by Skye Warren
“The theater was the inspiration for Phantom of the Opera.”
“I visited the canals this morning.”
The canals, which are beneath us right now. We’re standing on top of the Phantom’s supposed lair. All I know is what I’ve seen in the movie version. “Does it look like an underground Venice?”
“It looks like a sewer.”
Disappointment sinks in my stomach. “That’s less romantic.”
“If it makes you feel better, the chandelier actually fell during a performance.”
Even in the daytime, with the lights off, a thousand crystals shimmer. “Because the Phantom was angry that Christine didn’t get the lead role?” I ask hopefully.
“More likely because seven tons of bronze weren’t properly counterbalanced.”
“You’re determined to ruin my fun.”
A slight smile. “It gets worse. I want to show you the emergency exits. I’m going to be backstage with you, but in case anything happens I want you to be able to get yourself to safety.”
“In case anything happens. You mean in case you get shot.”
He doesn’t answer. He’s a bronze statue that stands at the corner of the building, a sentry, a gargoyle with a handsome jaw. There is nothing that reaches through the metal exterior. “You don’t wait for me. You don’t take me with you. You—”
“If you get shot I don’t think you’ll get to tell me what to do.”
The exterior cracks, revealing a man at the edge of his limits. He drags me into the shadows. His mouth slams on mine, and I think he’s going to kiss me—but he doesn’t. Instead he breathes in deep. It’s half kiss, half breath as our bodies find the same rhythm.
“I need to stop them once and for all. The only way I can do that is if I know you’re safe. Understand? Promise me you’ll leave me behind. Promise me you’ll stay safe. If I’m worried about you, I’m already dead.”
A shudder down the length of my body. It doesn’t matter that warm air barely circulates in the daytime. Doesn’t matter that we’re safe at this moment. A chill seeps out from his words. It encompasses my arms, my chest, my heart. He gives me a little shake, not enough to hurt. Enough to demand. “I promise,” I say, gasping out the word. It’s forced from me, this promise. It’s the only thing I can do in the face of his desperate demand.
Liam
We ran background checks on the members of the orchestra, on the stagehands. We even ran cursory checks on the names on the tickets, but it would be too easy to fake ID for the purchase. Despite strong objections from the company managing the performance, metal detectors and X-ray conveyers block the entrances. Our methods rival any embassy. Any airport. On the surface we’re completely safe. My gut has kept me alive this long. It tells me that something is going to happen tonight.
Dread. Relief. If they didn’t strike tonight we’d have to keep putting her on stages, using her as bait. Or worry that they’d try to get at her in the chateau. I want them to reveal themselves when I have armed men under my command sitting in every section.
I want them with bullets in their brains, but I’ll have to settle for taking them alive. If we have that, if we can pull a confession out of them, if we can prove the link without Samantha, then she won’t pose a threat to them anymore.
That’s the only she’ll be free.
Women mill around in designer eveningwear and glittering heels. Men laugh the too-loud chuckle they do in the company of other powerful men. The crowd consumes enough champagne to fill the caverns downstairs.
I run the check-ins to each man stationed in the foyer, the auditorium, and outside. They come back like clockwork. It doesn’t reassure me. If anything, the tension tightens in my body.
I study the faces of each patron, wondering which one hides behind a mask of careless high society. I knew that Ambassador Brooks was involved in dirty business, but what Samantha’s mother revealed proves this goes much, much higher than him. Those are the kind of people with the resources to get into an embassy or an airport undetected.
The kind of people who commit treason and walk away unscathed.
Not tonight.
Lights above us blink three times. It’s time for the show.
There are additional credentials required to go backstage. I swipe my pass. No one gets special treatment tonight. Not Josh. Not me. Bethany and Romeo are doing stretches in the corner. Dissonant sounds come from the stage, where an orchestra waits behind the canvas curtain. I know the background of every stagehand who hurries around, pulling ropes and messing with the lights. I know who owes money and whose daddy went to prison.
Samantha crouches beside her violin case as if she’s giving it a pep talk.
Are you afraid I’m going to stand up there and not play a note?
I’m not sure if she’s worried about it, but I’m not. The fact that she hasn’t played since the violin went back in her possession? That’s pure stubbornness. My fault, for trying to command her into doing it. The old Samantha would have jumped to obey me. The new Samantha takes pleasure in independence. More than that, she likes giving commands to me. I’m just perverse enough to enjoy that, too.
I kneel beside her, flicking open the locks on the case. “If you get nervous, don’t picture the crowd naked.”
Her hands press together. Like a prayer. “No?”
“Picture me naked.”
A breathless laugh. “I don’t think that will make me less nervous.”
“No?” I ask, using the same European lilt she used.
“You’re kind of intimidating when you’re naked. Did you know that soldiers fighting the Romans used to fight naked? They would hold their weapons. That’s it.”
“That sounds impractical.”
“Because they’re not wearing armor?”
“That. And because of the places mud will end up.”
She laughs before sobering. “I’m going to play the song I wrote. I think that’s part of the problem. It was interrupted. It was unfinished. And I think… it doesn’t matter that my father gave me part of it. I mean, it does matter. It’s not only that melody. It’s not only the backdoor code. It’s the song I built on top of that.”
The song she built on top of what her father gave her. A metaphor for her strength. Her ability to build a palace from the rubble of her childhood. I haven’t played in months. As if that could stop her. Nothing can. Not even fear. I didn’t need to demand that she play. She would do it when she’s ready. Tonight. Now. Lights dim. The curtain rises.
She picks up the violin and bow.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Composer Claude Debussy wrote the now famous Clair de Lune early in his career. He didn’t want to publish it because it wasn’t in his mature style, but eventually, fifteen years later, he accepted an offer from a publisher.
Samantha
I’m wearing a black satin dress from an up-and-coming designer in Paris. Like most of the arts, music has a decided bias towards old, white men. So does fashion. That’s why I was grateful to find a woman about my age with only education—and an original perspective—to recommend her. Plus, she put pockets in my dress. Pockets in my couture dress!
That’s where I put the music sheet from Debussy.
In the bookstore it had seemed almost too holy to touch, this paper. There’s still a sense of unreality about it. The history alone—that someone wrote this a hundred years ago. The more I hold it, though, the more I feel the man behind the legacy. His uncertainty and his hope. His musical genius shaded into the notes.
Of course, he was one of those old, white men who saw opportunities that women of color never saw during his time. Women of color like me. A hundred years later, I’m standing on the stage where he performed. Did he have the same worry about what critics would say? Did he worry that he would stand in front of a crowd and forget how to play?
Did he feel the same unexpected serenity, as if every afternoon of practice, every night of dreaming, every second of yearning, led to th
is moment?
There is no dramatic entry from the back of the audience, no characters in costume, no tethers hanging from the ceiling. It’s a traditional format befitting a traditional venue. Bethany and Romeo complete an excerpt from La Bayadere to much applause.
When my turn arrives, there is not even an announcement. They will know who it is by the order in the program. Or by recognizing the hand that plays. That’s the way it’s done.
A hush covers the audience.
With my violin in one hand and bow in the other, I walk to the front of the stage. A thunderous applause shakes the timbers beneath my feet. Years ago I might have felt undeserving. Their clear anticipation might have even made me more nervous—after all, it will be that much worse if I disappoint them.
Now I close my eyes and let the energy wash over me.
There’s something very special about performing. It’s more than the accolades or even the chance to share my music. There’s a communion.
A community established in the space of twenty minutes.
The auditorium quiets.
I turn to see Liam waiting in the wings. He doesn’t watch me. Instead his eyes are on the seats in front of me. He’s ready to throw himself in front of me again. Ready to die so that I can play my music. If that doesn’t inspire me to greatness, I don’t know what would. Whatever similarities I may share with Claude Debussy, I don’t think he was worried about someone shooting him during a performance to cover up a political conspiracy.
A microphone stands in front of the stage in case I wish to speak. The program doesn’t say what I’m going to play, considering I didn’t know until last night. A courier hand-delivered the sheet music to the pianist this morning.
I lean close enough to feel the static on my lips. “Brooks Sonata Number One.”
The applause deafens me.
They know they’re hearing something for the first time.
I lift the violin. The bow tilts. And I play.
Liam
All my attention belongs on the audience.
The music filters into my consciousness, breaking through years of training, a lifetime of deprivation. Enough to know that she changed the composition. The refrain from her father still sits inside it. It plays like a haunting melody. A memory.
The sonata rises and falls, rises and falls. The crowd looks spellbound.
I’m back in the seaside flat, in a place of both peace and yearning. Her music puts me there. It makes me long for something that would only disappoint me in reality. It makes me dream of the impossible. It’s everything she’s ever been to me.
When the last note plays, there’s a beat of heartbreak. It’s over.
Then the room erupts into a standing ovation. It isn’t time for this. Applause, yes. A standing ovation, no. They give her one anyway. I fight every muscle in my body to keep from running onto the stage. She deserves this. No one pulls a gun. No one takes a shot. Not even when she walks back offstage, passing by the soprano who will sing before intermission.
Samantha launches herself into my arms, and I catch her, spinning us both around until we’re half-hidden from even the backstage crew.
“I did it,” she whispers, mindful of the performance.
Her eyes glitter with wonder. It’s too much for a man to resist.
I taste her excitement, her glory in this moment. She kisses me back with a passion much like her sonata, a rise and a fall, a rise and a fall, until I’m spellbound like two thousand other people in the theater. “I love you,” I murmur against her lips. Once I start I can’t stop. “I want you. I need you. Marry me. Whatever you want I’ll give to you.”
Her breath catches, and then she’s kissing me back. The eroticism of her tongue entrances me, making me imagine us alone. I want to keep this dress on her, if only so I can see how adorable she looks when she shows me it has pockets. I hold her body tight against mine, and it’s almost, almost enough. I pull back. “Is that a yes?”
The soprano reaches a pinnacle, and the sweet song moves between us, around us, wrapping us in a cocoon no one else can reach. “Yes,” she whispers.
She plays twice more the second half of the show. Twice more, when I know she’s going to marry me. It’s enough to make a man glad for those nights in the well, if it led to this. Nothing happens. No weapons found on entry. No discrepancies with the tickets. There is no disturbance in the audience, and I think we might escape with the perfect night.
As the headliner she plays the final piece. She plays the Claude Debussy piece that she carries in her dress. It remains folded out of sight, because she knows it by heart. And because it only contains the first refrains anyway. Her notes ring out clear and true.
The applause threatens to bring down the Palais Garnier.
After an encore she skips toward me, and I catch her in a circle. My God. She makes me feel hopeful, when I wouldn’t have thought I knew the meaning. Like a child before ever seeing the bottom of the well. Before the beatings. Before the hunger pains.
She makes me feel like a new person.
“Did anything happen?” she asks.
“You agreed to marry me,” I say, teasing. Liam North. I actually teased the woman I love. That happened. The world is very strange sometimes. She grins up at me. Then Bethany and Romeo are there, and she’s hugging them, exclaiming over their performances.
I turn away to do the security check into my watch. “Report. Webb.”
“Clear.”
“Rogers.”
“Clear.”
“North.”
Silence.
My heartbeat slows. My eyesight sharpens. The body prepares itself for battle even while the mind rebels at the idea. “North.” Nothing. “Joshua,” I say, breaking protocol. No response. Dread forms in my stomach, but I push it aside. This is war.
Samantha stands like a queen, her black dress billowing. The other performers have disappeared into the milling stage performers. With the curtain down, backstage is chaos. A heavy saturation of sound comes from the audience as people leave their seats.
“What’s wrong?”
It doesn’t occur to me to lie. “It’s Josh.”
Her eyes turn round. “He’s hurt?”
Probably. If he’s not answering, he’s probably dead. My mind makes the calculations even though I can’t—No. Not my brother. “Rogers,” I say into my watch. He’s the closest one in position. “Confirm North’s status.”
“I’m fine here. Your brother needs you. Go.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“I’m not going to be responsible for his death.” She reaches up to cup my cheek. “And I’m not going to let you feel that guilt. Help him.”
Love is a bastard. It doesn’t fight fair. “Samantha.”
“I know the exits. I know the protocol. I’ll be safe when you get back.”
There’s a crackle over the radio. My brother needs me, and damn it, I need him. I press a hard, uncompromising kiss to Samantha’s lips before I open a door in the stage and help her step down. It leads to the cavern, where Webb is stationed. I take off at a sprint.
Even though it may already be too late.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fire fighters in Paris do underwater training beneath the Palais Garnier. The brigade’s motto is sauver ou périr, which means save or perish.
Josh
Every mission is a suicide mission when you don’t care about dying.
That’s what my brother never understood. He’s always wanted to live. Bethany knows. I think it’s why she keeps her distance from me. She may not know precisely why, but she senses the darkness inside me. Smart girl.
The night was too quiet. The men under our command started the night full of tension. With every passing song, with every round of applause, the alertness left them—like air being let out of a balloon. They still waited at their post, but they didn’t expect violence.
I always expect violence. That’s why I’m good at my job.
&nbs
p; The concert ends. There is zero air in the fucking balloon. That’s when light flashes on the roof of the pharmacy across the street. It’s not an electronic kind of light. Not a phone or a flashlight. It looks like a mirror reflecting the moon. That’s some old-school KGB shit, like Morse code or invisible ink. I calculate the angle it would take for someone to see it and round the corner—in time to see a man wearing black drop from the building.
I pull my weapon, but he gets a shot off first—with the dull sound that accompanies a silencer. Pain blasts through my arm. Motherfucker. I chase him around the corner, wondering how many bastards he brought with him.
The back of my mind works through the strategy. How did he get onto the roof in the first place? We’ve had this building locked down for a week. Unless he’s been up there before then. Hiding in one of the many crevices. Pissing into a water bottle. Jesus.
He sprints around a corner, and I follow him. Dead end.
A wild glance behind him.
I straighten. “Gotcha.”
He raises his pistol. I pull mine, but he’s not pointing it at me. He shoots himself in the head. No capture. I bend down to check him for ID. Nothing. Every mission is a suicide mission if you aren’t afraid to die. I pick up his weapon. It’s Russian made. I bet the serial number has been filed off. A search of his pockets reveals a radio. We can use this to find the others. As long as we get someone alive, we can turn them over to the State Department and lift the threat to Samantha. I raise my hand to speak into my watch.
A burst of pain at the back of my skull.
The world goes dark.
Samantha
The caverns look like a sewer. Unfortunately, Liam was right about that. They don’t smell amazing, either. The only good news is that there’s a walkway out of the water. I climb down a metal ladder and wait at the bottom, worrying over Josh. He’s kind of an asshole, but I still love him like an uncle. Or a brother, I suppose, if I’m really going to marry Liam.