RoseBlood(55)

“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.”

Etalon watched in awed silence as Arnaund gripped the hairline wire at his neck—face bulging and purpling, unable to release even a whimper.

“Ah-ha,” The Phantom crooned. “Perhaps now you can be discerning enough to appreciate the value of working vocal cords, and how life-altering it is for them to be taken at the hands of another.” He gave a harsh twist and brought Arnaund to kneel on the stone floor. “There you are, little one,” The Phantom’s rapturous voice purred to Etalon. “You have brought him to his knees even without your song. Vindication is sweet, no?”

Alongside his terror, Etalon secretly savored watching his mother’s murderer captured and suffering.

“Shall I spare him?” the Phantom asked, fixated on his squirming victim.

Etalon grimaced at the skulls and bones lining the walls. Killing was wrong. Maman always said so. But she also said it was right . . . when it was to save a child’s life. Thinking of his friends who had already suffered at Arnaund’s hand, of those who would soon be sold as possessions, Etalon croaked his answer: “You should spare none of his kind.”

The Phantom’s eyes met his, and an unspoken alliance passed between them—so earnest yet so vicious, Etalon knew there would be no redemption from this sin.

The Phantom lifted one side of his mask and leaned over Arnaund, too deep in the shadows for Etalon to see what he revealed. Arnaund flailed, his expression filled with fear and revulsion. A pulse of grayish-yellow light jumped from Arnaund’s wide-eyed gaze and sunk into the Phantom’s chest, illuminating his sternum from behind his shirt and suit jacket.

Stunned speechless, Etalon watched the Phantom’s neck where it was bared above his shirt collar. The veins grew luminous beneath his skin, as if siphoning from the glow in his chest. In contrast, Arnaund’s coloring drained to a deathly white and he stopped moving.

The Phantom flipped the lifeless body over. “Thank you for sharing the remaining years of your life, Monsieur. And in return, I’ve given you your necklace. Wear it in good health.” He tightened the cord around his victim’s neck until a pool of blood spread like a dark, seeping hole along the floor. With a flick of his wrist, he retrieved his deadly weapon.