Etalon nodded, handing back the soiled handkerchief.
The Phantom tugged gloves onto his hands and looked toward the cave’s roof, the muscles in his neck corded with tension. “It doesn’t matter that you’re a demon’s spawn. You could still have a normal life. Your perfect face, flawless features . . . they’ll earn you a place of respect and power in that world. You can blend in, even rule, where I never could.”
“I don’t want to blend,” Etalon whispered. “I want to belong.”
The Phantom’s head tilted. “To follow me is to make a pact with darkness and solitude. No more sunlight. No more sky. No more friends or relatives. What I can offer you, in exchange, is a way to reclaim your songs. And I’ll give you an education, training, and protection.”
“You will show me how to wield the wire garrote and strangle those who would harm me?” Etalon asked eagerly.
A bubble of laughter erupted within his savior’s chest. “It is in fact a violin string. Catgut makes an excellent Punjab lasso. At least, my version of one. But I don’t believe I’ll share that particular skill. I must keep some form of leverage. I’ll educate you with other ways to defend yourself. I acquired many such useful talents in my past lives. Many useful talents.” Then, in silence, the Phantom guided him through a secret entrance into one of the sewage tunnels deep beneath Paris.
They walked, led only by a pinhole of light far in the distance and the fading glimmer beneath their own skin. Etalon tuned out the dripping water, their sloshing feet, and the stench soaking into the hem of the cape draped across his shoulders—so many sizes too big, yet something he aspired to one day grow into.
“Why did you wish to buy me?” he asked on a raspy murmur, half dreading the response, yet desperate to hear his rescuer’s melodic voice again.
“I thought you were someone else.” The answer broke beneath the mask, muffled and wracked with so much longing it bordered on agony.
“Who, sir? Who are you seeking?” Etalon pressed. “It will be my life’s work to help you find them.”
His savior stalled, those golden irises flickering in the recesses of the dark eyeholes, cauterizing Etalon’s heart like lit torches. “Your question will be answered in time, and I will hold you to that promise. Also, you are to address me as Erik.”
Etalon nodded. “And my name is—”
“Don’t even speak it.” Erik placed a glove on Etalon’s head, quieting him. In the blackness, the lower half of his mask made a scraping sound, as if a smile shifted the fabric. “Today, you become someone new. From this moment on, you belong to the underworld, from which you were born. You are something monstrous, but beautiful. Something fierce, yet fragile. You are Thorn. The part of the rose that is unloved . . . that everyone fears for its ability to bring a soul to bleed. That was your gift, and shall now be your identity, to honor what was taken from you by vile and treacherous men. It is a falsity, that monsters are the instigators of all the evil in the world. Our kind is capable of acceptance and mercy where mankind is not. For we see beyond the surface, as we live beneath it.”
Etalon leaned into the leather rested upon his head. He believed every word; this was the kindest, safest touch he’d felt in months. And it was at the hand of a monster. “Will you be my papa?”
Erik’s palm dropped away, and he turned his back, shoulders hunched as if the question pained him. “In time, perhaps. For now, the blood shed at our hands binds us. We will never again speak of our actions this day, unless I precipitate the conversation. Your secrets are mine to keep, and mine are yours. You will hide nothing from me. Swear to that, or turn away and leave me now.”
Thorn ended his violin’s song with a gradual slide of the bow, letting the note carry on a mournful wail through his underground home—the place he’d lived since he’d vowed his loyalty and devotion to the Phantom twelve years ago, a pact sealed by the blood of evil men.
Thorn had never spoken of that day, or of the children they saved and abandoned. In that, he’d been faithful. But he’d kept his visions of a twin flame silent for years, and harbored quiet, unspoken goals that he now knew went against everything Erik needed . . . everything he had waited over a century to possess.
Apprehension crept through Thorn’s blood, chilling him all the way to his bones. He rubbed his forehead, hard enough to pinch the skin—trying to erase his traitorous thoughts of Rune. Should he continue on this path, he would betray the only father he’d ever known. He would lose the accepting and merciful side of that heroic monster he met so long ago, and face the wrath of the scorpion with the Punjab-lasso tail.
13
SONG TO THE MOON
“You are the night, and the night alone understands you and enfolds you in its arms . . .”