the courtyard, and the trio sitting there sprang up in surprise. Erik didn’t care who the other man was beside Jack. All that mattered was Christine standing there, whole and healthy, as she rushed to him.

He embraced her fiercely, kissing her to make sure she was real and feel her breath. She knit her hands in his hair, knocking off his hat, and Erik thought he might weep. He had made it.

“What are you doing here so soon?” Christine demanded as she pulled away. She looked pale and worried, and her eyes were rimmed with red.

“It was a trap. There was a man in Geneva, he—” Erik didn’t even know where to start. “Someone was sent here to hurt you! Have you seen—”

“I know,” Christine cut in, gripping his arms.

“You know?”

“I caught her. It was Pauline. She’s in the cellar.” There was a tone of embarrassment in Christine’s voice. “I know I shouldn’t have taken her, well, captive, but it all happened so fast and—”

“Did she hurt you?”

Christine shook her head, bemused. “You seem to know more about this than I do. Could you do me the favor of explaining?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Erik replied and finally became aware of the two men staring at them. “I hate that I’ve involved you in this mess, Jack, truly. And?”

The other man held out his hand with a kind smile. “Howard. I’m a great admirer of your wife’s fortitude and your melodic prowess. Jack has played me some of the songs you’ve helped him with.”

“And that made you willing to help my wife take a would-be assassin captive?” Erik replied dubiously. He did shake Howard’s hand, though he was glad he had gloves. He still detested touching strangers.

“Well, I signed up to help her get tickets to America, but this was far more entertaining,” Howard replied with a shrug. “Though I really haven’t been much help.”

“You’ve been essential,” Christine replied with a smile to the man that almost made Erik jealous before she turned back to him with utter devotion in her eyes, curdling Erik’s envy to guilt.