Author's Note: This story is written with the novel Phantom by Susan Kay in mind, though if I take this into the time frame of the original novel it will become more Leroux-based. Nadya is mine, everything else belongs to Gaston Leroux and Susan Kay. My goal is to get a chapter or two up a week; some weeks may be more, some may be less, we'll see. Feedback is always appreciated, so if you have the time leave a review. They make my day. :)
Her pursuers whooped and shouted with cruel pleasure as she ran as fast as her legs would carry her though the woods. Twigs snapped under bare feet as she ran, leaping over a fallen tree with the grace and desperation of a doe in an attempt to flee the wolfish men not far behind her. The crisp autumn air was beginning to burn in her lungs, but stopping was not an option.
The mossy forest floor was quickly giving way to gravel, and the sound of running water quickly grew louder. Without pausing for a moment the young woman turned quickly to her right and continued, hoping beyond hope that the river ran straight. If luck was on her side there was a chance she could lose her would-be attackers before she completely lost her bearings.
Luck was not on her side. The men must have split to cut her off, for there one stood, tall and fair-haired in her path. Skidding to a halt, the young woman hurriedly dug a knife out of her skirts. The blade was small, meant only to dig up roots and mushrooms, but it was sharp and might afford her a final chance at safety.
The wolfish man stepped forward with a grin, holding up his hands as if in defense. "You gypsies have spirit," he remarked in a language foreign to the girl who brandished the knife more boldly than she felt, the one word she recognized making her blood boil. Gypsy. These European pigs thought them so civilized and her so wild when it was they who wanted nothing more than to satisfy themselves!
"I hear they're just as spirited in the sheets," a second man remarked from directly behind her, causing her to pivot and attempt to brandish the knife in a way that threatened both of them. This only seemed to amuse the men as they advanced on her with little concern. The man who had spoken first grabbed the arm wielding the blade as her attention was on the other man. She yelped and began to thrash wildly as knife dropped and the men attempted to contain her. Biting and kicking did little to stop the stronger men from pushing her down onto the gravel.
Without warning a voice boomed from the trees, causing the struggling trio to freeze. "Leave the woman," it commanded, causing the men to glance between one another. Gathering her wits, the young woman scrambled to her feet and grabbed the knife off the ground as the men sized up this new threat.
"And why should we?" The fair-haired man demanded. "Because some coward who can't even show his face said so?"
A dark laugh came from the trees then, and a movement behind her caused the young woman to spin. A tall black horse stepped forward, its rider equally imposing. The man was tall and sat in the saddle like royalty in spite of his working man's wardrobe, with sleeves rolled past the elbow and a vest neatly buttoned over his narrow frame. He was an odd sight indeed, but one thing made him odder still – A black leather mask adorned the man's face, his eyes glinting behind it like stars in the night. Those eyes found hers with ease, and for a moment it looked as though he were debating whether or not to continue intervening. When he spoke again, his eyes were still locked onto hers. "I am giving you one final chance. Leave the woman, and keep your lives. Should you refuse you will find yourselves standing upon your graves."
"Was that a threat, Gnädiger Herr?" The fair-haired man demanded, the title dripping with sarcasm. Unable to pull her gaze away from the mounted man's, the young woman only perceived only a flash of silver as the man flung a blade at the insulter, dropping him to the ground the instant the blade pierced his throat. The second man's eyes widened at the instantaneous of his companion, and the coward hesitated for only a moment before bolting back into the woods the way he had come.
Finally the masked man dropped her gaze, leaving her feeling as though she had been lifted from a trance. The gravity of the man's actions washed over her in a wave as he rode the horse past her and dismounted, striding with long legs to retrieve his knife from the neck of his victim, and even freed from his gaze all she could do was stare.
As the man stood again, he noticed her look. "Shouldn't you be off to your camp, Gypsy?" He demanded, the first words she recognized since the chase began. Again that word, spoken this time with disgust."
"…You speak Romani?" she asked curiously, but the man made no answer. She tried again. "You insult me in my own language, and you saved my virtue if not my life. You are an odd man."
"If I had known you were a Gypsy I would have passed by unannounced," he promised, again speaking the word 'gypsy' as though it were bitter on the tongue.
"You killed that man without even looking at him," she remarked. "I couldn't turn my eyes away from you… You didn't want me to see," she concluded finally, dark brows furrowed curiously as the man wiped his blade on the leather of his horse's stirrup before mounting more gracefully than a man of his height ought to have.
"There are certain things no woman should see," he concluded, tucking the knife into his riding boot.
"My name is Nadya. Please, come to camp with me. You look as though you haven't eaten in days," she offered, and it was the truth. The man was far thinner than even a sickly Roma man, his pale arms almost skeletal looking.
"I have no interest in fraternizing with your kind," the man said simply. How was he able to make her feel guilty for simply being of her own race?
"Sir, you saved my life. At least let me do you this small favor in return. Your horse looks as though he could use the rest as well. How long have you been traveling?"
The man was quiet for a long moment, but he did not move away. "I have been traveling most of my life, the same as you. My most recent journal has been nearly two years."
"It doesn't look to me as though you've rested much of it. Come and eat with us, have some wine. My father will want to thank you."
"It was my understanding Gypsies are loathe to let outsiders into camp," the man remarked, and Nadya could tell she was wearing him down.
"It is, but an exception would undoubtedly be made for a man who speaks our tongue and who saved me," she promised. There was another long period of silence as the man carefully considered her offer.
Finally he made his choice. "Very well," he said, offering his hand down to help her up onto the hulking horse. Nadya accepted it and gracefully pulled herself behind him. She couldn't help but notice him watching her as she mounted, as curious of her as she was of him.
"Head north and away from the river. We're camped in a clearing about two miles off."
The welcome they received upon reaching the camp was about as warm as the man had expected, the men moving forward to inspect the intruder with their hands hovering just over their knives. Nadya slipped gracefully off the back of the horse, and one of them men dropped his hand, stunned. "Nadya? Is this who you've been with all this time?" The man asked, both angry and astonished.
The young woman shook her head, long dark waves flowing as she did so. "No, Papa. I picking mushrooms and tubers when some men from the city approached me. I ran and ran all the way to the river, and this man saved me," she explained. "I might not have come back at all if it weren't for him. I invited him to share a meal and rest his horse. He's been traveling for a long time. Papa, he even speaks our language."
Looking from his daughter to the masked man on horseback, the proud Roma man spoke again. "Is this true, Stranger?"
"I cannot vouch for your daughter's whereabouts before I found her, but everything after is true," the mounted man confirmed in the same tongue.
After a hesitant silence, the man waved to his peers, who let their hands fall from their blades. "What is your name, Stranger?"
"Erik."
"Only Erik?"
The masked man nodded curtly, and the Roma man waved the man down. "Very well then, Erik. Supper is nearly ready, Come and break bread with us."
Erik sat on his own and ate in silence, keeping a careful eye on his horse as he ate. Nadya sat beside him, cupping her wooden bowl in her hands and smiling to him. "You look as though you could use some company."
"I'm quite fine on my own," Erik remarked, though he made no attempt to move. The young woman blew gently on her stew to cool it before taking a sip. "It would be better with mushrooms," he added, watching her as she laughed lightly.
"Ah, so my savior has a sense of humor," she praised. "I was beginning to think I had been rescued by Death Himself."
"Your tribe is small," Erik said, ignoring her jibe.
Nadya nodded her agreement. "We are only one family, twenty eight of us in total. About fifty years ago my grandfather decided that we should split away from another group when there was a disagreement over whether or not to begin displaying freaks. A horse had been born dead, but with two heads. A few of the men thought it would be a wonderful source of revenue. My grandfather thought it was disrespectful, and since no compromise could be reached he split away from the others. Here we are."
Erik stared into his bowl wordlessly. Nadya watched him curiously, wishing she could read his features under the mask. "Did I say something to offend you?"
The masked man shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "On the contrary."
Sensing it was not a subject the man wished to pursue, Nadya returned to her stew, placing the bowl aside and turning to face him, holding out her hands expectantly. "Give me your hand."
In spite of the mask, Nadya could tell Erik was raising a brow out of curiosity and concern. "Come now, I'm not going to hurt you. Give me your hand," she insisted again, and finally Erik obeyed. Nadya turned it over and smiled. "You're left handed," she remarked, and Erik seemed surprised.
"How did you know?"
Nadya smiled brightly. "You just handed me your left hand. Most people hand me their right," she explained, and the man seemed somewhat impressed by the observation. She continued, studying his hand and drawing her fingers across its various divots and lines as she spoke with a small frown. "You have led a very difficult life, even though you are not as old as I thought. You were mistreated by a parent from a very young age, and at one point were held in captivity. Your experiences have made you hard hearted, yet I also see that you are insatiably curious. You can appreciate beauty in a way that few others can, and the wonders of the world do not escape you. You have the strongest head line I have ever seen," she added, looking up to him, "yet you also have calluses on your hands. I've never seen a working man with such intelligence. But you aren't book learned. You learn through your experiences. They are what have made your heart hard."
Erik watched her intently as she continued tracing the lines in his hand. "You have a short temper but a great capacity for love. This has gotten you into trouble in the past, and it will continue to trouble you well into the future. There will be two great loves in your life. One of them will be lasting, the other will be vain and fleeting. It's strange though, it seems the lasting love comes first."
"You are much better than the other fortune tellers I've seen," Erik remarked quietly. "Why do you think a lasting love would come first?"
"Well, there are several possibilities I suppose. The first thing that occurs to me is that she might die and you will be a widower. Another thought is that sometimes love simply isn't enough. Perhaps she leaves, perhaps you leave, but you will never love her any less for it. Or perhaps I'm simply wrong and the vain love does come first. When did you see other fortune tellers?" Nadya asked curiously as Erik pulled his hand away.
"You are too curious for your own good," he remarked, standing to wash his bowl. "Thank you for the meal."
Nadya frowned and stood, taking her own bowl to the wash. "It's going to be dark soon. Where are you going to camp?"
"I'm not."
"You could stay the night with us," she offered, and the masked man turned to her sharply.
"What is wrong with you?"
The young woman looked confused as she pushed a dark wave of hair back over her shoulder. "What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly what I say. First you insisted I eat with you, then you question me as thoroughly as St. Peter at the gates of Heaven, now you want me to stay the night in your camp. Were you dropped on your head as an infant?" He demanded, the shocked look on her face causing his shoulders to drop some, almost as though he regretted his words though he made no attempt to apologize.
"You spilled a man's blood to protect my virtue, if not my life, in spite of your obvious prejudice against my people. To me, that is worth far more than a meal and safe place to spend the night. I don't know what it is you think you know about the Roma people, but in our family we repay the gifts we have been given. I admit, I questioned you because I am curious. I forget sometimes how private Europeans can be, and I do apologize if my questions have offended you," she promised sincerely. Erik hung his head some as Nadya took his bowl with hers to dry it.
"All right," he finally announced as Nadya was moving back towards the fire. Smoothing her brightly colored skirt, Nadya looked up to him curiously and sat. "I'll stay the night."