Page 23 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

“I’m glad you weren’t alone,” Erik forced himself to say. “I went to Tissot’s office in Geneva, and there was a man there, Bidaut. The same one who—”

“Accosted your grandmother,” Christine finished for him, much to his surprise. “They were waiting, watching and studying us.”

Erik sighed. “Finding us in Florence was all part of a scheme that I walked straight into. Bidaut accosted me and...”

Christine looked at him gently as Erik paused, the fear he had held back in those moments finally hitting him and gripping his heart. “Erik, what happened?”

“He informed me that he knew where you were – exactly – and that he had an accomplice who was ready to kill you or at least harm you horribly if I didn’t comply with him.

” Erik gave a bitter laugh. “Once again, it was all about the bloody money. The inheritance. He wanted me to sign it over to whoever was employing him.”

Christine’s eyes widened, and Erik could practically see the progression of thoughts through her mind as she imagined their life and plans (pathetic as they were currently) crumbling in her hand. “Did you do as he asked?”

“Not entirely,” Erik replied, shame spiking in him again.

How had he ever considered it? “I dragged one of Tissot’s clerks out of bed and forced him to help me move the funds before Bidaut could have me sign them over.

We only just barely made it, and only because our adversary didn’t think I would ask for help. ”

“Hauling a poor man from his bed to perform some arcane accounting for you is hardly asking for help,” Christine chided.

“How much money is this all about?” Howard asked lightly.

“Enough that I don’t feel entirely secure telling you the number,” Erik muttered back before returning his attention to Christine. “The money is safe, but Bidaut will find out eventually that he was tricked. So I—”

Erik wanted to crawl out of his skin remembering the violence he had done. He had promised her that was behind him, and he could see in her eyes already that she knew he had betrayed that vow.

Christine glanced at the men beside him, her face grim. “ Is he alive ?” she asked in Swedish, for it was not the sort of thing one said in polite company.

“ Yes ,” Erik replied in the same tongue. “ Hurt enough to slow down .”

Christine looked at him with a mix of emotion Erik couldn’t read, though it didn’t stop his shame from winding up from his gut like a living thing to choke him and whisper in his ear that it was all over. It had all been for nothing, and now Christine would see the mistake she had made.

“Pauline was outside waiting for me this morning and accosted us,” Christine said instead, stepping back and gesturing to Howard and Jack. Erik didn’t like the new space between them, but he deserved it. “She knew Jack’s name and yours. She followed him here.”

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Jack added. “I didn’t know that this was all so dramatic.”

“How could you have?” Erik shook his head, focus still on Christine. “So you took her captive in Jack’s cellar?”

“We questioned her in the kitchen,” Christine countered. “It went poorly. She knows all sorts of things about us. We couldn’t go to the police, so we just kept her here.”

“And you want me to find out what’s behind all of this?” Erik asked grimly. He felt the ghost of heat on his palm; the memory of gripping Bidaut’s neck, like he had so many others.

“No,” Christine said, firm and calm. “If anyone gets to hurt her, it will be me, but I don’t think that will get us much of anywhere.”

“What you need to do is get somewhere safe, where they can’t follow,” Jack said.

“How to do that has been the subject of debate for much of the day,” Howard added, with a wry smile that made Erik entirely too suspicious. “Now we have a plan.”

“You will need to trust me,” Christine said softly.

“I trust you more than anyone,” Erik replied. “Myself most of all.”

Paris

S haya crumpled the paper and threw it into the fire. It was stupid to try to write to Erik again, especially with only the barest of conjecture. He had to confirm his suspicions before he made more trouble. Anyway, there was no knowing if the letter could even reach Erik or where the man was.

“Your tea is cold,” Darius chided as he came to stand over Shaya’s desk. “Shall I make you more?”

“I can make it myself.”

“Can you? In twenty years, I think I’ve seen you boil water three times,” Darius teased. “I don’t think you even know where the tea is.”

“I know my own kitchen,” Shaya scoffed, and Darius raised an eyebrow.

“Your pension may pay for it, but it’s my kitchen, and I will make the tea.”

Shaya opened his mouth to spout another useless argument, but a knock at his door stopped him. A rather frantic knock at that. “Make it strong,” Shaya muttered to Darius.

Shaya opened the door to reveal Armand Moncharmin looking pale and clammy. Not an entirely unexpected sight, given the circumstances lately, but still a worrying one.

“I’ll make extra,” Darius said before disappearing into the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” Shaya asked as he let Armand inside. The man’s answer came in a piece of paper he pulled from his pocket.

“Someone has taken up our old friend’s manner of correspondence.” Armand thrust the letter against Shaya’s chest before flopping into a chair by the fireplace.

Shaya looked down at the ghost’s note. For that was what it was... Yet it wasn’t. The handwriting was jagged and the ink was red, just as Erik’s old notes had been, but it was not exactly his old friend’s hand. The contents were even curiouser.

My earlier note has been ignored, so I write again with my warning. Remove the following patrons from the positions, or there will be severe consequences for them.

De Lancey. Goncourt. De Montier. D’Amboise.

There was no signature.

“This isn’t Erik,” Shaya muttered.

“I know, but it’s something or someone making trouble,” Armand sighed. “And hurting people. These men are next!”

“Can’t you just warn them not to walk alone at night?” Shaya knew the futility of that suggestion the moment it left his mouth, and Armand gave him a withering look. Men like these didn’t take such warnings seriously. “Can you just do as you’ve been asked?”

“Those men represent tens of thousands of francs of funding for the Opéra that we desperately need right now. Things are bad, my friend. I can’t just cut them off!” Armand whimpered. “Though they are all rather odious.”

“Who could be doing this?” Shaya wondered aloud. “Everyone who knows Erik’s secret knows that you know it.”

“I’m sure that sentence made sense to you.”

Shaya scowled. “Whoever is doing this knows that the opera ghost is a fiction, one that can be adopted by another, as it seemingly has been.”

“None of this makes sense,” Armand sighed. “You’re the only one who has any idea how to go about this. I can’t bloody well tell the police. They barely let the incident with Comte Philippe go, and I can’t have them snooping in the cellars.”

Shaya closed his eyes at the words, darkness falling in his heart. It was a sin to take a life, and yet he felt so little remorse for killing Antoine de Martiniac, and that troubled him.

“What about the correspondence being ignored? Have you received other notes?”

“You think I wouldn’t have told you if that were the case?” Armand scoffed. “I came as soon as this reached me.”

“How did it reach you?” Shaya pressed. Erik had sent his notes through box five’s concierge, Madame Giry, or when he was feeling especially dramatic, just left them on the manager's desk.

“It came in the mail,” Armand replied simply, blinking at Shaya.

“In the mail? That’s far from ghostly,” Shaya scoffed. “In fact, perhaps this character is not trying to be a ghost at all. The attacks have happened outside of the Opéra.”

“So what do we do?” Armand asked, just as Darius returned with two fresh cups of tea.

“Well, we have four names and two of us,” Shaya said and received an incensed look from Darius as the words left his mouth. “Three, I mean.”

“I can ask Robert for help, perhaps... then we might follow all four of these men after the next performance and see if someone comes for them?” Armand looked green at the idea, but Shaya nodded.

“Until then, I will do some exploring,” Shaya sighed. “Though I must admit, I won’t be happy to be back in those cellars.”

Lucca

C hristine took a deep breath as she braced herself on the door. She could do this. Erik was here – though he had brought more complications than solutions. That was a fight for a different time: they had a prisoner to deal with now.

“Are you sure?” Erik asked softly as he arrived beside her, eyes wide and worried behind his plain mask. Christine nodded.

“It’s the only way.” She’d had this discussion with herself several times in the last hour and was almost convinced. She hoped he was.

“Then let us begin.” Erik opened the door to the cellar and charged down into the dark. Christine rushed after him, her heart already pounding.

“Erik, wait!” she cried as he rounded the corner to where they had left Pauline.

The chair was empty, which was very much not part of the plan.

“Where...” Erik began, casting about as a figure moved behind him.

“There!” Christine yelled. Erik spun fast as lightning, catching Pauline by the wrist as she launched herself at him and forcing her to drop the broken wine bottle she had been wielding like a knife.

“Would killing me really do you any good?” Erik sneered, twisting Pauline’s arm back painfully. “Your firm wouldn’t like the mess.”

“I had to take the chance,” Pauline laughed, then gasped as Erik increased the pressure. She didn’t seem to be in pain though. In fact, she looked rapturous. “I almost had you. Disappointing. I expected more from a phantom.”