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Chapter 41
The resemblance between the man who had addressed me as his cousin and my father, whom I had not seen in thirty years, was breathtakingly uncanny, really.
I stared at my cousin for much longer than necessary, unable to take my eyes away from the face that had haunted me for as long as I could remember. I imagine for individuals suffering from arachnophobia it would be like living decades without seeing a spider and suddenly having one as big as a dinner plate thrust out in front of them. For me, it was like being ambushed by a ghost-the spirit of a man who had beaten me bloody, humiliated me at every turn, and made certain I was aware of how much he despised me.
Of course, in my mind my father's eyes were dark pits, his teeth-which this man kept behind a scowl-red with blood and sharp as daggers. This was not my father resurrected and yet… yet he was alive once more before my eyes.
"A mute, I see," the man standing over me muttered.
My skin prickled, my throat suddenly tight and tongue in knots. The terror I had felt in my youth rushed back like a wave threatening to pull me under. If there was ever a storm able to drown me, it was the cruel hurricane that was my father.
"I apologize," I said at last, forcing myself to look away. I shook my head as though somehow this would loosen the thoughts settling into the forefront of my mind.
The man grunted and Joshua pushed his chair back from the table. "What in the hell is wrong with you?" Joshua grumbled. "Why don't you properly introduce yourself?"
For a moment I thought he was speaking to me. Still rattled to the core, I started to stammer for the correct words, but when I looked at Joshua I found him nearly chest to chest with his visitor.
The other man barely batted an eye. "You mean you have not told him everything about me? What a surprise."
Joshua ignored the snide remark and offered his seat, which was immediately refused. With a sharp, warning glance toward the other man, Joshua at last turned his attention back to me and his features softened.
"Erik, I do apologize for my brother's rude behavior. Phelan, this is Erik Kire, Erik this is my younger brother and your cousin, Phelan Kimmer."
I had completely forgotten my uncle had three sons; Valgarde Joshua, Phelan-whose middle name I did not know, and the one named after my uncle, Alaksander Matthew, the child with the crooked spine who had died young.
There had been no mention of Phelan in any of the letters I had read in recent days, not that I thought mentioning his father would please him. I vaguely recalled there was somewhat of a falling out between father and middle son. My uncle had never elaborated on what had transpired between the two of them and I had not pressed for answers. At the time I thought I would be meeting Joshua within weeks and starting a new life alongside my uncle and cousin. I had wrongly assumed that everything else would simply fall into place.
"It is a pleasure to meet you," I said automatically.
Phelan snorted. "Oh, I am sure it is."
His sardonic tone caught me off guard. I considered offering my hand but instead lowered my gaze, unsure of how to respond to him.
While I was no stranger to others disliking me based on my appearance alone, I had difficulty processing that this was not only a member of family but one who looked exactly like the man I feared most. Not only did he resemble my father, but Phelan possessed his belligerence as well.
"Phelan," Joshua snapped. "If you wish to join us, I will have a chair brought out at once, however, if you intend on being the biggest ass in all of Paris, return tomorrow at noon. Quite frankly it does not matter to me what you do, my dear brother."
Joshua appeared positively livid. He widened his stance and crossed his arms over his chest as he awaited his brother's response, and for a long and tense moment the two of them stood toe to toe.
I studied Phelan while his attention was pulled away from me, noted how he was tall and thin, built more like me than my father. He had an imperial style beard, with a bit of gray threaded through both his facial hair and slicked back dark hair worn to his shoulders. Phelan was also lighter complected, no ruddiness to his cheeks and nose as was common with my father, but he had sharp eyes, sharp features, and a tongue that matched.
"I have nowhere to be," Phelan answered smoothly. He narrowed his eyes and kept his gaze trained on Joshua's.
"How utterly surprising," Joshua replied, his tone matching his brother's.
Phelan tsked Joshua and shook his head. "Now, now, Valgarde. That is no way to act in front of family."
I stood, mostly due to my apprehension that their remarks would eventually turn physical, and dropped Bessie's leash in the process.
"Here, I insist," I said, offering my chair in hopes it would placate Phelan.
Joshua looked away first and eyed me briefly. "That is not necessary. I will have another chair brought out at once." He hesitated a moment before he turned his back on his brother and strolled toward the front porch stairs.
Once Joshua entered the house, Phelan slowly turned and looked me over critically as though I were nothing more than a horse he considered purchasing.
"You are not as tall as I pictured," he said. His gaze settled on my mask, his lips quirking into a thin smile I could not read. "Ah yes, the mask of the most famous ghost in all of Paris."
His words were spoken loud enough for anyone passing by to hear him, and when I looked toward the sidewalk I was somewhat relieved to find it empty.
"That is not who I am," I said.
"You are incorrect," he said firmly.
"That is not who I am any longer."
He made no reply. His dark eyes bore through me, his gaze so intense I nearly looked behind me to see what he was staring at.
"You are visiting," I said, my voice low. It wasn't so much of a question as simply words spoken to fill the silence and hopefully change the subject.
"I am."
I don't know why I insisted on forcing the conversation as I had struggled all of my life with speaking to others face-to-face. My place in the Opera House allowed a certain level of pretense that I used to my advantage as few knew the halls, catacombs, and inner workings of the theater as I did. Rather than issue orders in person, I left carefully crafted notes. If my orders were not obeyed-and quite honestly I was sometimes surprised when they were-sets were knocked over, obnoxiously overconfident sopranos lost their voices, and chandeliers fell.
My domain was shadows, and I was a ghost, an entity talked about for so many years that I was almost a myth. Dancers touched a cross and a horseshoe before they took the stage for blessings and luck respectively. Managers saged the theater to keep the angry spirit away. Box Five was designated for me exclusively in order to keep the peace. Twenty thousand francs were delivered on the first of every month to avoid disaster.
No one saw me, which lent itself perfectly to my notoriety. As the outrageous stories grew, I was described as a yellow-eyed, floating apparition able to appear in two places at once, walk through floors and walls, and reach through chests to stop hearts. I was also responsible for an obscene number of missing ballet shoes and hair ribbons, but that was never my fault. Aside from perhaps Meg, the most absentminded of girls.
For years the rumors of the Opera Ghost spread faster than I had ever expected. To all of Paris I was more than a desperately lonely man living beneath the theater. The boy who had beaten by his father and displayed in the traveling fair was weak and incompetent, and with each year, I pushed the frightened child I had been back beneath the cellar in favor of something dangerous and enticing.
Perhaps I sought retribution for my youth, a false champion to rally on behalf of the sniveling, fearful brat I had been. I was a terrible child, always running away, but as The Phantom, I made others run from me.
But no matter what, my childhood was never truly far behind. It was always there, late into the night, every so patiently waiting for my eyes to close. Much as I tried, I could not keep myself awake forever, and there was no escaping the footsteps on the floorboards in dreams, the creak of the stairs beneath his weight when my father came to pay me a visit. It was always there, always waiting. And no one knew after I pushed Madeline away. No one knew but me.
Standing in a garden outside of my cousin's home, I was no longer a ghost. I was merely a man in a mask and a hairpiece bound to my fears-and that fear had returned in an unexpected way.
"You do not live in Paris," I said. I had no idea how much time had passed in silence or if Phelan had said another word to me, but I realized with such an obtuse observation I may as well have outright said I lacked the skill to carry on a decent conversation.
Phelan looked down his nose at me before he straightened his sleeves and pulled at the cuffs. "Do you not understand what it means to visit? Quite clearly I do not live here." He wildly gestured toward the street and I took a half-step back, startled by his sudden movements. Flinching was automatic, a reaction to a memory I could never discard.
The way in which I pulled back garnered his attention once more. He looked me over, a hint of remorse in his gaze that was quickly replaced by annoyance.
"May I ask where you are from?"
Phelan's dark eyes narrowed, scrutinizing. He took a long moment to examine his cuff links, and I thought for certain he would simply ignore my question.
"The same damned place as you," he said at last. I couldn't tell if his tone was casual or bored, though I suspected it was the latter.
He stepped closer to me and eyed my hands balled into fists at my side. I made every attempt to relax and seem impassive, but I knew I failed. My anxiety set my nerves aflame and I cursed myself for allowing him to have such an effect on me.
"I realize that, but-"
Phelan's gaze returned to mine, his expression still hardened. When I studied at him again, he looked different than my father. His eyes were not glazed over from hard liquor and he stood very still instead of stumbling over himself. He smelled faintly of turpentine and the musk of cologne mixed with a hint of tobacco. Pipe smoke. The familiar scent of my uncle. I searched his features again and made every attempt to find more of his father and less of mine.
"Weren't you supposed to be dead?"
I wasn't sure if he meant as a child or in the Opera House disaster and I doubted he would elaborate if I asked for clarification.
"I was," I admitted. "Many times over."
He grunted at my words, seemingly appreciating my answer. "I suppose I arrived before Valgarde could warn you of my impending visit."
"Perhaps."
Phelan smiled again, the same sickening, closed-lipped grin of satisfaction. His expression reminded me of how my father always seemed amused when he would strike me down and immediately tell me to stand. My father enjoyed watching me stumble as he knew full well I was terrified of disobeying his orders even when I could barely tolerate another blow. Each time he knocked me down, I hoped he would be proud of me for doing as he said, for my loyalty and obedience without question.
Phelan crossed his arms over his chest, which made him appear larger than before. He kicked at the gravel, which disrupted Bessie from licking sausage grease off her front paws.
She rolled to her feet and gave a full-body shake, then looked up at me, her eyes alert and questioning, before she briefly turned her attention to Phelan and sniffed at the air. Despite a breed known for their excellent sense of smell, she did not seem to notice him at all until he disturbed the gravel. Now that she had picked up a scent other than grease, she took a step forward and placed herself in front of me.
I suppose if Bessie had been a large and muscular Rottweiler, Phelan may have taken her stance as intimidating and protective. Unfortunately for me, she was nothing of the sort. At the very least she could have had the decency to stay upright, but being a spoiled hound, she plopped onto her side and eventually rolled onto her back, showing me her belly, which was clearly in need of being rubbed.
Phelan snorted. "Of all the remarkable breeds in the world, you have a basset hound."
Heat rose up the back of my neck. My hands clenched at my side, my jaw twitching. If he insulted me, so be it. But speaking ill of my wife, children, or my lazy damned dog and there would be hell to pay.
"Come again?" I said tersely.
At last his expression faltered and I took a step closer, my posture rigid. The ghost inside of me stirred.
I would like to think I appeared quite menacing, but I had to step over Bessie, who had no inclination to move, and in doing so I dropped my gaze to make certain I didn't step on her ears. What I had intended as stalking toward him was more like hopping indignantly over a dog who had made herself far too comfortable.
"Phelan, would you give me a hand?" Joshua called out as the front door opened, effectively ending my pursuit of a confrontation.
Phelan looked casually away from me. "Thank you for the hospitality, Valgarde, but I do believe I have somewhere to be," he answered smoothly. He eyed me again, a dark and cold glare accompanied by a mocking bow. "I am visiting for two weeks. Consider that ample warning, Monsieur Kire."
He turned on his heel and walked away without sparing me a second glance. I watched him stroll down the street, his gait quite self-assured as though he owned half of France. Once he disappeared around the corner I realized how shallow my breaths had become and the trembling in my hands.
A moment later Joshua stood beside me, the wooden chair he had dragged through his home abandoned halfway out the door. Two of his maids struggled to bring it back inside as it was lodged in the door frame.
"Ignore him," Joshua muttered.
That was not possible, I wanted to tell him. For days-weeks even-I would dissect every word he had directed at me. I would play back each bit of our conversation in my mind, pick apart what I knew my father would have said and search for a hint of my uncle.
"This is why you wanted to see me," I said at last.
Joshua exhaled. "Unfortunately yes."
"A warning, as your brother said."
Joshua rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "Not so much a warning as preamble. Phelan is harmless, really. He is much more a danger to himself than others."
"He does not care for me," I remarked. Perhaps I should not have given a second thought as to what Phelan thought of me, but I did. More so than I wanted to admit and for reasons I had no desire to acknowledge.
"Phelan has made a habit of making himself miserable as well as those who are around him long enough. As one could imagine, he does not keep close company."
I said nothing in return. His words could have very easily described me as well.
Joshua gave a wave of his hand as though attempting to discard his words. "Forgive me for saying disparaging words against my brother. He is a moody artist."
I faced Joshua and smiled. "I am somewhat familiar with being a moody artist."
I had, after all, destroyed an entire opera house.
Joshua put his hand on my shoulder and gave an appreciative smile. "I do hope in time he will see you have more in common than you do differences."
"He said he is visiting for two weeks."
"Ah, yes, well, there is honestly no telling with him. He will stay until he has had his fill of grousing and then he will grumble his way back home."
"You are not fond of him?"
Joshua frowned and searched my face briefly. "He is my brother. I love him dearly and yet half the time when he pays a visit I do not like him." He paused, turning his attention to Bessie, who had given up on her belly rub and had found a soft spot in the grass.
"Come, sit with me awhile longer," Joshua offered. "I could use a bit of company."
I obliged, partially because I wished to speak to him about his father and partially because I had no desire to encounter Phelan on the street.
