Read an Excerpt
The Disciples of the Night
Le Couer Éloigné
By Etienne de Mendes
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 Etienne de Mendes
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-4986-7
Chapter One
OPENING THE WOUNDS
Standing too long at any of life's junctures equates to a loss of perspective and missed opportunities. Eventually we must all select a path, even Erik. Readers take warning. Involvement from this point forward requires a degree of dedication. Close this book and you'll be none the wiser to the bizarre events that unfold. Perhaps that's best ... unless you wish to continue on the Phantom's journey. If such a desire stands true, tarry no longer over these words of caution. Travel on. Be the ally you envision and know that our ever-illusive hero is grateful for your comradery.
On a particularly chilly night almost eight weeks after Erik and Torossian boarded the Gulfstream jet, Christine made an unusually late visit to the chapel on the de Chagny estate. She entered the sanctuary through the heavy main doors, sliding as silently as possible through the narrowest opening accommodating her frame. Midnight. Directing her flashlight, she traveled the beam of light smoothly around the reception area and down the forbidding pitch-black nave. Her illumination registered eerily mute statues interspersed amid rows of marble columns. An extraordinary absence of sound blanketed the interior. Almost palpable, the rawness of the rain-drenched night only enhanced the solemn silence of the scene. Reaching for the dimmer switch, a soft glow bathed the sanctuary a place meant more for meditation than prayer. A strong reoccurring sense of remorse drew her almost daily to this hollow of wood and stone that Erik built so many decades previous. This vast space housed many secrets, including their former crypt. Her eyes sought the multi-pointed star comprising the central floor of the transept. Beneath the deceptively solid pattern lay their coffins, emptied of their contents. The remains long cremated and scattered to the winds.
In the past two months she'd been inside the crypt many times, through both points of ingress. Running her hands across the cold angelic image chiseled on the top of Erik's sarcophagus brought a small token of pleasure and a storehouse of regret. Her delinquent lover had vanished. After suffering a drugged, half-drunken fall into a pit of concertina wire, he'd taken the remains of his once aristocratic face and fled the woman who in large part caused the fateful accident. Choosing to lick his wounds and deal with his disfigurations away from the chteau, he left her alone to repent her willful actions.
Walking resolutely down the center aisle, she stopped midway along the line of pews. What little solace might be milked from this morbid vacancy only accentuated her yearning. When will he return?
High above her head, near an apex in the beams of the groined ceiling, Erik floated like a spider monkey. Harnessed and roped to a securely bolted mountain climber's pulley, he hadn't waited long. She'd responded to his telepathic summons quite nicely. Watching as she passed beneath him, he offered not a word of greeting. In the dim light he could make out her modest attire. Despite winter's inhospitable cold, she hadn't bothered with a coat. Still dressed for a late supper, she wore a three-piece, charcoal gray, cashmere ensemble. She's too young to wear such dark colors on a weeknight! Passing judgments came all too naturally. The outfit consisted of a tailored top, pleated pants, and a shawl jacket that flowed softly from slender shoulders to flatter her youthful figure. From the simple overturned collar of the neckline, down to the jacket's hem, a string of tiny black-satin rosettes ran the length of both front plackets. There were no beads or sequins, and she hadn't bothered with any jewelry save for a simple pair of black Tahitian pearl earrings.
More importantly, she didn't appear pregnant.
Relieved, Erik remained aloof, assessing her every movement. He'd suspected for some time that Isidore never performed the tubal ligation. Demanding anything from the world-renown geneticist required finesse. Dr. Isidore de Chagny didn't bend easily to manipulations; much less acquiesce to direct orders from his own creations.
Starting at both temples, she ran her fingers through the first six inches of her long wavy hair. Tired, she wanted her tresses out of the way. She'd been up in the attic all afternoon, sorting boxes, looking at artifacts and old pictures. Tomorrow she planned to go into the chamber of mirrors and continue studying its possibilities. Gathering the bulk of her ash brown mane, she screwed her hair into a topknot. Holding the springy mass with one hand, she stuck the other in a pocket and fiddled for a dual-toothed hair ornament that resembled the mouth of a tiny green alligator. Sticking the clip around the created stem of the defiant mound of twisted hair, she let go – effectively making her curls resemble the leafy crown of a pineapple. Not a moment later several long tendrils rebelled. Falling across her right ear, they caressed her cheek like three curious fingers begging for the right to freely touch her. She nabbed the unruly nonconformists, yanked a bobby pin from some unseen source, and affixed the outliers into position alongside the corralled coiffure atop her head.
Hanging from the ceiling, concealed in the shadows of his elevated position, more than a simple degree of suspicion invaded Erik's observations. Christine possessed the power to cause real pain, and he was still quite vulnerable to her charms. He remembered every detail of the one night they'd spent in physical congress ... a stunningly vivid sensual-memory ... an encounter he relived to ward off any sense of deprivation.
His purpose here was to re-establish contact. Since it hadn't occurred to her to look upward, he stealthfully removed a violin from a leather satchel draped on his shoulder. A reward for patience, Cherie. He sent the mental message deep within her brain. With long graceful fingers (the tips of three lost in the accident encased in stainless steel caps), he delicately drew the instrument to his chin. Letting the bow slide across the strings, he reclaimed the 1860 Vuillaume as one would a lover, demanding all the allegiance and supple surrender of every note he required. The violin responded as if it were his slave, yielding completely. The sweet compassionate strains of 'The Resurrection of Lazarus' filled the space, bouncing off the upper stones in glorious adjuration.
Christine froze, excitement bursting from every pore. Standing riveted to the spot, her lips went numb and the hairs on her forearms rose. Every nerve ending screamed an impulse to run to him, grab his waist and fall to the floor in madness. But what direction? The sound originated from everywhere. Am I to drown in this love? Physically just sixteen, I'm forced to face a life consumed in the memory of one spectacular night!
Transfixed by the music, unable to demand he show himself, she waited. Immobile. Tears cresting her eyes. She lacked the subtle expertise necessary to bring the trickster out into the light.
The music hit an intense decrescere. Ignoring the tears glistening on her cheeks, she went to her knees and allowed the melodic plea to wash over her soul. Oh, how she hated him and simultaneously loved him ten thousand-fold every dram of loathing. Hell could bar the door and she'd walk through, if she only knew the way.
When the piece concluded, he carefully set the violin back into the satchel and maneuvered the strap to let it hang at his back. Kicking off the ceiling, he swung nearly soundless to the left, repelled to the floor, and dropped behind a column. Drawn to her, he approached like a smooth undulating wave of liquid night. Long black leather coat, black shirt and jeans, soft doeskin boots. She opened her eyes and watched him emerge from the shadows, barely a whisper of movement issuing from his clothes. So graceful were his strides that he might have been hailed a dancer. He halted a good fifteen feet away, gesturing with a nod of his head and an outstretched left hand for her to stand.
His countenance, save for his scarred lips and pale alabaster chin, was completely covered in a black mask. She could see his sparkling eyes, sad honey-colored sapphires in the half-light.
She rose, straightening her back, arms resting neutral at her sides.
His gaze started with the simple designer flats on her feet, continued up her legs, took in the soft rounded curves of her hips, the slender waist, the plump luscious breasts populating an abbreviated bra, and the noble neck that led him straight to her startled unhappy face!
She set aside surprise and blushed. At least she still attracted his masculine attentions. "Fiend! You scanned my body first? Before a proper greeting? You're an unchivalrous vagrant."
Offering no reaction, his eyes stayed focused on her countenance.
"I felt drawn from the house. I suppose you commanded me like some plaster marionette. Must you always get what you want?"
"You're not pregnant." He stated the obvious without emotion, completely bypassing a counter argument that he wasn't always granted his requests.
His comment bit into her. "You're a grave disappointment."
"How egregious are my sins?"
The question meant to mock her. She knew it, but no sweeter voice could be imagined. The tonal quality alone was more delightful than the violin. "Your attempt at back-handed self-deprecation is not amusing." She was hurt and yet secretly overjoyed to see him. "You've been gone for months. Absorbed in who knows what ... leaving me without a word ... not a phone call since you disappeared. Why arrange this strange rendezvous? Why sneak around your own home like a common thief? Isidore and Nyah will want to fuss over you. Prepare a proper welcome with a lavish dinner. They'll hang onto your every thought."
He offered his words like chosen tokens in a polite discourse. "I wanted to meet you in a neutral spot – hopefully a place of quieter memories. What's happened during my absence?" He spoke with unbearable detachment, forever skilled at concealing his emotions. Actually he'd already seen Isidore and didn't need to be brought up to date. He asked because he was conflicted. At this point, what constituted appropriate conversation with the one true love of his life? "Are repairs to the mansion completed to your satisfaction?"
"If you stayed in touch, you'd comprehend that the chteau is nearly restored. Even the bullet holes around the front are filled, sanded, and painstakingly stained to match the surrounding stone. Isidore and Nyah replaced all the guards, but some of the housekeepers remain. The entire kitchen staff is still here. You haven't asked about Isidore's health," she observed perceptively. A painful reality raked across her mind. "Oh, I see," she whispered. "You've already been in contact with Isidore. How silly of me not to have guessed that you'd dutifully present yourself to him first."
"Apologies. I tend to focus intently on very specific subjects, and lately I've had a lot to deal with."
Christine grunted. "I'm going to ignore your stubborn willfulness. Where is Torossian?"
She didn't understand how loathsome and inadequate he felt, that above all else he feared rejection as a response to his disfigurements. Isolated off in some corner of the world, he'd absolutely refused to look into mirrors. His brother shaved him. Angry and ill content to be without Christine, he finally understood that he must deal with the realities of the situation. Admitting, if to no one else but himself, that he was drawn to her by emotions running deep and true.
"Torossian is safe and rather far away. He is not listening and promised not to follow." Whatever you do, don't turn and run. I cannot alter my face, cannot change one second of that dreadful incident. "He roars a lot impossible to tame." You define the very essence of happiness; I know that now. "I left a small box on your bath stand, perfumed oils."
"You always had a flare for the dramatic. In the theater you liked to take small objects and leave them in strange places as a sign you'd blown through for a visit." She sucked in a breath, suddenly realizing how cleverly he'd managed to get in and out of the mansion undetected. An impossible task unless he'd been given the new pass codes and been re-entered biometrically into the security system. He completed the entire process with Isidore before trying to see me! Disappointed, she suddenly wanted to throw a shoe at him.
He registered her change in affect with almost cynical pleasure. "Honor means little to a runaway son."
"You've made your choices and will do as you please."
"We live in a tumultuous world. I simply approached problematic tasks first. Can you accept the earnest desires of a knight-errant trying to reconnect without feeling trapped?"
"Erasing your origins and living divorced from your roots is unduly taxing. At least we're alive."
Alive minus a few body parts. "Point taken, but why deny my grief? We exist because our ingenious descendent conjured up the means to reproduce us, and I'm not finished aching over injuries I was never meant to re-acquire. Winter's harsh realities don't diminish because there's hope an early spring lies just beyond the horizon." He braced for her onslaught of withering scorn. Would she call him self-centered, ungrateful, a disloyal lout? Shout that he lacked any shred of decent concern for her feelings? Envisioning a lifetime of such delicious lectures, he waited, barely breathing. "Take your time, don't overexert," he prodded. "I'm certainly a rather ignoble lover." Amused when the name-calling didn't flow, he shrugged.
"Do you remember the consummation of our marriage?" She uttered the question as if it were some prayerful, holy petition.
"You mean the two weeks we spent in the caverns after I abducted you? The pains I took to help you see the real me? What was true then still exists: Together we defined the fortuitous heights of joy. You're the cure for the disconsolate heart." All right, there's the truth. Satisfied?!
A long painful minute of silence passed between them. She studied his masked face, his soulful eyes – internally acknowledging that his presence was a force akin to a relentless magnetic field. Every inch of her was drawn to him. She'd never be completely happy until they were rejoined at the pelvis. She was no stranger to this uncouth kidnapper. He hadn't undressed her with his eyes because he was disrespectful. He'd done so because he felt he had the right. Enthralled at the mental picture of his flesh on hers; she wished he'd just touch her. Why must he be such an unfathomable abyss? Standing there swaddled in black, unreachable. "Merde!"
He actually liked hearing her swear. Why am I so determined to maintain the upper hand? She can't hurt me if I'm wide-awake and sober. "How decent of you to recall efforts I accomplished so long ago."
Ineptly picking her way through the scabrous rocks of his psyche, she had no idea if she talked with the Erik-of-the-past or the perfect replica created here in the present. His reserved body movements and cryptic speech gave evidence of some kind of internal struggle. Grumbling incoherently, refusing to submit to the instinctually clear notion to be reckless and impulsive, she reined in her pride. I'm not deliberately trying to provoke an argument.
Remembering how she'd hurt him broke the spell for Erik.
He carried within him the strengths and fragmented knowledge of his former-self. Schooled in Feigel-Evie's academy of repeated emotional brutality, he'd run from the clutches of his biological mother. Bested the pitfalls of life with the Romani gypsies and survived a path no man should ever endure – the vocation of assassin in the court of the duplicitous Shah of Persia. Bruised and broken by the callous harshness of Christine de Chagny, nee Daae, was simply another challenge in a long list. Though she was by far the worst of the lot. Her verbal daggers cut the deepest. Her fears, manipulatively verbalized to Raoul on the roof of the Opera House, tore at the core of his manhood. Burned away every shred of lovesick idealism like acid on an etching. He'd almost felt grateful to Feigel-Evie for raising him so harshly. The Queen of Hags taught him to pay attention to the crueler aspects of women. In this new life he'd been a bit more nave, mostly because he lacked – until recently – an understanding of the scientific miracle that brought him here to the twenty-first century. Such was his fate.
Look at that bold upturned face of hers, such fine full lips, the skeptical arch to her left eyebrow, and those astonished eyes. Our lives are entwined by Fate. Truthfully, he didn't want to demand retribution for the mauling in the concertina wire. She did possess the power to calm him, to make him feel normal. "You whet my appetite for a disagreement, but now that my wounds are healed there's nothing to do but adapt to the damage. I'm considering a quest and want to know if you'll trade anger over my desertion in exchange for a gift I plan to retrieve."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Disciples of the Night by Etienne de Mendes Copyright © 2012 by Etienne de Mendes. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
