Clenching his teeth against the cat’s sharp barbs digging into his bicep, Thorn kept his arm still. Diable had already left trails of bleeding claw marks across his left cheek, neck, and shoulder, having leaped from one of the wooden shelves on the wall to get to him. It had been the only way for contact, with the glass between them.
While Diable shifted positions, still digging at the keyhole, Thorn’s head sagged, trying to ease the tension from his neck. Hearing a small click in the iron band, he looked up. Before he could test his wrist, the elevator motor rattled to life and Ange trumpeted from within.
Ears back, Diable dropped to the ground and scrambled for a hiding spot. His jingles silenced upon finding one.
Thorn’s pulse raced as he waited, hoping against all hope that Erik was coming to confess the error of his ways. The minute the gated door opened, his heart fell, seeing Rune unconscious in Erik’s arms. This was no longer his father. This was the Phantom—in all his dark and depraved glory. Every spark of light had been snuffed out.
The Phantom’s yellow gaze met Thorn’s as he passed him to lay her on the table. Ange tottered behind, grunting, obviously vexed by their guest’s motionless state.
Rune moaned without opening her eyes—toes spotted with dried blood; hair bedraggled; clothes dusty, rumpled, and scented with smoke. She’d been through a hell of a fight. That could only mean one thing: the Phantom hadn’t fallen for their ploy, he held Rune inside a musical thrall, and the opera house was burning down.
Thorn took one look at her tied wrists, and his entire frame shifted and compacted—muscle and bones bracing together like tectonic plates against the explosion he felt inside of himself, a final detonation that killed every last ounce of the compassion he’d been struggling with for years. No more hesitation. The moment the opportunity presented itself, he would destroy this lair and everything in it. He’d sooner see their home demolished and lives ended than Rune pay the price for their deviant choices.
The cuff on his right wrist felt looser. Diable had managed to unlock it. With just one tug, it would pop open. But his left hand was still locked in place; he couldn’t pull the lever until Rune was able to swim out of here herself.
The Phantom turned his back and lifted off the bulky gas mask, replacing it with a flesh-colored one that stopped at the bottom of his upper lip. It was always his choice for meticulous work: form-fitted with larger eye holes, leaving him unhindered while still covered. He mumbled under his breath like a madman as he shucked off his jacket onto the floor.
Curious if the key to the handcuffs might be inside one of the pockets, Thorn sent a silent command to Diable to check it out. The cat slinked from his hiding spot, not even ringing one bell, and wound around the edges of the room toward the jacket. Ange’s long neck arched gracefully as she watched her feline friend, considering whether it was a game she wanted to play.
“What have you done, Erik?” Thorn tossed out the question as a diversion.
“Christine will forgive me. She has to. I’m giving her voice to our daughter.” Erik replaced his leather gloves with latex, snapping them tight over quaking hands.
Thorn had never seen Erik so shaken. His gaze fell to Rune’s sleeping face—hope sparking anew. It had worked. She’d chiseled away enough of the Phantom’s protective shell to give Thorn a tender spot to gnaw on.
“She won’t forgive you,” Thorn baited, ignoring how his arm muscles were aching from their position. “You went to her on her death bed and swore you’d abandoned this madness. You sang with her in a final tribute to your child who was at last released to the dirt. Christine can’t forgive you, unless you follow through. Unless you make it true.”
Waddling around Erik’s feet, Ange fluttered up to the table and perched on Rune’s stomach where her hands were tied. The swan nudged the ropes with her bill and honked at Erik, scolding.
“Enough from the both of you.” Erik’s shaky fingers sorted through scalpels and instruments, arranging preferences on a silver tray with wheels. He also added the needle threaded with Katarina’s hair—planning to stitch the baby’s incision with Nilsson DNA, his own superstitious precaution. “Rune offered her consent, on the way here . . . upon hearing your plight. So no more guilt. She will live, just as Jippetto did.”
Thorn watched his father tremble. Rune would never survive the surgery under such quavering hands. Erik would slice her carotid artery and she’d bleed to death.
“She has this one small sacrifice to make, then you can be together,” Erik continued. “So ironic.” His gaze snagged Thorn’s with otherworldly potency. “I never expected to find you first. One-half of the flamme jumelle.”