Page 27 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

“Thank you,” Meg said, fully earnest. No one had ever given her such a compliment. “I wanted to find out more about the note I stole – borrowed, I mean – from my mother. I was trying to suss out what these patrons had in common, but then it was taken. Replaced with a note to me telling me to stop.”

“And you came down here in defiance of that?” Motlagh chuckled.

“Not very smart, I know,” Meg sighed.

“Perhaps not, but it was brave.”

This made Meg stand up a little straighter. “Did you find anything?”

“No. His door is sealed and closed like it’s supposed to be,” Motlagh said as if it made sense.

“His door? To where? Hell?”

Meg wasn’t sure she liked that the man laughed at that, but his laugh was warm and comforting in such a dark place. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m smart and brave, like you said. I can handle complicated,” Meg declared, raising her chin proudly.

“There are some secrets that are not mine to tell,” Motlagh said in turn, though he sounded regretful. “But perhaps, if you earn my trust, I will tell you what I can. I would need, well, a favor from you first.”

“I’ll do it – whatever it is,” Meg said so fast she was embarrassed.

“Excellent,” Motlagh smiled, perhaps impressed. “Meet me at the back of the Opéra tomorrow after rehearsal. Which you are late for right now.”

“Damnit,” Meg said under her breath. “Are you saying that so that I’ll go away and you can look around without me interfering?”

“I also truly don’t want you to be late.”

Meg looked the man over one more time, then gave a dramatic sigh. “Fine. I will meet you tomorrow.”

“If you figure it out on your own, I’ll be impressed,” Motlagh said, mysterious and polite at the same time.

“Figure out what?”

“Why a ghost would need a door. Or a salary. Or write notes.”

With that, the Persian turned and left Meg alone, disappearing behind another set piece like a ghost himself.

Meg wondered absently what she looked like as she turned and rushed away through the cellars and up to the studios, praying she, indeed, wasn’t late. Motlagh couldn’t possibly mean what he had implied. The mystery of the ghost could not be so simple and yet so bizarre...

What about Red Death, though? That thought kept coming back to her.

Everyone had believed Red Death was the ghost come to punish them all, then the woman in black had danced with him like he was a man.

Meg would never forget the captivating sight of Red Death and his Dark Lady.

The woman who had convinced them all that their macabre guest had been a man, not a ghost.

Unless they had all been right. Unless the ghost needed doors and money and boxes and obedience because he had never been a ghost at all.

The Adriatic

C hristine had not been on a ship in a very long time, and her body objected to it.

Her seat on the promenade was relatively comfortable, and the fresh air out here eased her stomach, as did looking out at the ocean so she could see the way they moved with the waves.

She dreaded going back to her and Erik’s little room with its small window, where the rocking would feel so much worse.

Maybe there was another reason she didn’t want to face him. It had been so strange to board a ship and talk about luggage and complain about the food after the night before. The things she had said and done...

Her cheeks heated to think about it, which she hoped at least made her look a little less green.

She had never been shy about the pleasure Erik gave her.

The way he made her abandon herself carnally had always amazed and enticed her to him.

She had commanded him before – the first time she had made him come she’d bound him, as payment in kind for how he had restrained her when she had believed he was an angel.

He had deserved that, she’d told herself, just as last night he had claimed to deserve what she had done to him.

But how had she done it? How was she able to bring herself to strike him?

To mark him with her mouth so forcefully that he was covered in red bruises today.

They had been vivid against the scars on his pale skin, marks of other violence that Christine had added to because he had begged her for penance.

She didn’t understand, and worse, she didn’t know why the thought of it – of her fearsome ghost kneeling or bound beneath her – made her insides quiver and warmth bloom between her thighs.

Why did that power bring her peace? Last night she had slept untroubled by nightmares for the first time in weeks. ..

“Still getting your sea legs?”

Christine nearly fell out of her deck chair at the sound of Howard’s voice, barely saving herself from humiliation by gripping the handles as she looked up at her new friend.

“Didn’t mean to alarm you,” Howard said with a smirk that would have been irritating on anyone else. “Are you alright?”

“Not remotely,” Christine replied with a forced smile. “But life goes on.”

“It does.” Howard took the deck chair beside her and handed her a glass of something.

“I don’t think a drink will make me feel better,” Christine lamented. The beige color of the liquid didn’t look appealing.

“It’s mainly ginger. I have the stewards make it for me when I sail. Helps the seasickness. I could tell you were suffering earlier.” Howard gave an encouraging smile and Christine took a careful sip of the concoction. It was spicy and effervescent and settled her stomach immediately.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to,” Christine said before downing another draught. “You didn’t have to do any of this – or accompany us to London.”

“Of course I did. You’re the most fascinating people I’ve met in an age,” Howard replied with the wry humor he always seemed to exude. “Jack might murder me if I let you go, and one day, I hope you will tell me your full story.”

“You wouldn’t believe most of it.” Christine sighed.

“Oh, don’t be so sure. I’ve met many interesting people. Including myself!”

Christine chuckled. “You are quite charming.”

“I know,” Howard grinned. “Though, you have told your husband that you’re not my flavor, haven’t you? He seems the jealous type. Some men don’t like finding that out either.”

“I have, and Erik would never mind that.” Christine smiled, recalling Erik’s many adventures. “He likes your flavor as well as mine, if you understand me, but I shan’t be sharing him.”

“As I said: the most fascinating people I’ve met in ages,” Howard murmured.

Christine took another sip of his potion, rather pleased with herself.

“You’d be a sensation in London, you know, if you wanted to be.

There’s a whole underbelly of the city full of fascinating people with unconventional stories and preferences. Your husband’s talent alone—”

“Would attract more attention than we need right now.”

“Perhaps,” Howard shrugged. “Anything is possible, I like to think. You two can decide who to be and what to do. What do you want your future to be?”

Christine’s nausea returned. She’d been asking herself that for months, trying to produce an answer that was more than ‘be with Erik wherever life took them’ because that wasn’t an answer at all. That wasn’t a life.

“I don’t know,” Christine confessed softly. “I spent my life training to be a singer. I achieved all my dreams faster than I ever could have hoped, but they didn’t make me happy. They made me miserable.”

“Dreams can be like that,” Howard replied, and he looked wistful. “I had plans that were made for me and that I made for myself, and all of them have either failed me or disappointed me since I finished my studies. So here I am now, assisting fugitives on the run from murderous spies.”

“We’re not fugitives,” Christine scowled. “At least, I don’t think so.”

“It delights me that you have to ask,” Howard grinned. “But back to my question. What do you want to do or be, if you can be anything? And don’t say happy. Everyone wants to be happy. I want specifics. What do you like to do?”

How dare he ask such a question in such a way that made Christine feel so unmoored.

“I like to... learn,” Christine offered uneasily, for it was true. “I like to play and sing, even if it’s not for a crowd. I used to like to help people when they were hurt.”

“That’s something!” Howard grinned. “Though, it sounds awfully messy and exhausting. I was hoping you’d say something like painting. I knew a few painters.”

“As if I’d even be able to converse,” Christine lamented.

“Well then, let’s focus on the first thing and get you another lesson in English. Right now. We won’t even have to go inside.”

Christine appreciated the distraction, as well as the lesson.

English was easier for her than learning Italian, because it was so different, though parts of it were miserable, with its muddy vowels and nonsensical rules.

At least she didn’t have to remember if a chair was male or female in that tongue.

She returned back to their cabin once the sun began to set and the sea breeze had picked up. Her stomach was still uneasy, and so were her nerves, but it still was a relief to enter the cabin where Erik waited, looking out to the sunset with a book open in his lap.

“Where did you even find something to read? I don’t remember packing that one,” Christine chuckled when he looked at her with the sweetest of smiles. It might have been because she was carrying food, but she liked to think she had some part in bringing him such joy.

“I borrowed it from... somewhere,” Erik replied innocently. “I’ll be sure to give it back.”

“If you can remember where you stole it from,” Christine sighed. “I shouldn’t give you dinner as punishment.”

“I can think of better ways to keep me in check,” Erik smirked, eyes sparkling behind his mask.