“Mercier,” she mused, sticking her nose in the air. “You’re French then, Monsieur?”
“Indeed,” he replied with pride.
“Well,” she huffed, “I told my husband a thousand times the Royal Opera House needs to be restored for the sake of society and the arts of Valletta. Music is the mainstay of society. Don’t you think so, Monsieur?” She paused and then continued, “I’m sorry, what is your name again?”
Richard smiled. “Mercier.”
Erik raised his brow over the woman’s confession and glanced at her husband, who rolled his eyes, no doubt bemoaning the Frenchman who stood before them.
“I do hope,” she added, shaking her closed fan in Richard’s face, “that the new owner plans to restore the Governor’s box to its original design. Is the box still there? Do the grand statues still support the overhang?”
“You will see upon entrance, Madame, that the majority of the interior has been destroyed. The demolition, I’m afraid, did remove the box and supporting statutes, but I’m sure its restoration, as designed by the owner, will be pleasing to the eye. We will do our utmost to restore the opera house to its former glory, if not better.”
Very good, Richard. You are doing quite well. Erik felt pleased. He would probably give the Governor’s wife her box back, along with its outrageous overhang, if they contributed enough money to make it worth his while.
Richard extended his hand toward the theater doors, inviting them to join the celebration. “Please, enjoy the evening.”
Everything appeared under control, so Erik escorted Andrea into the main auditorium to mingle. As the crowds thickened, so did his anxiety. Living in a lair had been far more appealing than rubbing elbows with high society. He would have gladly retreated for the evening had it not been for his lust for the pocketbooks of aristocrats.
He wandered among the crowd, champagne flute in hand, listening to conversations of potential investors. They discussed beforehand that Andrea would mix with the crowd and report any overheard conversations that might indicate how the evening progressed.
The interior of the auditorium appeared clean and cleared of all debris, though the ninety-seven burned out opera boxes were an ugly eyesore. To compensate, Erik had commissioned banners to hang from the boxes draping downward to cover most of the destruction. They depicted in bright colors the various productions planned after the gala reopening. In addition, one large sign hung over the stage area declaring the words, the Royal Opera House – Ashes to Glory.
At the foot of the missing platform, thousands of fragrant roses surrounded the pit, which contained multiple musicians playing waltzes by several well-known composers. Tables lined the outer walls, overflowing with food, and servers in black footmen uniforms walked among the attendees, passing out copious amounts of alcoholic beverages. The ambiance played upon the gaiety of the crowd.
Richard arrived to make his rounds and answer questions. An architectural scale created by Erik sat upon a table, showing the potential investors the changes planned during restoration. Of course, Erik did not reveal his numerous new hidden corridors weaving throughout the building. The mockup attracted a large gathering of men, who stood examining it closely.
He glanced above at the missing roof feeling extremely thankful fate had given him a star-filled night. Erik had purchased canopies for the occasion, but once assured the weather would be clear, he decided against erecting them. The stars enhanced the atmosphere.
“It seems to be going well,” Andrea observed, approaching his side. “I’ve been milling about. Comments are extremely positive.”
“I’m pleased, I must admit,” Erik replied, his eyes skipping about the crowd.
“However,” Andrea’s voice lowered with a tone of concern, “there is a woman who wishes to speak with you privately. She’s standing to the left of the orchestra pit dressed in an outrageous scarlet gown, red mask, and raven-colored hair.”
Erik turned his eyes toward the area and discovered the stranger staring at him intently. “About what?” he suspiciously inquired.
“She wouldn’t say.” Andrea clutched his forearm and looked into Erik’s eyes. “Whatever it is, I have an ill feeling regarding her presence here, and I’m not one to have such premonitions,” she emphasized.
Erik shrugged off her words. If anyone should have an ill feeling about someone’s presence, it should be her, he thought to himself. His dark eyes roved over the stranger’s frame, wondering what she could possibly want with him. No one knew his identity, or so he thought.
“I’ll go talk to her.” He turned and assured Andrea first. “Stop worrying. I’ll handle it.”
As he walked closer to her waiting figure, he examined her closely. Her gaze remained fixed on his movement, and Erik returned an unbroken stare. He stopped and allowed his tall frame to hover over her scarlet-clad body as he peered into her dark eyes.
“You wished to speak with me?”
“Why, yes, Monsieur Dante,” she responded in French. “My name is Sybelle Renard.” She stretched out her hand waiting for his lips to touch. Erik had been unaccustomed to obliging women in this manner and looked at her gloved hand with reservation. He thought it best not to spurn her should she wish to invest, so he swiftly lifted her hand to his lips and left a perfunctory kiss that merely grazed the fabric of her glove. He felt like spitting afterward.
“How do you know my name?” Erik responded in French, hoping to keep their conversation private from eavesdroppers. “I don’t believe that we have been properly introduced.”
The woman took a step closer toward Erik and peered into his eyes from the darkness of her own. She studied his masked face, keeping her intense gaze.
“An evil eye, Monsieur. I see within you an evil eye.”
Erik’s brow rose in surprise over her odd superstitious remark. “Oh, really?” he smirked. “And what does that evil eye tell you, Mademoiselle?”
The woman’s mouth curled into a wicked grin. “You’ve murdered before, perhaps?”
Erik’s blood ran cold. “What is it that you wish to discuss with me, since you seem to know so much about my evil tendencies?” he inquired in a curt and menacing voice. For a brief moment he studied the bold woman in front of him with curiosity.
“You may rebuild your Royal Opera House,” she told him confidently. “But the ground is cursed, and it will be destroyed again. One never knows when such things will happen,” she added void of emotion. “But it will be a pile of rubble again one day. I assure you.” She leaned in close to his ear and lowered her voice. “The spirits beneath are angry.”
Erik’s irritation grew with each word. “You presume much, Mademoiselle,” he responded in a drawl of disgust. “You conclude that I am the owner of this building. You appear to have intimate knowledge that I’ve killed in my lifetime. Now, you stand before me like some idiotic soothsayer who can see the future of the building in which we stand.” He paused and then spat out his thoughts. “Arrogance and rubbish!”
His knuckles tingled with temptation as he looked at her scrawny neck. He hadn’t felt any evil tendencies to strangle the life out of anyone in a long time. The unknown guest had succeeded in resurrecting darkness buried in his soul, and he wondered why.
“And how do you know the future of the ground we stand upon?”
“I sensed it when I arrived from France, Monsieur. Premonition is something that once given to a human, follows them no matter where they roam upon this Earth. I read signs, and spirits speak to me. I know the future. I’m gifted in telling fortunes.” She lifted her chin with smugness and spoke confidently.
In a surprise move, she stepped closer to Erik, her perfume wafting up his nostrils as she whispered in his ear. “Do you wish to hear your future, Monsieur? I find it quite intriguing.”
“I know you damn fortune tellers,” he spat in disgust. He stepped back from her sickening sweet scent. “I had my fill as a boy living among the tricksters and liars of traveling fairs. You thin
k I believe you?” He threw his head back and laughed, shrugging off her ludicrous statements.
“I’m surprised you are not a believer! Nevertheless, I will tell you what you so arrogantly refuse to hear.” Her eyes glazed over as if she had slipped into a trance, and her voice lowered. “You think that you have purchased your freedom and a new life, but you have only dug another grave for yourself. Hell awaits you, Monsieur, and so does the destiny you fear.”
Erik watched her closely when she stared boldly into his dark eyes. She reached out, trailing her index finger from the base of his neck down his chest until it stopped above his heart.
“And here, Monsieur Dante, is your fate.” Her fingertip rested heavily upon his vest making her point. “You wish for beauty and love. Love you will find, but without beauty, and it shall pierce your heart like a dagger. In the end, it will be your undoing and death.”
The woman let out a grotesque chuckle and then pulled out a calling card from her sleeve, shoving it into Erik’s coat pocket.
“Should you wish to know more, you may find me at that address. Good evening, Monsieur.” She turned, her skirt rustled with its layers of silken fabric. Suddenly, she abruptly stopped and peered over her bare shoulder to speak her last words.
“Oh, and you shall do quite well this evening. You will raise the funds needed, and you will rebuild. Whether the building stays erect for centuries to come, is entirely another matter, oui?”
The woman winked at him and then walked away, leaving Erik standing alone in a crowd of people. Erik’s heart thumped hard in his chest. How did she know his name? What did she really want?
“My God, Erik, what did she say?” Andrea asked, quickly coming to his side.
Erik shook his head. “Nonsense. She said nothing but nonsense.” He took a sip of champagne that had grown warm in his hand from clutching the glass as she spoke her venom. It wasn’t often that anything riled the Ghost or caused him uneasiness. Frankly, this had been the first time, and it irritated the hell out of him coming from a damnable woman no less.
“There are always a few lunatics among the sane.” He laughed it off. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to mingle.”
He left Andrea’s side and kept a wary eye on Sybelle Renard, who spoke with other guests in the crowd. He wished she would leave. Her words burned into his mind and kept repeating like a haunting musical score sung out of tune. Her presence agitated him at a most inopportune time.
After a full hour of revelry, drinking, and dancing, Richard walked to the front of the orchestra, instructed them to stop playing, and turned to greet the guests.
“Ladies and gentleman!” Richard’s voice carried loudly through the auditorium aided by the acoustics of the hall. The crowd hushed as all eyes turned on his tall, commanding appearance.
“Welcome to the Royal Opera House of Valletta. It is my pleasure to be the new manager of this fine establishment without a roof.” He pointed his hand and head upward, amusing the attendees. “At least we’ve been graced with a vision of stars above this evening. However, I come to you with an urgent request.” Richard toned his voice appropriately for the event. “It is the desire of the esteemed owner of this superior structure to return splendid divas to the stage and fill this house with musical entertainment that will leave you breathless.”
Richard changed the tone to one of jest. “Of course, to do that, we must first empty your pocketbooks and wallets just a wee bit.” Richard raised his thumb and index finger together, leaving an inch of space. The crowd laughed.
“I have no qualms, I assure you, in investing my own life savings into this endeavor. Tonight, if you wish to participate as well, I invite you to do so. Help us raise this magnificent structure from ashes to glory. Become a patron of the Royal Opera House reconstruction, by making a generous donation this evening. In your honor, we shall inscribe your names into the stone walls as a tribute to your generosity. Let us rebuild together and bask in the glory that awaits us!”
Erik stood tall, listening to the thunderous clap from the attendees. Richard did well. Bravo! The man commanded the audience with his performance.
“And who is the new owner,” a voice surprisingly rang out from the crowd. “Why isn’t he here tonight?”
“Yes, who is the owner?” another demanded. The crowd all agreed, shaking their heads. Erik watched the unfolding scene with interest.
“Why, it’s a ghost!” Richard replied. “A ghost who prefers to walk among you even now.” Heads turned back and forth while people looked at other faces covered with masks. “He’s here among the crowd, I assure you. He prefers a relationship of confidentiality with his patrons. I’m here as his voice.”
Erik’s eyes rested upon Madame Renard, who caught his eye. She smiled, raised her flute to him, and then took a drink. In her hands at that moment, she had the power to reveal his identity, but she merely stood silent, staring at him with her dark eyes. Erik needed to take command of the situation to his own benefit, and he did so quickly.
“Every opera house needs a ghost!” he yelled over the heads of the crowd. “As long as the man raises Valletta’s opera house from the ashes, I say let him hide!”
“I agree,” added Sybelle Renard loudly.
Erik’s heart stopped.
“I will be the first to invest as a patron. Who else will join me?” she called out, spurning on the attendees.
Richard pointed toward Darius, who sat at a table, with his pen in hand and an open ledger, ready to receive donations.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, continue to enjoy the evening. My assistant will be more than happy to take your money and your names.”
Erik watched the throng of costumed attendees line up. The confident prediction of Madame Renard proved correct. The night had been a complete success and more than enough funds were donated to move forward and rebuild.
When the last carriage departed, Erik shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the woman’s card and read the embossed letters. “Madame Sybelle Renard, Prophetess – Fortunes, Readings, and Séances.” He flipped the card over and found her handwritten destiny, which caused his heart to skip a beat.
“And here, Monsieur Dante, is your fate. You wish for beauty and love. Love you will find, but without beauty, and it shall pierce your heart like a dagger. In the end, it will be your undoing and death.”
Chapter Seven
“No, no, no!” Erik cried, exclaiming his displeasure to Richard. “This stonework is shabby! Tell the workers I will not pay them unless the job is done correctly.”
Richard noted in his small black notebook the next complaint spewing from Erik’s lips. Nothing ever pleased him.
“Nothing will get finished if we keep redoing everything,” he responded in exasperation. Richard thought he might as well give his opinion.
Erik answered with a brash reprimand. “Don’t try and second guess me, Richard. You may know something about architecture and construction, but nothing compared to what my keen eyes see. I will not have this opera house open to the public unless it meets my standards of perfection.”
Erik continued walking down the line of boxes. “Look!” He pointed up above him. “See…see there? There’s a hairline crack in the stonework. That needs repair; otherwise the entire facade will eventually fracture and fall off.”
Richard squinted trying to see where Erik’s eagle eyes pointed but failed. He merely noted the inconsistency in his pad to bring it to the attention of the mason.
Each day at the end of the workers’ shift, Erik would emerge from his quarters and make his rounds with Richard throughout his domain. Erik had been spending his days with Darius behind the walls working on his secret labyrinth. The work neared completion, and Richard wondered about the torture Darius had endured working alongside his master’s ranting and raving for perfection.
Richard, on the other hand, had been pleased to learn that Erik voiced satisfaction in his managerial skills. After the masquerade, Erik had gi
ven him a sizable bonus for doing such an outstanding job, as he put it, dealing with the public. Thankfully, the event had been a success and sufficient funds were pledged to start construction.
In all honesty, Richard had to admit that he enjoyed the task of being Erik’s front man. Erik possessed the genius to succeed, but Richard possessed the gumption and persona to deal with the public and oversee the workers.
After his initial shock of finally meeting the masked man who had tormented him for years, he had comfortably slipped into a business-like relationship with Erik. In the past, their association had been strained and one of total anonymity on Erik’s part. Andrea had acted as the intermediary between the two, delivering the Ghost’s notes and demands for payment and instructions.
He had often wondered about the man who lived underneath the Garnier that succeeded in placing such dread within his own heart. The dangerous tendencies of the reclusive Ghost had finally played out in the death of one of the workers. Afterward, Richard reached his wit’s end. He blamed Erik for the murder, which in turn produced contention with Andrea, who came to his defense.
Their argument over the matter had been so severe that Richard decided to leave the wretched haunting and move elsewhere. He had asked Andrea to go with him, but she refused, retaining her loyalty to Erik. It had angered Richard enough to end their relationship. He feigned his departure using retirement as an excuse, taking the position in Italy leaving and them both behind.
When he first received correspondence regarding a head manager position at the Royal Opera House, he had been tempted. Of course, unbeknown to him, Erik merely lured him back into his web of control.
It took time to get used to the Ghost he had once thought of as an insane monster. As the weeks passed with constant interaction between the two, he saw the man beneath the mask and recognized Erik’s humanity. He was a human with a past and much bitterness, some of which for good reason. In Richard’s honest assessment, Erik’s character had been molded by his deformity, upbringing, and society’s cruel response and lack of compassion.
The Phantom of Valletta Page 6
