Bouchard stalls at the threshold in her wolf costume, a few inches behind the Phantom’s prostrate form, waving a length of rope in her furry paws. “Hurry, let’s tie his hands!”
He’s on his feet before I can blink, shaking off whatever trance Jippetto and I managed to evoke. In a controlled blur of black leather and rage, he shoves Bouchard into the hall after snatching the rope. “Don’t move.” He casts the command like a silken net. She obeys, flat on her rump and not budging. “You, too. Sit.” He motions with his jackal head, directing the caretaker to Bouchard’s worktable. Like a robot, Jippetto takes a seat in the chair and becomes still as stone.
Witnessing the hypnotic mastery of his voice is awful and awe-inspiring—a fictional legend brought to life.
The Phantom’s eyes flare inside the mask. I tremble, backing up to my spot against the wall. “Come, pigeon.” He holds out a gloved palm, the other fisted around Bouchard’s rope. “You won’t want to be here for this.”
I fight the urge to obey, but his seductive voice shakes the caged song in my head as if it were a wild animal, stirring it to primal heights. The only way I can soothe the beast is to reach for him.
He pulls me close and ties my wrists together before working off my metal headband, wig, and cap. My black hair springs free, wild and tangled. He lifts my chin to study me, as if assuring himself I’m not Christine.
Then wrapping one arm around me, he lifts his free hand in a wave directed at the stuffed trophies on the wall. A loud buzz grumbles from the animals’ throats. I swallow a scream as swarms of bees burst from the muzzles and snouts—clouds of stingers and wings polluting the air.
Sunny and her allergy springs into my mind, followed by everyone else I’m supposed to be protecting.
I struggle, but the Phantom loops my tied arms around his neck so I’m facing his chest. With his heel, he nudges a ridge in the baseboard, opens a secret panel, and yanks me in with him, before shoving it closed and leaving the confused insects on the other side.
Darkness surrounds us. He drags me up some stairs. I clutch at the edges of each step with my bare feet, boring with my toenails until they bleed. He overpowers me and we reach the upper level. The instant we step into the narrow passage, he picks me up. His scents of formaldehyde and leather sting my nose, making me woozy. That embedded song claws deeper into my cranium, incapacitating me.
“Take her.” This time, his words aren’t directed to me. They’re for Professor Tomlin, who’s waiting in the shadows.
“It will be over soon, Rune. Then you can have your life back.” My body is too limp to react to the betrayal slithering through my veins as Tomlin slides my tied wrists from around the Phantom’s head and scoops me into his arms, his beard brushing my temple.
I’m only half-aware when my captors stop on the other side of the ballroom’s mirrored wall. The sheer gold fabric paints a hazy scene within: staff and peers oblivious to the swarming bees on their way up. I try to find my friends or my aunt in the crowd, but my vision blurs. With a twitch of his fingers, the Phantom conjures another trick, stirring life into the black leaves on the trees and the floor. They burst into flight like bats, lifting the cobweb chains lining the tables and dive-bombing the now-screaming students and teachers. The bats drop their nets, trapping everyone. My mind is muddled . . . I can’t decide if they’ve really morphed into bats, or if I’m totally unconscious now, having a nightmare.
Tomlin moves us out of the way. The Phantom pulls a lever on the wall that instantly shuts the ballroom’s double doors, locking everyone inside, then releases the enormous chandelier. It plummets to the floor on a high-pitched whistle, raising the chaos to another level as people struggle to scramble out of danger while tangled in the nets. I must be dreaming, because a statue comes to life to shove one of the students out of the way, and ends up getting crushed itself beneath a bone-jolting crash of glass and metal. The fabric tied to the crystal fixture catches fire as it makes contact with the candles around the room. In an instant, the trees against the wall erupt like kindling, cutting off my view with a wall of smoke and flame.
I barely hear the screams inside. I barely hear anything but the Phantom’s lyrical voice, filtered through his mask. “So, so clever . . . using her song, dressing like her, wearing her chains.” He jerks the ring necklace from my neck. “But you broke the tether of illusion just a moment too soon.” He traces the coiled ribbon marks on my wrist that show between spaces of rope, sending a chill through me. “My son should’ve taught you better. The devil’s in the details.” The Phantom takes me back from Tomlin, securing my wrists around his neck again, and cradling my body in his arms. My foggy head lolls against the cool leather of his jacket. “You, stay and see that everything goes as planned,” he directs Tomlin. “Miss Germain and I have an appointment with fate.”
25
SWAN SONG