The Phantom's Apprentice

by Heather Webb

  I slumped on the shore, gasping, sobbing. I couldn’t do this. I’d have to find another way out. Dejected, I pulled myself to my feet and followed the path back to the bedchamber. I collapsed on the bed. Somehow, I would have to use my wits to escape.

  After changing into a dry chemise, I crawled into bed for a spell to recover. Sometime later, I awoke to the sound of music. Confused, I sat up and looked around, recognition coming as I glanced around the room. My dejection returned. I was still in Erik’s lair.

  The music grew louder, the notes cresting like a tidal wave. A lusty, booming sound pulsed through pipes that could only come from one instrument—the organ. A voice drifted over the sounds of the instrument, almost painful in its beauty. Erik may have been a great conjurer, but he was a brilliant musician. I frowned, thinking how odd it was that we should have such similarities.

  I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, covering the top half of my chemise, and followed the music to a large mirror near the armoire. Puzzled, I knocked on the glass. A shallow thud sounded beneath my knuckle. There must be a double-paned, movable panel behind it. I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. Of course—his mirrors. A conjurer was always wedded to their mirrors. I felt along the wall, searching for an outline or crack. Giving up, I pushed on the surface of the mirror. None of the corners, or even the center, would give way. Frustrated, I checked the floor beneath the armoire. After several minutes, I was ready to give up. Huffing out a breath of frustration, I kicked the baseboard beneath the mirror.

  With a swift motion, the panel clicked and swung open.

  I grinned. Things were never as they seemed, especially in the home of an illusionist. I stepped into the passageway, careful to leave the door open behind me. Cool air rushed beneath my chemise as I walked farther from the warmth of the bedchamber. After several more strides, the passageway widened to a great room.

  In that moment, Erik began a new song. Notes blasted around me and eased into a melody, filling the room with music. On the back wall, a series of pipes gleamed in the light. Beneath them, the organ stood as elegantly as the music that poured from it. Erik’s form swayed with passion as the notes swelled into a crescendo.

  I stared, mesmerized by the music, and his spidery fingers moving swiftly over the keys. On his left hand, he wore a golden wedding band. His great love, lost in the fire—had they been married? I moved closer, my heart throbbing in tune with the music, until the final notes echoed against the walls. Such beauty he had created, on an instrument I did not even like! I had always found the organ too heavy and macabre, but Erik somehow made it . . . seductive.

  I paused to take in the scene. He began again, this time with a softer tune. His voice danced along with the music, then soared above it. Tears sprang to my eyes at its raw power and regality.

  The music stopped abruptly.

  “What are you doing here!” Erik whipped around, snarling through clenched teeth.

  “It’s beautiful. I’ve never heard that piece before. Are you the composer?”

  “How did you get in here?” he demanded.

  “You must play your music publicly. It’s too beautiful to keep to yourself.”

  He forgot his anger for a moment and said, “Soon, my opera will play, and that is good enough for now. I will reveal more of my pieces in time.”

  Then it hit me—the path to my freedom, the way I must deceive him.

  Suppressing my relief, I said, “Do you plan to take the stage when your opera premieres, or will you sing your parts from the wings of the stage? Your mask covers your face. A face, I know, I would hold most dear no matter what happened to it.” I paused to look into his eyes. Hope danced within them and I went on. “With your mask, no one would know you were the Master—”

  “My enemies would hunt me like a stag, gut me, and leave me to die.”

  The gloom in his voice made me want to weep. How desolate, how tortured he was. No one deserved the heartache he suffered day after day. And yet . . . And yet he was a murderer.

  “Surely the police—”

  “Can do nothing!” he thundered. “No, I am safer here, safer with a mask and in the shadows.” His sadness sucked all the air from the room.

  I flinched at his sudden anger and fear flared in my belly. Yet I pressed on and inched closer. “Is there no one who can help you?”

  “I have no one. And it’s just as well. They would only become a victim to the violence that follows me.”

  Violence had followed him, both by his own doing and because of those who wanted to destroy him. But Joseph Buquet was dead without proof of his murderer, or alternatively, his suicide, and it had been years since the fire. No one knew he was here—except Delacroix. I imagined how determined Delacroix would be to bring Erik to justice after my kidnapping. Some part of me felt guilt for adding to Erik’s suffering, but mostly the thought gave me relief.

  “Who is after you?” I asked, softening my tone. “Buquet is dead.”

  “If I tell you too much, it will endanger you. Illusions, while fascinating, are dangerous—another reason a beautiful young woman should never become a conjurer,” he said, rising from his bench. “They make people believe something is real, when the truth is a different thing entirely.”

  “I understand that conjuring the dead is an act. Spirits aren’t real.” I waited for his confirmation. Surely, he didn’t believe in an afterlife. A conjurer couldn’t. Meeting Erik as a man, not an angel or a ghost, had only strengthened my opinion.

  He whipped around. “Spirits are quite real. I may present an act”—his voice went soft—“but I assure you, they are quite real.”

  Shocked by his assertion, I said nothing. I directed my gaze to the tuft of dark brown hair falling over his forehead just above the line of the mask. I wanted to believe Papa’s spirit lived on, and Mother’s as well, but there was no proof, no real sign it was true. An image of Delacroix’s list of supernatural activity came to mind, scrawled on the slip I’d found inside one of his books. And then there was that night in the courtyard when I thought I’d felt something. I shook my head. The night in the courtyard was my imagination going wild at the late hour, under a full moon.

  A deep laugh rumbled in his chest. “If you could see your expression. Your innocence is sweet, dear Christine.”

  I frowned. “I simply want to understand the truth.”

  He paced from one end of the room to another, hands held behind his back, face bent forward. “Truth is what you perceive. Facts are malleable. They reflect the beliefs of the purveyor. You must know what you believe, and play on the beliefs of your audience, to be a great performer. The audience wants a world that promises more than they can see. That is the principle of conjuring. It’s the principle of everything.”

  I clasped my hands as I watched him stalk back and forth. I had agitated him—the opposite of what I needed to draw him in, to make him believe a false truth as he had just explained to me. He must believe I was falling for him and that we could perform his music together so he might become a star again. All in the name of our love.

  Our love. I shivered.

  Erik’s voice raised in volume. “Those who wanted to prove I was a fraud caught me, and beat me to a bloody mess. I was on my way home from a show one evening when the fools followed me. Threatened to reveal my secrets unless I paid for their silence. I chose silence.”

  Knowing I should comfort him, I moved closer. The wretched man had been through so much. He longed for what we all did—to be admired, to be loved, to indulge in our passions. He didn’t deserve all he had suffered.

  “They came after you again, the night of the fire?” His posture stiffened as I lay a light hand on his shoulder.

  “I was followed for months,” he said, his voice weary. “They appeared to be just a few thugs from the rue St. Denis, nothing more. One night, I turned the tables and followed them instead. They reported to someone who didn’t want to be seen.”

  Rapt by Erik’s tale, I moved close
r still. “Who was it?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “But I won’t tell anyone. Besides, I’m sure I don’t know him.”

  “They almost killed you once. If they discover we are linked, they may try again.”

  “The fire,” I whispered. “Whoever it was is responsible for Papa’s death.”

  He nodded.

  I remembered Joseph Buquet’s conversation that day, months ago in the costume storage room.

  We’ll get the ghost, Joseph had said. Bring him to the boss for questioning.

  “Was Joseph Buquet working for this unseen man?” I asked.

  “He was one of them, yes. I have him to thank for a cracked rib. And he had his hands on you,” he growled.

  “I wasn’t badly hurt.” I forced a sweet look, pursed my lips for effect.

  “Now there’s no chance of him bothering you again.” He revealed his cadaverous grin.

  Eager to change the subject, to put him at ease, I said, “Will you play your piece for me again? It’s one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard.”

  His eyes locked with mine a moment, then he turned and began to play—demonstrating the full power of the music.

  I moved toward him, mesmerized by his gleaming mask, his hunched form bent as he lost himself in his memories, his pain, and in the passion that flowed through him to the keys. I couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like beneath his mask. What was so horrible he had to hide it, even from himself? I had to know—to make him believe I could love him no matter what he looked like. Heart in my throat, I inched closer. A buried memory arose to the forefront of my mind, one I hadn’t remembered until now. The night of the fire, the crowd had gasped when the Masked Conjurer first stepped into the light. I’d missed it because of the man blocking my view of the stage in front of me. Was Erik hideous even then, even before the mask?

  The music blasted against the walls, drowning out the sound of the racing pulse in my ears.

  Only a short distance remained between us.

  I lunged for the mask. In a second, I slipped it off his head. It clattered to the floor.

  He screeched in horror and leapt to his feet. “No! How could— I trusted you!”

  I covered my mouth in shock and shuddered with revulsion. Much of his scalp was burned, leaving a river of lumps and ragged flesh that ran across his left cheek; the skin below one eye sagged, baring much of the socket. On the side of his face where he hadn’t been burned, his cheekbone poked out at a sharp angle. Even before the scarring, he was fearsome to behold.

  “Are you satisfied?” he screamed. “You see a man already born with the face of a devil, made more hideous by those who despise him!” He swept his sheet music to the floor, and launched the music stand at the wall. Its wooden leg split as it cracked against stone.

  Breathing heavily, he stormed toward me.

  I arranged my features into a serene expression, hoping the fear didn’t shine in my eyes. He must believe. Yet I backed away—until I met the wall.

  When he reached me, he pinned me in place, one hand on each shoulder. His fingers dug into my flesh as his eyes blazed with fury. He leaned closer, his scarred face only inches from mine. I didn’t turn away, determined not to show my disgust at his buckled skin—melted by fire and mended by hate.

  “You had no right.” His tone turned oddly calm, yet I knew the danger lurking there. “Now you see the monster who watches you each night, who longs to make you his.” His grip on my shoulders loosened.

  “I wanted to see you,” I breathed, willing my thrashing heart to slow. “To show you . . .” I focused on his eyes, trying to ignore the rest of his hideous face. Through stiff lips, I said, “You aren’t a monster. You’re . . . you’re beautiful. A tremendous musician—and illusionist, once. We will show the world your genius. Together.”

  The rage in his eyes gave way to joy. Softly, he slid the shawl from my shoulders and let it slip down my body to the floor. With the tip of his index finger, he traced circles on my cheek and my neck.

  I swallowed hard against the lump of fear in my throat.

  Slowly, he pushed open the lace collar of my chemise. A groan emitted from his throat, and something inside of me sprang to attention. My heart thundered in my chest as his cold fingers found my collarbone, and slowly inched down the slope of my breast.

  Tears rimmed my eyes as confusion raged inside me. I felt such sympathy and regret for the man, and kinship in a way. I cared for him, longed to comfort him, and yet his touch brought deep sadness. I would never love Erik the way he wished—and I hated the lie I must tell him. But it was the only way.

  “Please, Erik. I don’t— I’m not—”

  He wrenched away from me as if awakened abruptly from a dream.

  I took in the scarred face, the wild look in his eyes, the trembling hand. God help me, but the man looked like a demon.

  “You look at me with pity!” He seized my arm and dragged me toward the passageway, shoving me back into the bedroom. “Stay there until I decide what to do with you!”

  The wall collapsed in on itself and slid back into position.

  I staggered to the bed, tears streaming. I wept for his tortured soul, for all he had been through. I wept in fear of what was to come. But I could never be the salve for his diseased spirit, or make him well again. I was just another pawn in his game.

  20

  Erik stayed away for hours and I began to believe he’d abandoned me in his dungeon beneath the opera house. I turned over idea after idea, in search of both a way out and a way to escape him for good, but I couldn’t imagine how I could ever dupe him. He had followed me for years. I covered my face with my hands. For years!

  I tried to return to the organ room, but found the spring trigger no longer worked. Frustrated, I walked the circumference of the vast bedroom, running my hands over the wall, knocking as I went. There had to be another door somewhere, a hidden passageway to my escape. But after an exhaustive search, I found no doors or openings, even after moving heavy furniture. Dismayed, I crossed my arms over my chest. Now what? I glanced around the room, eyes traveling over candelabras and tables, bouquets of roses. And trunks. It was curious there were so many of them. I bent over one of the larger trunks to eye the lock. It wasn’t complicated. If I had a pin, or some sort of metal wire, I might be able to open it. Stalking to the small vanity Erik had set up for me, I dug through the drawers and found several pins. If I could open a German trick lock, I could solve this simple one.

  After several minutes, I smiled at the satisfying click of a lock giving way. My studies had served me well. I threw open the lid and sifted through a pile of scarves, a flattened birdcage, an array of small mirrors and ropes, and even a top hat. My heart leapt in excited surprise. Magician’s supplies!

  I closed the lid and moved to the next trunk. One by one, I opened them and rummaged through their contents, discovering everything from clothing to tools. I found smaller boxes packed with gears and metal pieces of a type I had never seen before. Kneeling beside the trunk, I pulled out the box and sifted through the pieces, sliding their parts and fiddling with their hinges.

  A clock chimed from somewhere in the room. I startled at the intrusive sound. How long had I been at it? I stood, dusted off my skirts and headed for one of the two remaining trunks. Once opened, I picked through stacks of books and papers, choosing a solitary notebook bound with leather casing. I sat back on my heels to read. As I flipped open the cover, a dozen or more photographs and drawings fluttered to the floor around me. I bent to retrieve them—and froze. My own face stared back at me.

  Erik had taken photographs of me? One showed me at the vanity table in my dressing room, putting pins in my hair, another of me removing my makeup, still another as I read a libretto. All taken from behind the mirror. My stomach shifted like high tide and nausea swelled within me. What else had he seen?

  I dug through the remainder of the pile, finding a photo of me on the balcony at Mad
ame’s house, a drawing of me in her garden, and one of me in my chemise. He had been watching all along—everywhere—even while I was at home. I swallowed hard and looked up. Was he watching me now from somewhere in the walls? The man was more deranged, more obsessive than I had imagined.

  I straightened the pile of photos and dug through the remaining contents of the trunk. The title printed on the face of another well-worn notebook caught my eye: The Masked Conjurer’s Illusions, Volume One.

  He wrote down his illusions! I plucked it from the pile and held it to my chest.

  The echo of footsteps came from the dark corridor.

  I jumped to my feet and turned.

  Suddenly Erik was upon me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  The heavy volume slipped from my hands and struck the top of my foot. Suppressing a yelp, I bent to retrieve it.

  “I didn’t know where you were.”

  He wrenched the book from my hands. “You are going through my things.”

  “You left me here alone with them.” I stuck out my chin defiantly.

  He tossed the book down and lunged at me, scooped me up, and threw me over his shoulder like a rag doll.

  I screamed in surprise.

  “Quiet!” he growled.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the bed.”

  My biggest fear resurfaced—that he would possess me in the most intimate way or, worse, torture me while he played out his fantasies.

  “Please, Erik”—I panted in fright—“I beg you to respect me.”

  Heaving a sigh of exasperation, he dropped me onto the edge of the bed like a sack of sand. I bounced as I landed on my derrière, and pushed away from him against the pillows.

  “I won’t disrespect you in that way. Not now.” He leaned over me until his breath was upon my cheek. “But one day you will ask me to.”