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

“Do you have any thoughts of your own?” Rochelle snapped. “Your mother says this. Your mother knows that. All because she claims she waited on the ghost for years.”

“She did!” Meg protested.

“Well, I saw something that looked like him and I believe my own eyes, not some doddering concierge,” Rochelle hissed, and Meg’s cheeks burned.

“But everyone—” Marie began, and Rochelle shot her a glare.

“If you’re so certain the ghost is gone, go down to the fifth cellar and see.” Rochelle issued the challenge with a crooked, cruel smile.

“I will then.” Meg turned on her heel and strode to the closest staircase.

She didn’t look back at her aghast friends (though she had no idea if they were aghast, or even if they were really friends or just cruel girls she worked with and knew).

Meg’s bravery was like the flare of a match, and she knew it would burn out quickly.

All she had to do was go down to the lowest cellars, look about and see that there was no ghost there and come back up.

That was all. There was no reason for her heart to thunder so.

There was no need to be afraid. Her mother assured her that the ghost had departed and Meg herself had felt the emptiness in the building for weeks.

She could feel it now, couldn’t she?

She found herself in a dark corridor with walls of cold, gray stone, like a castle or a prison. It was incredibly quiet, like all the noise of the world was shut out here, and the dim light of the gas lamps left so much in shadow. Perfect places for a specter to hide. For something to watch.

Meg shivered, despite herself.

The Phantom was gone, and she knew that. So why did she feel like the dark was alive once again? Why did she feel the air vibrating as if a predator were waiting in the dark, preparing to strike? Meg moved further into the dark, crossing herself as she did.

This was stupid. She was letting her imagination get away with her. Mother would tell her to laugh at the dark. It wasn’t shadows that could hurt you, but people.

Had it been a shadow that killed Philippe de Chagny when he drowned that night? The question made Meg shudder again. The tulle of her skirt rustled in the dark and then seemed to echo right behind her...

Meg spun. Expecting – or praying – to see a rat or one of her friends come to antagonize her. But there were no rats of any kind. Just shadows. Shadows that moved quickly across the corridor then disappeared.

Meg yelped as she saw it: a flash of white, the same color as the infamous mask of the ghost. She spun and ran as fast as she could, terror and shock driving her out of the fifth cellar like the devil was on her heels, all the way back to her friend’s secret hiding place.

“Well, did you—” Marie’s mockery was cut off when she saw Meg’s face. “Oh no.”

“I’m sorry, Rochelle,” Meg nearly sobbed, wishing one of these girls cared enough about her to embrace her. “You were right. There’s...” Meg swallowed. She didn’t want to say it or believe it, but it felt true. “There’s something down there.”

“That’s impossible,” Blanche said.

Rochelle at least had the decency to look worried by the confirmation.

Marie was shaking, looking over her shoulders in fear. “I knew he wouldn’t stay gone. He belongs here,” Marie whispered,

“I don’t understand,” Meg whispered, looking around them towards the dark corners which once again seemed full of dangerous power and potential. “Maybe I was dreaming.”

She had to talk to her mother or someone who knew about these things.

Meg had to learn if anyone else had seen anything in the Opéra’s depths these last weeks.

The legends had remained, of course, in the months since the strange affair of the chandelier and Christine Daaé, but those were just stories.

Stories that had a neat, if mysterious, ending.

Now, Meg had seen something with her own eyes to show her that the story wasn’t over. Not remotely.

Florence

E rik had come to see the tombs. The Santa Croce basilica was famous for its funerary monuments, mainly to men the church had condemned or outright expelled in life, but whose fame in death had been so great that even God’s bureaucrats had been forced to pay attention.

Erik had wanted to be alone when he looked at the statues of Dante, Machiavelli, and Galileo, because he didn’t want Christine to see the regret and shame in his eyes when he regarded their legacy.

The huge church was pleasantly cool compared to the sticky, suffocating heat outside.

The white, pink, black, and green marble arranged in perfect symmetry inside and out of the building held on to the cold of the earth, and the high vaulted ceilings shaded the pews and chapels as Erik stole through the emptiness.

To be in a place like this, alone and silent, sneaking among art and beauty so intricate and grand, reminded him of his opera.

Here he was again, a ghost among the tombs, fleeing from mortal sight.

He didn’t know if that made him nostalgic or ashamed.

The Opéra was full of monuments too. The loges were all flanked by busts of greats of French music and art, from the infamous to the obscure.

The entrance foyer held statues of Lully, Gluck, and Handel, and the outside of the building was adorned with even more faces of celebrated musicians of the past. All preserved. All remembered.

The former ghost looked up at the face of Dante Alighieri and sighed.

Dante had thought very highly of himself.

He had been right to do so, but even so, it had been bold of him to place himself in the company of Vigil as an equal to walk through hell.

Erik wondered what hero he would be assigned if he were to wander the circles of the afterlife as a tourist. Maybe Mozart. ..

“He’s not even in there, you know.”

Erik spun, his hand darting to an empty pocket on reflex. There was no Punjab lasso waiting for him there to defend him from the young man who had spoken to him in Italian. Who now looked at Erik with undisguised curiosity.

Erik had taken the precaution of wearing his special mask today, though the false beard that hid its nature as a mask and the spectacles were cumbersome.

It was safer for when he walked in the world, though not perfect.

Even so, his height and thin frame made him a unique sight, as did his black clothing and untrimmed hair.

He was a stark contrast to the interloper now staring at him, a younger man with a square jaw, keen eye, and a rather ostentatious moustache that matched his deep brown hair.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, friend,” the man said with a cautious smile. Erik tried to relax. This man was not a priest, clearly, which meant he had as much of a right as Erik to be in the church so early in the day, which was to say, no right at all.

“I didn’t think anyone was here,” Erik replied slowly, and the man’s eyes widened subtly at the musical lilt of Erik’s voice.

“Neither did I, but when I went to use my key, the door was already open. I didn’t know Padre Navone had given access to someone else to practice.

” The man glanced down at Erik’s shoes meaningfully.

They were his organ shoes, narrow and sporting sturdy heels.

He’d grabbed them first this morning when he’d dressed in the dark to avoid waking his sleeping wife.

A vain hope that he might use the great organ in the Basilica had perhaps been one of his reasons for breaking in.

“Oh. Yes. He didn’t tell me anyone else was given permission,” Erik lied.

“It’s no great trouble. Perhaps we can practice together. I need some critique from a fellow musician. The Padres here are kind, but they do not know music, and since Signore Barbieri has been ill, I have had no compatriots.”

Erik regarded the cheerful young man with interest. He had not met many musicians in Italy at all, though it was in many ways a more musical country than France.

“You may reconsider that. I’m a very harsh critic,” Erik muttered, and the young man grinned.

“Excellent. I need it. I’m Jack.” The man held out his hand.

“Unusual name for an Italian.” Erik took the offered hand and shook it carefully, noting how Jack looked at Erik’s long fingers with interest.

“It’s a nickname. An English friend at the University started calling me that because he said there were too many boys with my given name. I liked it, so I’ve kept it for use with friends. I can tell you’ll be one.” Jack seemed quite proud of himself for such a compliment. “And you are?”

“Erik.” He didn’t know why he gave his true name to this man. Maybe he trusted him as a fellow organist. Or he remembered the many admonitions from Christine that making friends wasn’t so bad an idea.

“A pleasure.”

“What did you mean?” Erik asked, nodding to the monument beside them. “About how he’s not there. Did you mean Dante?”

“Yes. He’s actually buried in Ravenna, where he died,” the young man grinned. “He was exiled from Florence for writing the wrong things. But he was a famous Florentine, you see, so they built him a tomb, even so.”

“One might say a man is lucky to be remembered in so many places.”

If Jack heard the bitterness in Erik’s voice, he ignored it. “The latest edition is Rossini’s tomb, across the way. As a musician, I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

Erik shook his head. “I was waiting to see him last and pay my respects.”

“I avoid him,” Jack confessed. “He reminds me too much of all I will never be.”

“That makes two of us,” Erik replied, surprised by his honesty. “You are a composer too?”

“A poor one,” Jack said with a shrug. “You?”

“An unaccomplished one,” Erik echoed, and Jack narrowed his eyes in interest.

“Such is the way of it, I suppose. Come, let’s wake the great lady from her slumber.” Jack headed towards the back of the church and the small door that Erik knew would lead them up to the organ.