Page 44 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Finally, I apologize for the redundancy of this letter. I don’t trust the mail at this point, so this is, indeed, the second letter of the same contents I have sent you. If you have already received the first, I hope reading this one made you doubt your sanity.

Please reply only to Adèle and with as much secrecy as possible.

I remain, as ever, your obedient servant.

- E.

Shaya read and reread the letter, connecting pieces in his mind, his anxiety and guilt rising.

“What is it? You’ve gone rather ashen!” Armand asked, peering at the letter over Shaya’s shoulder.

“Erik was found, as I suspected he might have been, but he fled,” Shaya replied. “Unfortunately, I think he will be found again. The men who have been watching me – they’ve been getting into my mail somehow.”

“Is that legal?” Armand scoffed and Shaya glared at him. “Of course. They wouldn’t care.”

“They followed my letter to Geneva and found Erik that way, I think,” Shaya confessed. “His other letter never reached me. This was sent as insurance. He must have suspected, but that means his enemies know Erik is in London.”

London

B idaut’s name hung like a curse in the air. He had found them. The how didn’t matter, though Erik could guess at it. What mattered more was the consequences they were facing right now.

“So your friend was following me,” Erik mused. He hated it when his paranoia was correct.

“Burt thinks he’s so smart,” this new rogue declared. “Tried to throw you off going after that biddy, but you had to make it complicated and go thieving. I told him to let ol’ John take care of it.”

“I don’t think it counts to steal from another thief,” Erik intoned. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christine’s brow furrow as she tried to translate. Her English was improving but John’s cockney accent and slang were no doubt baffling. Even so, she looked as furious as Erik felt.

“Don’t matter. I want my reward, and I’ll take it any way I have to,” John spat.

Erik weighed his options. John would be easy to subdue in a fight, easier than Burt had been, considering his inebriated state.

Erik very much wanted to make this fool suffer, but their friends were watching.

Adèle knew what kind of monster Erik was, but Howard and Letitia didn’t know the ugliness that lurked in his soul or his face.

He didn’t want them to see any of that and he didn’t want to disappoint Christine more than he already had, yet his hands still itched to give this man back his friend’s knife by plunging it into his throat. That was not the thought of a good man.

As if sensing the murderous intent rising in him, Christine pulled Erik back an inch. “Give him what he wants and let him go,” she whispered, shaking her head in disgust. “He’s not worth it.”

Howard came up behind the man, clapping a hand on John’s shoulder. “I think it’s time you leave, sir.”

The man shrugged Howard off roughly, fixing Erik with a glare. “Not until I get what I want. Or I run to tell where you are as fast as I can.”

“Hasn’t your friend already done that?” Erik asked back. That was the rub, wasn’t it? They might contain this man’s threat, but others awaited. Erik had been so sloppy... “Maybe I want you to give Bidaut a message for me. Tell him I won’t be as merciful with him if he tries to find me again.”

“Erik, no,” Christine hissed. “Just let him go!”

“I’d listen to your lady, Erik ,” John warned, hand twitching over his pocket. So he was armed. Damn. Erik hated this – he hated giving in when he wanted to fight, but Christine was right. His blood was worthless.

“Fine, have your friend’s little blade,” Erik sighed. He threw the knife to John, who caught it clumsily.

“Don’t forget the money,” John hissed.

“Five pounds, was it?” Erik muttered. Maybe this would buy them time.

Or maybe he was getting swindled by a lout who would go running to Bidaut no matter what they did.

Still, the relief on Christine’s face when Erik produced the coins was worth it.

He held them out and the man approached, reeking of whiskey. “I doubt this will last you a day.”

“Oh, it will,” John said with a smile that curdled Erik’s blood. He was too close and Erik couldn’t move because Christine was holding onto his arm so tightly. “When I add that to the ten I’ll get for giving him this.”

Of all the things Erik had suspected the man to do when he lunged forward, tearing off his mask wasn’t one of them. A blow or a stab he could have endured, but not this. Not the horrible feeling of cool air against his skin or the sickened gasp someone gave when the mask clattered to the ground.

“Jesus Christ!” John screamed, eyes like saucers, the same disgust Erik had come to know for decades flooding his eyes.

But it wasn’t John’s horror that hurt, it was that of the strangers Erik had sung with just hours before jumping from their seats and fleeing.

It was the way Howard looked at him in utter shock, his cheeks pale and his mouth slack.

The way Letitia covered her mouth to dampen her cry.

The noise of despair Christine made because she knew it was over.

It was the ruin of it all. So familiar and so terrible.

“Erik!” Christine screamed, but it was too late. His hands were around John’s throat and the man was on the ground with Erik above him. “Erik, stop!”

“Did Bidaut not warn you?” Erik growled, his muscles like iron as Christine tried to pull him off the stupid, useless criminal who didn’t deserve to live.

There were other hands upon him, Howard perhaps, trying to wrench him away, but Erik was too strong, too determined.

Then there was a hand around his own throat forcing him to look into a face full of fury and terrible beauty.

“Erik, I order you to stop .” Christine’s voice was that of a goddess of wrath and Erik obeyed before he could even comprehend the words. It was like a flame inside him had been snuffed out, leaving only the smoking remnants of his rage as Christine pushed him away from the fray.

He kept his focus on her, on his Christine, his wife and world.

There was anger in her face, and horrible disappointment, but there was also love and mercy.

Or he hoped there was after he had ruined it all again.

Erik stared at her as John scrambled to his feet and fled.

Howard comforted his friends and kept his distance from the monster that had been revealed.

“We have to go,” Christine said, stricken and furious at the same time. “We have to run right now.”

“Where?” Erik asked back, the heat of the room hitting his face and making him desperate for his mask. “Where? Where do we go?”

Christine looked at him with such disappointment because she had been expecting him to know, hadn’t she? She had expected him to have a plan or a place all along and now he had nothing. Not even an idea. Even his apologies and pleas for forgiveness stuck in his throat.

“My flat is not far, we can go there.”

They turned in shock to Letitia, though Erik hid his face immediately at the way she winced. She surely couldn’t mean it...

“You’re too kind. Thank you,” Christine said for them. Erik kept his eyes on the floor. Where was the mask? God, had that bastard taken it like he said? Fuck. “Howard, would you please escort Adèle home safely?”

“I don’t need an escort,” Adèle replied. “I can help.”

“You don’t need to be involved in this, I promise. You’ve been through enough,” Christine replied firmly. She didn’t want Adèle to know that it was Antoine’s ghost that had ruined it all. She didn’t deserve that.

“Take care of yourself,” Adèle sighed. Erik didn’t look at her or anyone as Christine guided them out into the night, following after Letitia. He at least had the presence of mind to wrap his face in his scarf so he wouldn’t frighten passersby.

When did it get so cold? Was that why he was shaking?

Where were they supposed to go now? Bidaut was out there and soon enough, he’d be coming after them, maybe with that awful Pauline; both of them out for revenge as well as a fortune.

Where were they supposed to hide when the past kept finding them?

Paris

T he last place Meg wanted to go was home.

She knew as soon as she was back in their flat she’d feel safe, that her mother would embrace her and make sure she was fed and warm.

She always showed her care, but Meg didn’t feel like she deserved it.

She had made an awful choice and only a ghost had saved her. Her mother would be mad about that too.

Meg lingered, instead, trying to take up as little space as possible in the Opéra’s halls, half-heartedly looking for some intriguing clue.

There was little new to be seen, but what Meg did see felt like a revelation after talking to Rochelle.

For the first time, she looked without flinching at the way men fondled the young dancers, drew them into corners, and licked their lips at their prey.

She watched as young singers forced themselves to flirt with old men, elbowing one another aside. She hated it all.

What Meg wasn’t expecting to see was Shaya emerging from a staircase. In a blink, she was blocking the hall in front of him.

“I think we were wrong,” Meg blurted out before she saw that Shaya wasn’t alone. None other than Moncharmin was beside him, looking chagrined. Maybe it was fine, Meg hoped. Maybe he knew she was part of this now.

“Mademoiselle Giry?” Moncharmin asked in confusion, immediately proving her wrong. “What are you talking about? Do you know Monsieur Motlagh?”

Meg frowned, her embarrassment flaring. “I assumed he informed you.”

“Armand, I told you I had an agent helping me at the Opéra,” Shaya grumbled.

“And you wanted it to sound more mysterious and important than a ballet rat,” Meg sniped back. “I see how it is.”

“I’m sure you’ve been very helpful,” Moncharmin said in that condescending, overly kind tone that parents use for a child who has shown them a cake made of mud.

“I have, actually,” Meg replied. “I just had an important talk with Monsieur d’Amboise. He thinks the list was—”

“We’ve discussed that,” Shaya cut in, pushing past Meg. She followed. “I know the men were not favorable to Richard, but there’s been a different development.”

“Where are you going?” Meg demanded as Shaya and the manager strode determinedly down the hall. “You can’t just leave!”

“I’m afraid I must. Urgent business has come up,” Shaya replied, looking over his shoulder. “I have to get to London. I may already be too late.”

“London? Why?” Meg couldn’t understand.

“That’s not my truth to reveal,” Shaya replied, casting a knowing sidelong look at Moncharmin.

“Come to me tomorrow,” Moncharmin added, which Meg didn’t find reassuring at all. “We’ll talk through all of this and I’ll hear what you have to say.”

“You can visit Darius too,” Shaya added. “I’ll be telegramming him as soon as I’m settled.”

“But—” Meg stammered, tripping to a halt. It was too late: the men were already gone and she hadn’t even been able to share her theory. Or Rochelle’s theory, to be more precise.

Meg dragged her feet back to the dressing rooms, her heart and conscience heavier than before. She pouted as she changed, wishing she had a dresser to help her.

Meg jerked like she had been pinched, an idea occurring to her.

One dresser in particular came to mind: Julianne Bonet, who had once helped the dancers before attending to Christine Daaé herself.

She had been friends with the diva up until the very night of the chandelier disaster.

Maybe she knew something about Christine and the ghost that might be of use.

The only problem was that Julianne had left her employment at the Opéra after all that business.

She had also been Jammes’s paramour, a fact only Meg knew and had never spoken of. Maybe Jammes knew where to find her.

Meg tightened her shawl around her, determined in her course for the morning. She would talk to Moncharmin and she would also seek out Jammes and see if she could learn for herself all that Shaya wasn’t telling her so that...

So that she could stop the ghost? She didn’t feel like that was her quest anymore, she had to admit. Now she just wanted to know the truth, for the truth’s sake, and then decide what to do with it.

Meg was deep in her thoughts when she exited the Opéra and turned up the Rue Scribe .

It was late and it wasn’t necessarily safe for a young woman to be walking home alone, but she had little choice in the matter.

Their flat was thankfully not far. Maybe her mother would still be awake and if Meg was careful about what she said she could avoid an ‘I told you so.’ Maybe she could—

Meg yelped as she tripped over the heap of rubbish on the sidewalk.

Springing back from the pile, Meg tried to make out what had been left blocking the way, for it had felt heavy and hard when she’d kicked it.

The black mass was hard to make out in the flickering gaslight, but it looked very much like a pile of clothes.

In hindsight, she was too cavalier about it.

She should have been cautious and should have seen how the pile was stirring.

It would have at least minimized her shock when she pulled back the fabric to reveal the bruised, bloody face of étienne d’Amboise before Meg’s scream echoed against the walls of the Opéra House.