Celebrating 100 Page Milestone on Book 3 in the Disfigured Series!

Good news! Just reached 100 pages on Spirit of Revenge, Book 3 in my Disfigured Series featuring Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, and his wife, Sylvie. To celebrate, I am treating readers to another excerpt from the book, just time from Erik’s point of view.  Warning: Erik is behaving rather naughtily in this one!

 

An excerpt from ‘Spirit of Revenge’, Book 3 in the Disfigured Series. This brief excerpt is from Chapter Seven.

 

Erik

He walked with the graceful, stalking movement of a panther toward its prey. It was an act, one he had performed before. Fully aware that he oozed sexual confidence, he approached the woman in black, and saw with satisfaction her gaze travel quickly over him, head to foot and back again, her eyes dilating. Her bosom rose on a breath. He reached for her hand and she gave it, unresisting. She rose, and they moved together to dance once more, neither one speaking.

He held her close to his body this time, breathing in her heavy, cloying perfume. Over her shoulder as they made a turn, he saw the Count take Sylvie by the arm and tow her out the balcony door. Erik’s eyes narrowed dangerously; she was no longer wearing her lace wrap, damn her! He knew he did not have much time now. Could he possibly trick this woman into taking him out of the ballroom after only two dances? It seemed impossible. Yet he must try. He forced his attention back to his partner.

“You are ravissant, Madame,” Erik murmured, letting his warm breath fan across her white neck.  “I want to see your face.”

“And I yours,” she whispered, pressing her substantial breasts against his chest. Erik kept his face expressionless. “You would regret it,” he thought privately.

“You may call me Désirée,” she whispered in his ear.

He swirled her in a circle, causing her skirts to flare becomingly. “How appropriate,” he said, smiling into her masked face. He saw her eyes flash around the ballroom before returning to his face. He realized that she was checking to see where the Count was at that moment.

Gazing up at him, her red lips curved in a seductive smile. “I know a place where we can be alone for a moment,” she said. “I will slip out, and you follow me after a moment. Do not let anyone see.” Her fingers tightened on his, and he returned the pressure. He allowed his eyes to burn into hers.

It was that easy. Erik wondered why his powers of seduction had failed on Christine. They seemed to work quite well on other women, even, apparently, complete strangers. With a stab of guilt, Erik gave silent thanks that Sylvie could not see him at this moment. She had her hands full with the Count, and the sooner he rescued her, the better. Trying to suppress a growing sense of urgency, Erik nodded his acquiescence to  Désirée’s plan and guided the worldly beauty to the side of the room. He bowed formally and walked away.

He forced himself to stay focused on his goal, even when his entire being burned with the urge to throw the bloated old count over his own balcony. What if he…would Sylvie be able…out of the corner of his eye he saw the Count step back inside to wave down a passing servant. He retrieved two flutes of champagne and disappeared again. This gave Erik some sense of relief. He wasn’t attacking Sylvie, at least. In all probability the count was too elderly to even feel normal male desire. He certainly paid no attention to the whereabouts of his mistress, the beautiful Désirée.

Thus reassured, Erik very casually slipped out of the ballroom through the alcove Désirée had vanished into, glancing behind to make certain no one observed. Although not an unattractive lady, he mused, the Count’s mistress was definitely past the bloom of youth. Dancing close to her, he was able to see that she liberally applied heavy cosmetics to conceal lines around her eyes and to mimic the flush of a younger woman. It reminded him of the stage makeup that the dancers at the Opera Populaire wore when they performed.

And where now was she leading him? He caught the sparkle and flash of her black skirts as she disappeared up a circular staircase. At the top of the stairs she paused to be sure he followed, and then with a feminine giggle hastened down a richly carpeted hallway. Following behind her, Erik was aware of many portraits in heavy gilded frames lining the walls. The Chambord ancestors, he supposed.

He caught up with Désirée in time to see her extract a small key on a chain around her neck and pull it out from her décolleté. Her dark eyes smiled knowingly at him as she bent to unlock a door. Flinging it open, she grasped Erik by the arm and drew him inside. The door was swiftly closed and locked again, and before he could even inquire as to where they were, she was in his arms.

Erik was taken aback, but he did not lose his head. He gave thanks for the silk mask covering his face, for if he were only wearing his regular half-mask, she could easily have dislodged it in her enthusiasm. She was easy enough to kiss, and clearly very experienced at it, but he kept his eyes open. His heart began to pound, not with desire but with excitement, for he realized where they were.  He could not believe his luck.

Désirée had brought him to the Count’s own private study for their tryst. It was exactly where he wanted to be. He must now get rid of this overly-sexed female. Somewhere inside him a flicker of guilt surfaced, but he instantly suppressed it. There was not just money at stake now; but a man’s life. He must succeed for Moreau’s sake. He had vowed revenge and revenge he would have.

Erik broke the passionate kiss by gently pushing Désirée away from him a few inches. Her eyes closed, she made a little sound of protest. He raised one hand and ran it very tenderly, soothingly, down her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, down to circle just below one of her full breasts. Slowly he moved behind her, and she responded like one hypnotized; her eyes half-closed and her breathing grew erratic.

Erik felt remorse when he observed her reactions to his touch, for it brought back unpleasant memories of a seduction from his past, one that had been wrong on so many levels. At least, he assured himself, this worldly woman was not an innocent girl. Behind her, he encouraged her to close her eyes, held her closely, kissed the side of her neck. She gasped and sighed. Mon Dieu! He knew then that had he wished, he could have taken Désirée right then and there.

He reached one hand stealthily to his pocket. Carefully he removed a small glass vial and a wad of cotton. With one finger he pushed away the plug and poured some of the liquid in the vial onto the cotton. Acting quickly before Désirée could smell the chloroform and grow suspicious, he pressed the cotton over her mouth and nose, still holding her firmly with his other arm.

She struggled a little, but she could not break his hold. She made a little whimpering noise. He pressed her head back against his shoulder, and whispered in her ear. “I am sorry, Madame. You will come to no harm, I promise.” She collapsed slowly against him, her blond head lolling to one side, and he carefully lowered her to the floor. The thick plush carpet cushioned her descent. Once Erik was certain she was completely unconscious, he took a brief moment to straighten her disarrayed skirts. He would hate to think that when she awoke she might assume that he had abused her. Although he had certainly used her, he thought sardonically.

Acutely aware of the passage of time, Erik rose from his crouch over Désirée and cast his eyes over the room they were in. He hoped he would not have to break into a safe; once or twice while at the Opera House he had been able to open the manager’s safe, but only because he knew the combination. He was no safe-cracker, and time was too short.

It was a small room, richly furnished. Over the fireplace hung a painting of the Count as a younger man, resembling a banker or a notaire rather than a future monarch. And there was the silk bow tie. Facing the painting he saw a large polished desk of some dark wood. Erik went to the desk at once. It was distasteful, what he was doing, but it must be done. With a grimace he began searching the drawers and compartments of the desk with rapid movements.

He glanced once at the recumbent form on the floor, but she did not move. Belatedly, Erik began to wonder if she would be blamed for this, and thus earn the Count’s ire. He did not wish any harm to come to her because of his own actions. How was she to know he was a spy? With his customary quick wits, Erik began running through possibilities even as his hands riffled through a stack of papers in a tray on top of the desk.

The papers were held in place by a large gold seal bearing the family crest of the Chambords. Setting this to one side, Erik gathered up the papers and leafed through them, frowning. Although not familiar with the insignias of other countries, here, he was certain, was a letter from someone in the Italian government. It was written in Italian but a translation had been attached. A silent whistle escaped him when he read the translation. Italy was agreeing to come in on the side of the Count and his loyalist faction should a coup take place in France. There was a promise of troops and money, in exchange for valuable trade agreements. They could be ready to march on Paris in a matter of weeks. Sacré!  This meant all-out war.

Erik folded up the letter and the translation and placed it carefully inside his coat. There were more documents he kept, but this one was the only one that mattered. Scanning the room quickly, he was surprised to see that the Count did not even have a safe in his study. He must feel quite secure here. However, he would soon learn that his tower was not unassailable.

Erik had not yet found a list of names, but he was sure such a list must exist. Where would it be? A golden ormolu clock on the mantel sent out a gentle chime, causing him to jump as though shot. Frustration made his hands shake. Looking over the desk, he noticed that it was covered in a green baize mat. Acting purely on intuition, he lifted the mat and looked underneath. His eyes rested on a piece of paper there. Erik thought luck was definitely on his side tonight.

Having secured the list of names, he left the desk and went back to the unfortunate Désirée. He knew he would regret not bringing rope with him tonight. Pulling a knife from his boot, he cut a length from the bell pull cord, rolled her body over, and tied her hands behind her back. Finally he fashioned a gag from the white satin sash she wore. It would have to do, he thought, surveying his handiwork. When found, if she used her wits she could insist she had been forced to come here and then drugged. He left the chloroform bottle in the study just in case.

Erik was out the door, closing it behind him, down the hallway and running down the circular stair before another second passed. As he returned to the ballroom, he slowed down, smoothed his hair and adjusted the black mask, and went straight to the balcony door. All he wanted now was to rescue Sylvie from the Count’s clutches and get them both out of here before the theft was discovered. He opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony without even so much as knocking, and then came to an abrupt stop.

Sylvie and the Count were sitting side by side on a settee, drinking champagne. The Count was wearing a thick lap rug that covered him all the way to his beard. Sylvie now wore her lace fichu, Erik was relieved to see. Erik caught a few words of what the count was saying just as he entered.

“I have always regretted not having any children, you know. No son to follow me and continue the lineage, and now…” he ceased talking abruptly when Erik appeared on the balcony. His eyes narrowed.

“Who are you, Sir? I cannot recall your name.” The Count’s voice was icy.

Sylvie rose and shook out the skirt of her blue gown. “This is my escort, Count,” she said apologetically. “I am afraid I must be going. I am…desolated not to hear the end of your recollections of your childhood, but perhaps another time…” even as she spoke, she edged toward the door, a look of profound relief on her face.

Erik bowed formally toward the Count, privately thinking the man would have him executed if he knew what Erik had just done. He took Sylvie by the arm and walked as fast as he dared toward the great staircase. As they made their escape from the mansion, he felt a sense of elation, was almost giddy with it. They had succeeded in their gambit, and they were home free.

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A word of explanation: in this scene Erik and Sylvie are working together on a spying mission for the French government.