Etalon crumpled on the concrete step, remembering Maman’s hand when it patted him to sleep after a nightmare . . . the way they danced through the sheets that flapped on the lines during sunny afternoons, playing hide and seek. All of it was gone, just like his chance to buy her the things her heart longed for, so he could see her smile.
No song could appease the ripping sensation in his heart. So he remained quiet as tears crept along his cheeks and lips.
Batilde slithered out from her house and wrapped her arms around him, lulling Etalon within her familiar, sweaty, onion-scented embrace. He didn’t see the burlap sack until it came down, binding his head and arms. By then he was sobbing too hard to save himself.
Strangling on snot and gasping for breath inside the scratchy cloth, Etalon passed out. He woke up deep in the catacombs—a windowless, loveless world with walls made of skulls and bones—imprisoned with other children, who like him, had no family or place to go. His cell smelled of urine and the same desperate sour stench his Maman had worn like a second skin while working as a whore.
Batilde had sold him to Arnaund, and it was too late for escape. Being without Maman, haunted by his part in her death, Etalon’s music stayed locked inside.
Three months passed without a glimpse of sky or sunlight. Etalon watched other children suffer unspeakable acts at the hands of Arnaund’s henchmen, being “taught” the skills they’d need to make themselves worthy of a good price. His heart ached for them—some younger than his seven years and gaunt as skeletons with paper-thin flesh that showcased blue veins. Etalon felt guilty for being spared. So he asked a guard why . . .
The ugly man smiled, his teeth stained by tobacco, and his eyes vacant of any emotion. “Why? Why are ya spared?” He snorted. “Feeling neglected, hmmm?” He ruffled Etalon’s unruly waves, which now reached past his shoulders. Etalon winced and stepped back, leaving the man’s filthy hand in midair. The man laughed. “I’d like to help ya out, but Arnaund has marked ya untouchable. Your beauty makes ya worth a fortune already without all the . . . lessons.” The guard leaned in and slid a calloused finger down Etalon’s neck and chest, barely covered by the fraying rags draped over him. A nauseous chill raced through Etalon’s body. “Your innocence, well, that just makes ya extra special.”
The way he slurred the word special, the way his breath cloaked Etalon’s face like sticky, whiskey-scented fog as his gaze traversed him from head to toe—triggered a white flash of hatred, and Etalon found his song once more. His melody brought the henchman to his belly on the floor like the snake he was.
The man wailed, bemoaning his weakness for gambling, followed by a boisterous account of how much money he’d skimmed from Arnaund’s profits. Several other guards overheard the confession echoing through the cell, and by morning, the embezzler was dead at Arnaund’s own hand.
No one knew Etalon had caused the event. They assumed the henchman had been drunk, which loosened his tongue. Etalon kept the secret, until his cellmates were ready to be auctioned. Several patrons came to the catacombs early, to consider which child they wanted to bid on for cheap labor or sick sadistic pleasures. As they stopped to study Etalon’s friends, he wielded his song like a sword, slashing them all until they moaned and wept.
The patrons stumbled out, one by one, faced with their own depravity. They refused to return, or to buy any other child from the lot. Instead, they spread the word about the avenging angel locked in the catacombs, who sang with such fierce sweetness and critical accuracy, it made a soul beg for the release of eternal damnation.
Furious that Etalon was costing him money, Arnaund bound and gagged him. There was talk of cutting out his tongue, but it would compromise his worth. Patrons wanted their merchandise intact. Besides, it wasn’t the words Etalon sang; it was the quality, richness, and purity of his voice.
So Arnaund and his henchmen force-fed Etalon lye—diluted enough to keep him alive, while caustic enough to blister and damage his vocal cords beyond repair. After hours of strangling on the hot, acidic vomit he was forced to swallow due to Arnaund’s fear of damaging his lips or face, Etalon lost what made him unique, and the ability to defend himself or the other children.
Etalon prayed for death, but instead fell into a deeper level of hell. A week later, a man contacted Arnaund, specifying he wanted the little songbird whose tale had been entertaining and horrifying the dregs of society. Up until then, Etalon’s outrageous price tag had kept him safe.
On the day of the sale, the guards dragged Etalon into a small room with a lone lightbulb strung from the ceiling, casting snatches of light on the dirty, webbed skulls embedded into three of the stone walls. The fourth wall was bare, and they cuffed him there. Once Arnaund arrived, the guards left and shut the door. Etalon stood across from his mother’s murderer. The man had a bucket and sponge in hand. Etalon shivered, his body bared, all but for a pair of pants too short to reach his ankles, bloody and disheveled after fighting the guards.
“What a mess you are,” Arnaund grumbled. “A perfectly calculated mess. Every bit as wily and stubborn as Nadine was. But what did her fire get her, hmmm? Got her snuffed out, it did.” He splashed Etalon with the bucket’s frigid contents. Etalon coughed, inhaling the sudsy water. Soap slime oozed down his nasal passages and clogged his windpipe. He choked for breath.
At the mention of his mother, flames lit inside his heart. His song burned to be born and bring Arnaund to his knees. Colorful notes that would never have the chance to rise from his useless throat.
Arnaund sponged Etalon’s face and chest, making him squirm. “Your efforts were wasted. This particular patron has unusual appetites. No one knows his name, and no one’s ever seen his face. He’s simply known as a phantom of the night. It is said he scuttles in the shadows, like a scorpion.”
Etalon shivered again, terrified of the imagery.
“And believe me . . .” Arnaund chortled, gleefully. “One such as that has developed a taste for dirt and grime. You’re too pretty to pass up. Messy or no. Lovely as a milk bone to a half-starved dog.”
Refusing to look into Arnaund’s beetle-black eyes and harsh round face, Etalon studied his cold, mucky feet—remembering a time when his toes were clean and poked from his socks like playful puppets. It seemed so long ago.
“Can’t tell you what a pleasure it will be to see you carted off, little Ettie,” Arnaund spat. “Nearly leveled my business to dust. I’ve been far too easy on you. Maybe I’ll cut out that tongue of yours after all, and wear it as a necklace. I doubt your new owner would have the presence of mind to notice before—”
“Better you not underestimate my observational prowess, Monsieur.” Neither Arnaund or Etalon realized they had company until the man’s baritone swelled inside the room—poised over them, above them, around them—as magnificent and threatening as a tidal wave. Had Etalon not been pinned to the wall by his aching wrists, his knees would’ve buckled under the weight of the dulcet, hypnotic sound.
“Being as I’m a scorpion”—the melodious voice swelled higher, louder—“who scuttles in the shadows undetected, I’m inclined to see and hear everything.”
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 Phanto
m 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.”
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.
Without speaking, the Phantom freed Etalon’s wrists, offering him the boots off Arnaund’s feet. They were too big, but with ripped bits of cloth stuffed in the toes, they sufficed.
“Most of the guards are either drunk or sleeping at their posts,” the Phantom said, yellow eyes aglow. “I will be swift and cut them down in silence, one by one. You free the other children. But I must not be seen, for I would haunt their dreams.”
Together, they made their way through every level of the catacombs, quiet and deadly as scorpions. As promised, the Phantom killed the guards, coaxing that strange grayish-yellow light from each of their bodies before ducking into the shadows. Only then would Etalon unlock the cells, so the masked silhouette remained nothing but a ghost—blending into the background, sensed, yet never seen.
Death was everywhere, juxtaposed with hope for new life. Etalon slipped in puddles of blood and stepped over the Phantom’s victims. Heaps of carnage became stair steps to freedom as he opened the doors and released his peers. Chaos reigned—a frenzied race to escape the cells and congregate in the corridors. In the narrow spaces, children clung to one another, weeping and afraid. After everyone was freed, Etalon kept to the darkest passages, out of their sight, in search of the Phantom. He found him hidden in the depths of the catacombs, his hands bloodied, his suit torn, and his veins and eyes effulgent with that supernatural glow.
“Will you help them find their way out?” Etalon asked, understanding on some level that to ask any other question would put him in mortal danger.
“No,” the Phantom answered without pause, smearing blood from his hand across one of the thousands of skulls stacked along the wall. “They have food and lanterns from the storage surplus; they have one another. The weak will die, and the strong will survive and be stronger for it. That’s the nature of things. Those who find the surface have the gendarmerie. Let law enforcement step in for once. Let them fill an orphanage with their abandoned souls. Even alone, those children have b
etter parentage than I ever did.”
He started to leave, but Etalon caught the skilled hand that had slaughtered over thirty men with a singular cord of string, his own fingers too small to wrap around the blood-slicked palm. He gasped as some of the illumination from the Phantom’s veins siphoned into his own, lighting beneath his skin.
The Phantom narrowed his eyes then pried himself free. “I suspected as much, the moment I heard about you.” He drew out a handkerchief and cleaned his hands before offering it to Etalon for the same purpose. “You are an anomaly of nature . . . a brilliant miscreation. No doubt you’ve known this for some time, even before you were imprisoned.”
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.