Page 43 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

“What are you talking about?” Erik demanded, rising, though Christine tried to pull him back. Christine noted that their friends had grown quiet where they stood a few feet away, watching the confrontation. Howard was holding Letitia’s arm and Adèle looked ready to strike.

“You’re famous on the streets since yesterday, masked man,” the man slurred. “There’s a reward. Five pounds for word of a man in a mask, maybe with a pretty lady. French. Burt was after it too, but you had to brain him and steal his knife.”

Christine’s blood froze, instinct born of meeting too many men like this and finding herself at their mercy electrifying her with fear and the need to run. He knew them and he was here on purpose. They had been found.

“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Erik said slowly, even as Christine felt like she was falling.

“No, mate,” the man said. “Now you give me back Burt’s knife, and whatever coin you have to cover the reward I won’t get, and I won’t say a word to good Mister Bidaut.”

Time slowed as panic seized Christine. Echoes of all the times before when they had been forced to fly to safety only to have it disappear.

All the exhaustion and loss and uncertainty that she couldn’t evade fell back upon her like chains of iron.

All the consequences and scars she couldn’t avoid burned in her and filled her ears with their awful sounds.

Gunshots and screams and tearing flesh. All of it flooded her in a single moment, tearing her away from the hope and joy she had felt just a second before.

Somehow, they had been found again. Everything was about to be torn away from them again. Christine looked to her friends and the husband she loved, who had given everything for her. The man who she had made to kneel and beg before her, who had trusted her with his soul.

He was worthy of more than her panic and so was the life they wanted.

“No,” Christine whispered, gripping Erik tight as she straightened her spine and pushed her panic away like a cocoon; a prison that had held her for too long. “No,” she repeated, because she had found happiness and hope tonight and she was ready to fight for it.

Paris

T he office of the managers – well, manager – was a surprisingly restrained space, given the ostentatiousness of the rest of the Opéra.

Shaya had seldom been there before now, so he took his time to take in the details.

He noted the mahogany desks (still two, though one was being used as a receptacle for piles of scores and ledgers), the plastered walls made gold by the gaslight, and the red carpet matching that of the boxes.

Shaya craned his head, wondering if he would be able to make out the outline of the trap door Erik had used to torment the managers for so many years.

“I’d offer you a drink, but I know it would be in vain,” Armand remarked as he stepped inside after Shaya. “I hope you don’t mind if I partake. I need to fortify myself before I head back into the fray.”

“I didn’t think you disliked mingling with the patrons so much,” Shaya clucked as Armand poured himself a generous glass of brandy.

“Sometimes I feel as if begging for their money is my entire job and they’ve been understandably antsy these past few weeks, so they need more flattering and fawning than usual,” Armand replied with the weariness of a man who had not slept for a month.

“At least Robert promised to meet me after, so that’s something to look forward to. Did you enjoy the performance?”

“I couldn’t concentrate on it much,” Shaya confessed.

“Too busy keeping an eye out for ghosts and robbers?” Armand said, flopping down in his chair. “I can’t blame you. Meyerbeer is a bore, but he brings in the audiences.”

Shaya shrugged. “I did like the horses.”

“At least this ghost hasn’t been borrowing them,” Armand sighed and took a swig. “That was him, wasn’t it? I can never keep track of what was rumor and what was real.”

“It was real. He liked them,” Shaya murmured.

The manager gave a weak smile. “Please tell me you have hopeful news on that front?”

It was Shaya’s turn to heave a sigh. “I have news, but none of it is hopeful, and I have a suspect that doesn’t quite make sense. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.”

“I don’t like the sound of that at all,” Armand said, face falling. “Well, out with it.”

“Have you heard from your former counterpart at all?”

“Richard? No. I don’t even know if he’s in Paris,” Armand replied with clear alarm. “Whatever does he have to do with this?”

“At the culmination of the business with the Phantom, Richard was working in league with Antoine de Martiniac. You know this,” Shaya began, and Moncharmin took a long drink of liquor.

“De Martiniac was, like our specter now, lurking about the Opéra in the guise of the ghost for his own ends and as a sort of agent for Richard. He plotted with him, all the while being engaged to the sister of Raoul de Chagny.”

“For her money,” Armand replied.

“Money that Philippe de Chagny only gave the appearance of having, it seems,” Shaya went on, drawing a raised eyebrow from Armand. “Maybe Antoine knew that. I’m not sure, but he was after another fortune as well. One he nearly killed for.”

Shaya didn’t want to get into the complicated details of the scheme, or his part in ending it. Luckily, Armand was following. “A scheme he made promises to Richard about. He was invested in it.”

“Yes. He was owed a debt, first by de Martiniac, and now, by his widow,” Shaya confessed, and Armand’s lips fell open. “His pregnant widow.” At this, Armand’s jaw dropped entirely.

“How do you know this?” Armand gasped.

“I had a hunch and I sent an agent of mine to confirm it. Unfortunately, she enlisted the help of someone with no discretion, so I’m sure the rumor is spreading as we speak.

” Shaya didn’t like that this was out of his control and might wake a tiger he didn’t want to deal with.

“I sent this agent to investigate someone who was spying on me. They were working for Sabine and Richard as well.”

“Sabine de Chagny – or de Martiniac, I guess? – and Firmin Richard have people watching you? Why?” Armand asked.

Finally, Shaya could say to someone what he couldn’t confess to Meg. “They think I will lead them to Erik. It’s he that possesses the money they seek and more.”

“The Opéra’s money, you mean,” Armand scowled.

“I hate that we remain haunted by de Martiniac, even now.” Shaya had dreamed of the man for the past few nights. Of him and Sabine, confronting Shaya for taking the life of her child’s father... Or thanking him.

“At least Adèle got away from him,” Armand said with a smile. “You know, I’ve just had a letter from her! Where did it go?” Armand jumped from his seat and rushed towards an untidy pile of correspondence. “Here we are!”

He fished out a letter from the stack and opened it. Shaya watched in interest as the man pulled out the letter and another sealed envelope, marked with handwriting Shaya would recognize anywhere. “What is that?” Shaya asked breathlessly.

“It’s addressed to you,” Armand whispered, eyes darting between the letter and the unopened envelope. “Oh my god, she’s – she’s found them.”

Shaya snatched the letter from Armand, hands shaking as he looked over the scrawled address: For Shaya Motlagh, care of friends.

“Erik and Christine both?” Shaya asked, amazed. “Where?”

“She’s in London, at Covent Garden,” Armand said aloud as he read his letter. “They found her there. What does yours say? It’s from him, is it not?”

Shaya broke the seal of the letter, at last, breath shallow as he did. This meant that at least they were alive and safe, something he had not been able to admit he feared wasn’t true until now. Slowly, he read.

Dearest Daroga,

I hope that this letter reaches you in good health, thanks to the help of our heroic Madame Valerius.

Encountering her here in London has been a blessing, and a surprise, as is our presence in this city.

We came here from Florence by way of Lucca with the assistance of friends – and evading the pursuit of enemies.

It seems someone is intent on claiming the de Martiniac inheritance I recently came into and has sent agents across the continent to do so.

They found us through Monsieur Tissot in Geneva.

This is why I have been remiss in replying to you, as they held onto your letter to him with these ridiculous suspicions of me returning to my old haunts, as they say.

I’m appalled you would ever think I would return without alerting you first, if only because doing so would make you have the seasick expression on your face you think makes you look irate and intimidating – the one you’re probably making now. I would not miss that expression for the world.

No, I am not engaged in any new activities at the Opéra, as I am too busy trying and failing to find some peace outside of Paris. Perhaps London will offer some, but at least it offers some familiar faces.

I confess that I miss your face, Daroga, and your usefulness.

I think you would be of immense help in enlightening me as to who is after us and why.

These methods hardly match those of the young Comte, but I cannot count him out.

The man who found me goes by the name Bidaut and may have found himself slightly stabbed in the alleyways of Geneva (don’t look at me like that, Daroga, I was defending myself and my wife.

Christine has been very dutiful in her punishments for that transgression).

If you could find out if he lived and who he worked for, it would be quite a boon.

I’m sure you’re bored and need entertainment.

I can’t imagine this imposter ghost is as interesting as the real thing.