“As you wish, Erik.” Andrea relented and left to carry out his request.
* * *
Finally alone, Erik tried to recoup his thoughts. He stripped his clothing and noticed his suit coat had jagged tears from the shards of glass upon which he had fallen. It was a miracle his face missed the pile of broken crystal. They could have easily dug into his exposed flesh leaving him scarred on the other side of his face. He grimaced at the thought.
He threw his cognac-stained clothing in a heap and drew a hot bath. He wanted to take time and soak his stressed muscles. Erik took advantage of the quiet moment to sort out his torn heart filled with shock and remorse. He struggled with the revelation as his vivid memory envisioned Désirée’s scars.
How could he not react to what he saw? It was hideous. He had worshipped her beautiful face, hair, and eyes. Her appearance had been a facade. She was like two different people—gorgeous on one side and ugly on the other.
The thought stabbed his conscience with a sharp thrust of realization. For the first time in his own miserable life, he had experienced the horror others felt when they looked upon his deformity. He could barely control his own shock with Désirée. The sight sickened and repulsed him. He was mortified and deeply ashamed over his reaction to her scars. The Phantom was no better than the rest of humanity, void of compassion.
Erik’s entire life had been spent seeking one thing—beauty. He worshiped beauty. He hungered for it. It was an insatiable need in his life to counteract his own grotesque appearance. It had been the reason he obsessed over Christine. In his mind, she represented the epitome of beauty in her voice, face, and body. Erik wanted to possess her soul and become one with the beauty of her flesh and spirit.
As he soaked in the bath, his chest grew heavy with grief. Désirée posed the greatest challenge of his life. He struggled with profound shame. He had fallen deeply in love with the Désirée he thought he knew. She had appeared to him as a beautiful angel, with blue eyes, and a body that he worshipped in his imagination. Underneath the veil of her clothing lay the truth hidden from his eyes. He couldn’t imagine loving the ugliness he abhorred.
No matter what he felt, he had to rescue Désirée from further suffering. It wasn’t right to make her pay for her mother’s sins, who no doubt like a crafty witch had poisoned her daughter’s mind into seeking revenge. Erik remembered her last words when he had returned her to her room. “I hate you! I hate you!” It had been a lie, for he had heard her words while in a semi-conscious state as he lay prone on the floor. “I love you! I love you!” Somehow, he knew it to be the truth.
Erik rose from his bath, dried, and dressed in clean clothes. He worried over how he would react to seeing Désirée again, but he had to. He alone caused her suffering and the scars on her back. One moment of his madness had turned her beautiful life into a thing of ugliness. He had to make restitution.
* * *
Désirée crawled into the corner of her cell and sat against the stone floor and wall, bobbing back and forth in uncontrollable wails. As far as she knew, her mother had died, and she had been charged with conspiracy to commit murder. Everything had come crashing down around her at an unprecedented rate. Things had gone terribly wrong.
It had all seemed so rational when they hatched their scheme. They were going to tell Erik they would inform the Parisian authorities where he could be found unless he paid restitution. One way or the other, they were going to make him pay for his reign of terror in Paris that had terribly scarred their lives.
Désirée had spent nearly six months in a Parisian hospital recovering from burns and subsequent infections. The pain could only be killed by morphine. She had taken so much that, by the time her recovery came, she needed to withdraw from her addiction. Her life had turned into a living hell of a broken engagement, a broken body, and a broken spirit. Désirée’s mother swore every day that the Ghost would pay for what he had done.
Sybelle had been a faithful mother and stood by her, daily encouraging her to recover when she often wanted nothing more than to die. Everyone knew the Ghost of the opera house had been responsible for the horrible night of terror. The police looked for him, and so did Sybelle.
She had heard rumors that Madame Giry had been his friend and confident over the years. Sybelle had hired a private detective to follow Andrea’s whereabouts. When she received a report that Andrea left France for Malta with two other men, it piqued her interest. She had followed an unknown investor who purchased a defunct Royal Opera House.
Convinced they were on the trail of the monster that had destroyed their lives, Sybelle had convinced Désirée to travel to Malta, so they could infiltrate his world. Désirée applied for work feigning lies of having worked at the Royal Opera House before it burned down. Madame Giry hired her without blinking an eyelash. It had been too easy. Suddenly she found herself surrounded by his world, but unable to find him as he continued to hide behind his secret doors, until that fateful night in the orchestra pit. The next she knew, the Ghost appeared in front of her, and she looked into the face of the man who had caused her pain.
It had been easy at first. Désirée wanted him to pay as much as her mother did, so she played upon an opportunity to continue seeing him. Everything fell into place like a well-dealt hand of cards in her favor. She fed off her own bitterness to continue the façade in front of the mysterious man. Her only struggle proved to be the profound way his violin playing made her burst into tears each time she heard the glorious strains of music. His playing hypnotized her emotions, filling her with longing instead. She tried to resist, but quickly fell under its spell.
After she met Erik and spent time with him night after night, she discovered his attractive genius. At first, it fascinated her, but then a hook drove through her heart and would not let go. Seeds of doubt sprouted over the wisdom of their plans.
However, her mother remained determined. Désirée feared disobeying, even though she tried to talk her out of it more than once. Blackmail extorted money, so what they had planned really hadn’t been that dreadful. She never imagined that her mother intended to murder him instead.
As she continued to rock back and forth, oblivious to the world around her, Désirée struggled with her mother’s parting words. She wondered if Erik loved her. Could he love her now? He had loved her beauty, but she had lied. No beauty remained in her soul, and she aligned herself to being a monster inside and out, just like the Ghost she once hated. Désirée lowered her head into her knees, dealing with the crushing weight of painful regret.
A key inserted into the steel lock, and her head shot up to see if they had come to hang her without a trial. To her surprise, the jailer opened the door, and Erik entered her cell. Désirée’s lip quivered at the sight of him, longing to hear a word of forgiveness fill her ears. He stood silently studying her tear-streaked face showing no emotion whatsoever. Instead, only a cold steel-like glare from his dark eyes bore into her wounded heart. He reached out his hand and spoke.
“You’re free to go, Désirée. The charges have been dropped. I want you to come with me back to the opera house.”
She looked at his face and his outstretched hand that stayed firm and unshaken before her. Had he forgiven her after all? She wobbled to her feet and took a step forward. “Please,” she pleaded in a forced whisper. Her voice trembled. “Forgive me.” She put her hand in his palm, and his fingers wrapped around.
“We’ll talk of it later,” he responded in a non-committal tone. “It’s time to go.”
“And Mother?” she dared to ask, seeking confirmation of her death.
“She lives.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sybelle opened her eyes and focused on the white ceiling above her head. A searing pain in her abdomen caused her to wince and told her that she lived. The flames of hell had not engulfed her yet. The last thing she remembered had been Theresa bending over her body with her own dagger sticking out of her gut. Anger flooded through her veins over their
failure. Years of planning had ended unsuccessfully, and all she had to show for it was a hole in her stomach and a hospital bed.
She glanced around at her stark white surroundings. Instead of struggling in her weakened state, she decided to conserve whatever energy she had left to flee the hospital as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
Sybelle wondered what had happened to Theresa. She was still mad at her foolish confession of love. Her own daughter, who she had cared for through her pain and suffering, had disrupted the dagger’s plunge into the heart of the monster. She had looked forward to taking the knife and pulling it down his chest cavity to exposes his heart underneath. Such pleasure it would have been to stab it repeatedly until it ceased beating and it turned cold. Sybelle had played the scene over in her mind a thousand times before that evening. Instead of success, her daughter had ruined everything by falling for his wiles.
For three long years, she had devoted her life, money, and time to seeing her daughter restored to some semblance of normalcy. She had been so proud of her when she had caught the eye of Dom Fernando, the prince of Portugal. Next in line for the throne, Theresa would have been a princess.
Sybelle hadn’t been too surprised that a dancer at the Garnier had caught the eye of a prince. Obviously, it was her beauty and grace that enticed him, and with Sybelle’s coaching, she had won him over quickly. They would have been part of a royal family, living in wealth for the remainder of their lives. A date for the wedding had been set, and all was in place until that night—the one night that changed the course of their lives forever.
Désirée filled in for an absent dancer that evening. Dom Fernando attended the performance, drooling over his talented fiancée. Sybelle had accompanied him that night, and they sat above in one of the boxes to the right. Then all hell broke loose. Pieces of plaster tore from the ceiling and fell upon the stalls below. Afterward, a loud cracking noise filled their ears, and the crystal orb started its descent. It collided into the seats, and one poor woman underneath had been crushed to death. Others were injured trying to flee the disaster as the candles began their hellish job.
The lit candelabra quickly ignited the seats. As soon as it hit the carpeted floor, it crawled up the stairs to the stage like a monster from hell, catching the corner of the curtain on fire. Everyone on stage panicked and ran, but Désirée stood frozen looking up at their box to make sure they were all right. She stood shocked watching the horrible scene unfold before her eyes. Too engrossed to notice that the flames had spread upward and burned the ties of the curtain, it suddenly gave way, falling upon Désirée. The heavy weight of the fabric pushed her face forward onto the stage floor.
Sybelle would never forget the screams of her daughter trying to wiggle herself from underneath the burning fabric that pinned her into hell. A stagehand ran to her aid and pulled the heavy brocade cloth away, trying desperately to stomp out the smoldering flames. When Sybelle saw Désirée’s exposed back, she nearly died.
The hours that passed after that moment were branded into Sybelle’s mind like an etched painting. It would never leave. She fled to her daughter’s side. Désirée lay on the stage floor writhing in pain, her shrill screams filled the auditorium. Her clothes had been burned off her body, and Sybelle was helpless as she gazed upon the horror that remained. She looked up at Dom Fernando, who stood in the box motionless. He made no move to come to her side, but merely lowered his head and turned and left. The smell of her daughter’s burnt fleshed filled Sybelle’s nostrils. She would never forget it as long as she lived.
The weeks that followed were hell. Désirée lay drugged in a morphine stupor, unable to bear the pain. The doctors seemed helpless to heal her charred flesh and prevent infections. Finally, six months later, her skin began to scar over into a hideous landscape. Dom Fernando visited her once in the hospital and then never returned. He broke off the engagement. Sybelle never had the heart to tell her daughter he had wed another before her recovery. She lied each time Désirée asked if they had heard from him.
Months passed, and Sybelle used the time to her advantage while her daughter recovered. At first, speculation was rampant about the cause of the disaster. Somehow, the metal hook that held the chandelier in place either bent from the weight or snapped, causing the crash. After further investigation, it had been determined that the safety rope had been cut. Everyone blamed the Ghost.
Those who worked at the Garnier knew about the Ghost and his pranks. Désirée had told Sybelle the horror stories the girls passed around in the dormitories to frighten the daylights out of her. He was hideous and routinely captured unsuspecting women to drag them to his lair and have his way with them. Sybelle at first thought the stories nonsense, but after further investigation and pressuring of the managers after the disaster, she found out the Ghost truly existed. He used the catastrophe as a diversion to haul off one of the singers, a soprano named Christine Daaé, who he later released.
After the fiasco, he disappeared when the authorities began questioning his involvement in the mysterious death of the infamous Comte de Chagny. Others thought perhaps the Ghost had died too.
Sybelle’s psychic instincts told her otherwise. She knew the monster lived, and she had determined to make him pay for their pain and suffering. It did not take long for her hatred to turn into a bitter obsession for revenge. Nothing would satisfy her hunger for restitution, except holding his dead heart in her hands.
She had hired a private detective and everything fell into place. After her own investigation, it did not take a genius to put two and two together. The box-keeper, Madame Giry, had been his assistant. When he supposedly died, she mysteriously left for Malta a few months later with two male traveling companions. Désirée and Sybelle were not far behind.
Sybelle had carefully planned her revenge. It irritated the hell out of her that he remained free, and she had been confined to a hospital bed. The thoughts of the past and her unsuccessful outcome stirred her insane anger. She had to get up and leave. Her plans need completion, and the Ghost still needed to pay for his transgressions. Sybelle Hessier would never rest until revenged had been attained. This time, she would burn the opera house down with him inside. Erik Dante would feel the pain of flames, experience the smell of burning flesh, and wail in tormenting pain.
Sybelle tried to move, but when she did the searing pain in her abdomen returned. A nurse came to her side after hearing her moans.
“Madame, you need to lie still, or you will start to bleed again. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“I need to leave,” she spat. “I have things to do!”
The bitter words filled the room, and swiftly a uniformed police officer drew near to her bedside.
“Madame Hessier, I’m here to inform you that you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Erik Dante. As soon as you recover, you will be transported to the city jail where you will await trial for your crimes. Do you understand?”
Sybelle’s eyes grew wide in rage. “You stupid fool! You should be arresting him, not me! Don’t you know who he is?”
“He’s the owner of the Royal Opera House, Madame. Yes, we are aware of who he is.”
“You idiot! He’s the Ghost!”
The policeman’s brow rose over her incoherent ramblings. “Madame, he is no ghost, I assure you.”
Sybelle hated feeling helpless. She tried to move and sit up, but groaned in pain. The nurse pushed her shoulder back down on the bed.
“Madame, Madame! You must listen, or we will have to restrain you.”
The policeman cleared his throat. “You will remain here until you are recovered. A guard has been posted outside your door to make sure you stay put. Though I doubt in your condition, Madame, you are able to go anywhere.”
“Damn you! Damn you!” she growled.
He turned and left her bedside, and she looked at the irritating nurse giving her orders. “I will do as I please!” she announced.
“I’m afraid not,” the nurse re
torted. She picked up a syringe and motioned for an orderly to help her inject the needle. The man held Sybelle’s arm and shoulder in place, while she struggled against the assault on her body. The nurse shoved the needle through her flesh, causing her to scream in pain, as she injected the contents. Sybelle felt the quick rush of morphine coursing through her blood. The bitch had sedated her with enough painkillers to incapacitate her for hours.
“You’ll be back asleep in no time,” she reassured her. “And if you continue to fight your recovery, we will bind you to the bed. Do you understand?”
Sybelle looked at the policeman who stood nearby with a smug look of victory across his face. She wanted to spit at him, but did not have the strength to form the spittle to eject from her mouth. Next time, you bastard, she thought to herself. A moment later, everything went dark.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Has he seen her yet?” Richard asked, as he sipped his cup of tea in Andrea’s sitting room.
“No. He’s secluded himself away and only comes out at night to wander the streets again. He refuses to speak with her.”
“She seems no better,” Richard replied thoughtfully. “I see she’s returned to her duties, but her face is filled with remorse and sadness.”
“Her mother is recovering well, but has no future with the trial looming over her head,” Andrea added with a hint of satisfaction in her voice. “I still can’t believe she tried to kill Erik, but I suppose we must be thankful Désirée attempted to wrestle the dagger from her hand giving Erik time to defend himself.”
Richard set down his teacup and stood to his feet. “I’m not sure what we can do about it, Andrea, but it’s clear they both have deep feelings for one another. However, Erik cannot handle the obvious.”
The Phantom of Valletta Page 21