Page 39 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

London

E rik had become accustomed to the streets of London, but he still didn’t know his way exactly, a status he found frustrating.

In his youth, he had learned a city in a matter of days, pouring over maps and wandering the streets (usually at night).

Apparently, that skill required practice or the energy of youth to maintain, or at least a willingness to amble about alone.

London herself was a sprawling city made up of villages and neighborhoods that had been slowly devoured by the beast of progress, shrouded in the veil of fog and dust from coal factories and gray clouds, which made navigating it even harder.

For Christine, though, Erik would try. An evening walk didn’t appall him either.

As well-appointed as their rooms were, with their view of the Queen’s stables and prim blue wallpaper, Erik was beginning to feel confined and anxious.

It was good for him to get out and make his way to Christine.

He had promised to meet her at her friend’s, even if part of him wouldn’t mind being punished for being late. ..

Erik’s steps sped up through the winding, gaslit streets.

His spine straightened as he recalled what they had done two nights before.

What she had done to him and for him. There were still moments when he stepped outside himself with confusion and disgust, aghast that he had enjoyed such humiliation and pain.

There was more wrong with him than he had ever thought, and he had spent his whole life aware of his monstrousness.

The shame had manifested the morning after, when Erik’s skin had smarted against the sheets as he awoke.

The comfort of holding Christine had become arousal at that feeling, but his desire had felt different in the cool light of morning and an awful shame had hit him like a wave.

Within minutes of waking, he had found himself fighting for breath as panic enveloped him.

She had known, of course; his Christine always knew when something was wrong.

She had broken through his panic and reminded him that there was nothing to be ashamed of if what they had done had been what he wanted.

It had been, he assured her, reminding her and himself that she could never really hurt him.

They had enjoyed it, both of them, and they were not alone in enjoying such pursuits.

More importantly, she had assured him of his goodness.

That was the word he still couldn’t understand.

His Christine loved him and redeemed him and that was so hard to believe, but he did believe it when she commanded him and demanded his submission.

She had punished him so beautifully for not believing that he was worthy of her, she had to be right.

She had made him into someone good and that wasn’t a crime. It was a miracle.

Erik turned down a street, reasonably sure it would take him the right way.

He couldn’t afford to be this distracted walking alone at night, even if the memories dimmed the edges of the world most pleasantly.

It felt so good to be hers, and yet it felt good to be free and unencumbered on the streets of a great city, his fate safely his own.

London was dark, and he was a dark figure within it.

He was in his accustomed cape and wide hat, and it was foggy and cool enough here to justify a scarf around his chin, obscuring the edges of his mask.

He could have worn the special one, but the spectacles and beard were so cumbersome and he wasn’t going somewhere where people would care.

He wanted to be ignored, but alas, he wasn’t alone. There were steps behind him. Steady on the cobblestones and in pace with his. Erik tensed. How long had a stranger been behind him? Was it a thief or another agent like Bidaut? Or was it nothing?

Erik took the next turn down a narrow alley and found a shadowed doorway in which to disappear. He still knew how to be a ghost. In a heartbeat, he was concealed in the safety of the dark, waiting for the steps to turn.

His pursuer was a man. Short and stocky with a workman’s cap upon his head.

The man paused at the entrance of the alley, sniffing the air like a predator.

He had been following Erik, but what for?

He peered into the dark for a few moments longer before moving on.

Erik waited several beats before he emerged, but soon enough, he was on his way again and it was he who was following.

The man ambled along slowly, observing people as they passed while Erik remained a silent shadow behind him.

It wasn’t until Erik saw the man take notice of a woman walking alone that he understood. This was no spy or an assassin. He was merely a common criminal who had seen a man walking alone looking wealthy enough to rob. Now he had a better prospect.

Erik continued to follow, wondering what the thief intended.

Was he a pickpocket? Erik doubted that. This man didn’t display the skill needed for such work.

As a master pickpocket, Erik would know.

Relieving someone of their purse or watch was best done in crowded places, where no one noticed when one nudged by and slipped a hand into a coat.

No, this man moved with aggressive audaciousness and he was getting closer to the woman.

She was older, above working class, and unaware of her danger.

What was Erik to do? He had gone on a simple walk to meet his wife, and the universe had seen fit to present him with a test for which he did not have an easy answer. Christine told him to be good, that he was good, but what would a good man do here?

Stopping the thief was the obvious answer.

But how far did stopping him go? Should he wait for the man to strike, or descend first, like a nightmare setting upon the unsuspecting assailant?

What would a good man do with a thief in his clutches then?

Erik couldn’t very well haul the brute off to a police officer – they were all corrupt and useless.

What, then, was left? Violence? Was that the resort of a good man?

Was the violence he had done to Bidaut right or wrong? Did it all come down to perspective?

It had never been this hard before. Erik had always acted as his conscience (or whatever it was he had possessed in its place) had dictated.

A year ago, he would have let the Punjab lasso take care of this lout, choking the life from him – or at least the consciousness.

What good was it to add sin atop sin? Did any of it matter?

The man hastened his steps, getting closer to the woman as they approached another alley that would be a perfect spot to rob her. Erik acted, darting ahead and snatching the man by his collar.

“Get off me!” the man yelled as Erik hauled him backward. The intended victim jumped and turned around, looking more scandalized than grateful.

“Nothing to worry about, Madame,” Erik said politely as he pulled the man aside by scruff of his neck. The woman rushed off, the sound of her fleeing steps mixing with the man’s grunts.

Erik commended himself for the gentleness with which he shoved the man against the nearest doorframe; it would barely leave a bruise and his captive could still breathe. He was being so merciful. This was what a good man would do, wasn’t it?

“A bit early in the evening for a robbery,” Erik drawled.

The man struggled, reaching rather obviously for a pocket.

“Let me help you.” Erik fished in the man’s coat and pulled out the switchblade. “You really should take better care of your weapons. They could fall into the wrong hands.”

“I’ll kill—” the man began, but that was enough for Erik to tighten his grip on the thief’s windpipe, tutting as he did. He wagged the knife in front of the man’s bulging eyes before tucking it into his own pocket.

“You will not kill me, sir. Nor I you, as I’m feeling charitable. In gratitude for that, I’d like you to not rob anyone else tonight. Maybe try and make something better of your life.”

The man’s only reply was a further reddening of his face. Erik sighed and threw the pathetic figure against the wall, knocking his head just enough to disorient him, and then kicked his legs out from under him so he crumpled to the ground. That was sufficient.

Erik fled quickly, leaving the man on the ground without looking back. He’d be a fool to pursue, but his steps were loud and Erik would catch him if he did. Luckily, no footsteps followed Erik through the street.

Soon enough, he was at the door of Adèle’s townhouse.

He looked up towards the golden light in the windows and smiled.

He’d done well, if he did say so. He had helped someone with minimal damage to another human.

Christine would be annoyed at Erik risking his person for such an endeavor, but he hoped she was proud.

Months ago, nearly a year ago, he had done something close to this when he had followed Christine through the streets on Christmas.

Then he had been willing and ready to kill the man who had attempted to rob her.

She’d never known about it. Maybe he would tell her now, as an example of how she had changed him.

However, that might raise more questions.

At least now he didn’t have to wait outside on the street, looking up at warmth from which he was excluded.

At least now he could go to her and be the one to take her home.

Or back to their rented bed. The idea of home came back to him often, especially now as he ascended the stairs to Adèle’s door. Even Christine’s old friend had more of a home in this strange city than they did. Perhaps that was something that needed to change.