Arnaund teetered in place, as affected by the sound as Etalon. They both looked to the doorway. A white, satiny mask covered the buyer’s entire face, with a small slit for the mouth. The artificial lines of a perfect nose and cheekbones were molded into the fabric—hauntingly distinguished alongside his pressed black suit and cape, both of which appeared to be from another century.
Arnaund offered a bumbling bow. “Might I see the payment?” He braved the question as soon as the stranger’s words stopped echoing through the room—the tidal wave leveling to a peaceful, lapping lull.
The buyer’s gaze glinted an otherworldly gold inside the black depths of the mask’s eyeholes. Etalon whimpered as a leather-clad hand flashed a bagful of silver coins—more than he’d ever seen in his short life—then tucked it away before Arnaund’s eager fingers could grab it.
The Phantom was tall and rail thin, but he didn’t need meat on his bones. He radiated power, something beyond the physical—a feral confidence that crackled from him, like an electrical pulse on the air. He nudged Arnaund aside and crouched in front of Etalon, who withered at the cool, slick touch of the glove cupping his chin.
The Phantom looked him over twice, clucked his tongue, and released Etalon’s face. He stood, took off his cape on a swish of dark fabric, and wrapped Etalon’s shivering half-naked form in its warmth, an empathetic gesture Etalon never expected from a creature that frequented the haunts of bugs and serpents. A scent of something alkaline and burnt lingered in the velvety fabric, stinging Etalon’s nose.
“This?” The Phantom gestured to Etalon. “This is the avenging angel feared by all the tittering rats of Paris?”
“Yes,” Arnaund said. “Is there a problem? Does he not exceed any and all hopes you had?”
A hiss seeped from under the mask. “The problem,” the Phantom’s mesmerizing voice growled, “is that this is a boy. I was led to believe otherwise.” He stepped toward Arnaund with the grace of a black panther, and stopped short of standing on his toes.
Arnaund eased two paces back, his forehead beading up with sweat—a physical transformation so spontaneous and swift that it appeared his skin was melting under the flickering light. Etalon wished he would melt . . . all of him. Melt to a puddle of bile and blood on the floor to be licked up by the vermin that overran this hell hole.
“Y-yes, a boy,” Arnaund stuttered in answer to the Phantom’s observation. “But . . . look at him. He’s lovely enough to be serviceable to any preference. And a boy can offer the same pleasures as a girl—more in fact. Once they’re properly taught. That will be your privilege. He is untouched.”
The buyer glanced over his shoulder. Etalon’s throat went dry, dread squeezing it tight, as he saw curiosity in those glinting eyes—as though the masked creature was reconsidering. “Sing for me, little one. I want to hear this life-altering voice. Force me to face my most unforgivable sins.”
Etalon froze, as did Arnaund. The only sound in the room was the buzz of the lightbulb.
The Phantom’s gaze flashed like currents of heat under the mask. “I said sing, child. Sing, and live to see another day.”
His voice drifted toward Etalon—an alluring and irresistible summons, despite the threat it carried—and shook his vocal cords, as if to wake them. Etalon opened his mouth and released his broken song, more grating than a screeching rabbit thrown into a boiling stew. He winced simultaneously with the masked man.
The Phantom spun on his heel to face Arnaund. “Is this your idea of a trick, flesh peddler? Bringing me the wrong child?”
Etalon sobbed, unable to contain his loss and shame another minute. “I was the angel. They took my voice.” He strained against the cuffs that ate into his wrists. “They took my voice . . .”
Arnaund grunted, growing impatient. “The little freak wouldn’t shut up. What does it matter? We didn’t break anything of import. Do you want him, or no? I’m sure there are others far more wealthy and discerning than you who will see his worth—busted vocal cords notwithstanding.”
Arnaund’s ultimatum hung in the air—the last words he would ever speak. In a subtle move, less than a twitch, The Phantom snapped a long, thin cord from beneath his right glove where one end had been wrapped around his wrist. An egg-size ball of lead rolled from his sleeve and swung at the other end. He flung out his hand before Arnaund could even react. The cord released a high-pitched whine, like a dog whistle. The lead ball wrapped the strand around Arnaund’s neck, three times, until slamming violently into his Adam’s apple, crushing it. A strangled gasp escaped his mouth.
The Phantom tightened the noose with a sharp tug. “Plead for your life, swine. Plead, and I vow to let you live.”