ERIK'S JOURNAL - SEQUEL TO THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

How many times does Raoul want Erik to put the lasso to him? Sheesh, this guy just can't stay out of trouble,

Great chapter, Fay, I'm glad to see that there still is some good left in poor Raoul.

Can't wait for the next installment. Please post again soon.



D

Great

I Like it< I Love it, I want some more of it

Slitherliggie thank you for a fabulous review. Poor Raoul never thought Erik would find them, let alone Punjab him. He really does need to think things through.

GerardButlerisawsome01 thank you for the kinds words barrowed from a song. Glad you enjoyed!

Since you've read the last one so quickly, here is the next chapter, which is page from Erik's Journal.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

********


CHAPTER 9

Paris, France 1893, 1 February

Ever since the boy went through the vortex, I’ve tried in vain to reopen it. Why he took the spell book is beyond me. How he penetrated my lair worries me as well. No one must know I’m still alive but Daroga. Pretending I’m dead still does not free me from my duties as a living creature. All I want now is to die in peace, but Daroga won’t let me.

Fourteen years have passed since my beloved Christine left me for that insolent twit they call a Vicomte. Since then they have had two children of their own. The two girls Hadrienne and Gwenaëlle belong to the Vicomte, but the oldest child, now fourteen is my son, Chayce. Oh, how my heart aches to see him, to tell him who his father really is.

The city has been besieged by the sorceress Brianna, as I knew she would. As much as I’ve tried to ignore the killings, Daroga continues to urge me to do one more good deed before I leave this mortal coil.

Why should I care about the young men of Paris? If they succumb to spell of the dark mistress, why should I care? What have they done for me, except to scorn, ridicule and mock? Should I not take joy in watching them suffer and die? My thoughts about this harmonizes with the words of Charles Dickens from his most well received book A Christmas Carol, ‘If they would rather die…they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.’

Needless to say my attitude did not sit well with Daroga and he reminded me that my son stands in jeopardy of loosing his life at the hands of the sorceress. This is the only thing that makes me agree to destroy her. The sorceress is a clever one. By taking advantage of her beauty and charm, she seduces males between the ages of twenty to forty-five years of age and sucks the life from them. Daroga says it’s the life force. Spare me the unnecessary details. Whatever she does, it renders the male dead and I am supposed to stop her.

Killing her will not be easy. With any good fortune at all she will kill me first and rid me of this life of loneliness and the incessant reminder that Daroga saved my life and that I should think of my child. A word to the wise, should you stand in jeopardy of having your eyes put out, then executed and someone steps in to save your life; don’t pause, don’t hesitate a moment, just spit in his eye. What does this? It means I shall have to put an end to the dark mistress Brianna. [/b]

By nature I am not a religious man. God has abandoned me and I him; therefore the need to set foot in any house of God would serve me no purpose, except when Daroga dragged me into l’Eglise de Sacré Coeur which has a good sized monastery. Here I must have the monks create a special mirror or ‘En passage de l’Enfer’ (A passage to Hell), for this she-devil. It will take some her without strong magick, a cunning mind and the Punjab Lasso. Yet something urges me to say may God help us all!

Love it and want some more of it

Very interesting. I wonder how he will kill Brianna...

Please continue again soon,


D

GerardButlerisawsome01 thank you for the kind words.

Slytherliggie thank you for the lovely comments. If you recall the first story, Through the Looking Glass, it tells you what Doone did to Brianna.

Now, here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

**************************

CHAPTER 10

Outside-Parking lot of the Motel-Present Day

The black Mercedes set in the lot as if looking up at the window of the room, which Raoul had rented. BC Hamilton peered through the partially opened drapes wondering what would happen next. The splintered door would be of not use to them, so what protection did they have.

Erik fingered the grim lasso in his hands. The thought of doing away his would-be-assassins brought much joy and excitement. This felt much like the old days of the Rosy Hours of Mazenderan. Nothing felt like the rush of the kill. Mae couldn’t bare to look at the Erik or his gruesome noose.

“Looks like we fight side by side again Monsieur,” Raoul broke the silence as he too, peered out the half opened drapes. Erik ignored the comment. He only wanted them to attack, not with a hail of bullets, but on foot. They couldn’t remain there indefinitely. Something had to give.

In a few moments, the doors of the Mercedes opened the two in the front and one at the back. Raoul did a double take of the present day Philippe. No doubt he held an uncanny resemblance to Raoul, but more like his brother Philippe. Erik noticed the resemblance.

“Relative?” Erik looked to Raoul.

“Indeed, relative,” the young Vicomte replied. “Who else would want me dead?” Erik gave a wry smile. “Who else?”

Hamilton looked at the two as if they’d taken leave of their senses and backed away from the window. He and Erik’s wife could only guess what would happen next.

Mae’s husband asked her to lock herself in the bathroom while he and the men dealt with their attackers. She protested. How could she hide knowing her husband may get killed?

But before Erik could insist, the loud ‘thump’ as heavy shoes hit the top step and shuffled on to toward the room. The air hung heavy with humidity while their lungs strained to take in oxygen. Whatever he and Raoul planned to do, they had better make sure it worked. They could not rely on the reporter, especially since he came from the present day. Obviously he would lack the skill and courage to defend himself in hand to hand combat or would he?

The heavy steps stopped just shy of reaching the splintered door. Erik stood at the ready with the lasso, his body suddenly damp with perspiration. With tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead, Raoul raised up a nearby chair. Surprisingly enough cool and calm Hamilton reached behind him and pulled a out Steyr GB Austrian double action handgun secured by his belt. Both Erik and Raoul shot him an amazed look. He shrugged carelessly.

The footsteps started again.

This time, a maid moved into sight and screamed when she saw the splinted door and the men ready for battle. Down the stairs and to the office she went running. Erik held the men back. The coast, definitely not clear. This time the footsteps tried not to make a sound as they shuffled in on Erik and his group. Mae looked around for a weapon. Such a shame she didn’t have her broadsword.

Craggy-face eased up to the splinted door and opened fire. Everybody hit the floor. As soon as the bullets stopped, the shooter stepped into the room, but with one fell swoop, the lasso lashed out and caught the man around the neck. Dropping the gun, craggy-face clawed franticly to remove the lasso or at least stop it from strangling him. With a swift yank, his neck cracked and the lifeless body hit the floor with a hideously gruesome thud. In seconds the noose slipped from the neck of the dead man.

Seeing that craggy-face did not hail them or even come out after firing, Philippe held Palmer back and signaled to retreat. The two raced back to the Mercedes, fired it up and took off like a bat out of hell.

Hamilton verified when the Mercedes cleared pay dirt, so Raoul knelt beside the body and searched the inside coat pockets. Nothing. Erik went through the dead man’s pants pockets.

Nothing.

The reporter turned to the men. “No ID, huh?” They shook their heads. “Looks like he expected to get caught and didn’t want to leave any loose ends. Any tags in his clothes?” This time Hamilton looked for the tags.

Nothing.

“What’s up with that?” asked Erik’s wife.

“Well, he’s not a spy, but certainly a button man for somebody. We’d better call the cops if someone hasn’t done it already,” the reporter arose from the body and dusted off his hands and clothes.

“You don’t look shakened,” Erik appeared surprised but puzzled.

“I am, but I’ve seen things like this before. I spent time in Iraq. Not a pretty sight. Speaking of being shakened, you are pretty handy with that rope.” “It’s not rope,” Erik corrected. “It’s a lasso.”

The reporter laughed. “Sure, a lasso, like that Phantom of the Opera. Come on. How did you do that? Doesn’t killing bother you?”

“Does it bother you? You are carrying a gun of sorts,” the former Phantom retorted.

“I’m a collector. Bought this little baby a few months ago. I do have a license. So not to worry.” They all took note that the reporter did not answer the question. Was he really a reporter?

“Let’s get out of here before the cops come. This time they may haul us off to jail,” and with that, the reporter spun around on his heels and disappeared through the splintered doorway and out of the room. Mae tried to wipe off the fingerprints from where she knew they had touched, but Erik pulled her onward and Raoul quickly followed.

As they peeled out of the motel lot, a siren wailed around the corner as squad car pulled in and parked at the office.

Hamilton led Erik and his group in his metallic grey sports car. Bringing up the rear, Erik drove the rental and from the looks of its condition, he just knew he’d have to pay for the scrapes and dents Raoul inflicted on the poor thing when he snatched Mae.

The next plane to Paris deemed quite a challenge since we had no reservations. After kicking around the airport for a few hours, they finally managed to book a flight on a small private plane. Costly by price, but better than waiting all night in a Florida airport.

As soon as the small plane took off, an announcement echoed throughout the terminal and through the intercom. The police sought a man and a woman for questioning in connection to a murder in a sleazy motel. The description fit Raoul and Mae to a tee, but the announcer did not disclose any names. They wouldn’t since Raoul had the sense to register them as the Duke and Duchess of Canterbury. True Canterbury is in England, he lied. And the motel had a reputation of not caring who stayed there as long as they could pay. Hence the reason they didn’t ask for ID or question the titles of Duke and Duchess. Materialistic to say the least.

The pilot, a ruddy-complected fellow with red hair and moustache, didn’t ask a lot of questions at first, but after the announcement, he eyed his passengers very carefully. Not many small planes were for hire, especially for distances from Florida to Paris. They would have to stop for fuel when they reached New York and here the pilot planned on making a call to his employer.

Erik felt misgivings about the pilot who stared straight ahead with an occasional glance at the dials, meters and gauges within the console before him. One look from her husband made Mae shiver to think what he may have to do it the pilot tried to turn them in.

Hamilton felt for the Steyr GB in his belt behind him while Raoul settled back and thumbed through the spell book. Everyone prepared for a long flight and what lay ahead when they landed in Paris.

Ah, of course, for a moment I thought that Doone had done something else to Brianna that wasn't covered in Through the Looking Glass.

Very interesting chapter, guess it would destroy the story if Phillipe had to die now already, huh? Oh well, makes life interesting

Wonder what that pilot is up to, he'd better watch out, he doesn't know who he's dealing with...


Please continue again soon,


D

Slitherliggie for you continued support and kind words.

Here is another chapter with pictures. Please R&R. Enjoy!

***************************************************


CHAPTER 11

National Archives Paris, France

Originally built as a home for Francois de Rohan, Prince of Soubise the house was currently used as the National Archives. The edifice had a massive forecourt surrounded by a double-pillared colonnade. The facade displayed a fine two-story corps-de-logis with sculptural decoration. Between 1732-39 Germain Boffrand extended the building, which had a fine entrance gateway from Rue des Francs-Bourgeois.



Le Centre Historique des Archives Nationales (CHAN), or "Historical Centre of the National Archives", has been located in a group of buildings comprising le Hôtel de Soubise and le Hôtel de Rohan in the district of Le Marais in Paris since 1808. This centre stores all the documents and records from before 1958 (except the documents and records concerning former French colonies) as well as archives of French heads of state. Since 1867 it also housed la Musée de l’Histoire de France (the Museum of the History of France). The oldest document kept at CHAN is a papyrus dated A.D. 625 coming from the archives of the Abbey of Saint-Denis seized at the time of the French Revolution.

Here they said the remains of the infamous Opera Ghost rested.

Within the interior access of the National Archives stood Erik surveying the area like a fox sniffing out its prey. The cool air caressed his hair and face like the tender touch of a loving mother. In a few moments, Mae moved quickly to his side as Raoul and Hamilton brought up the rear.




Nothing says “good morning” like tying up the pilot, which brought you to Paris. Erik actually wanted to do him in, like in the old days with his grim lasso, but his beloved wife convinced him otherwise. Their visit to Paris shouldn’t take long and they would need the conniving man to fly them home to America.

BC Hamilton seemed unusually quiet from the gabby, nosy reporter they had met a few hours ago. Something didn’t feel right. Raoul wanted to say something, but he didn’t trust the reporter and shot Mae a look that confirmed his mistrust as well.

“I’m supposed to be on display in here, am I?” Mae’s husband chuckled softly to her. She gave a lopsided smile as they entered the building.

"Ridiculous! You’re right by side,” Mae caught his arm. “Do you think it’s Doone?”

But before he could answer, Erik and his entourage found themselves at the counter where a plain looking woman asked if she could help. Peering at them from behind her dark framed glasses the clerk ticked a look from one to the other as a strand or two of her dull graying hair fell across her cheek. Hamilton explained what they wanted and showed his press ID, but the woman shook her head and told him the same as modern day Philippe had been told. The journal and Garnier file no longer existed in the archives. Someone had stolen them.


"You mean misplaced,” Hamilton wanted to see her reactions.

“No monsieur, stolen. The employees here are very detail oriented. Not one sheet of paper is out of place. Not one pen is without ink,” replied the clerk in distinct French accent. “But these documents are no longer where they should be. I told the other man the same thing. What are you looking for? The papers bore severe water damage.” The clerk frowned as she
puzzled at their interest.

Then she went on to say they had allowed a bunch of school kids to tour the archives as a field trip. Security had been increased, but somehow when the electricity went out for five minutes, something happened. She and several other employees felt sure one of the children committed the crime, but they couldn’t prove it. After all, what teenaged girl or boy
possessed the skills to knock out the power and make off with a three-inch thick file in a matter of minutes before the generator kicked in? Who could do this and why? How could they get away?

“Now monsieur, you see my dilemma. I wish I could allow you to view the documents, but alas, they are no longer in the archives,” after saying all this, the woman fell silent and stared at the four.

“Who was the other man asking about the file?” questioned Mae. The clerk knew, but the less Philippe de Chagny’s name popped up, the better off she’d be. Therefore, she pretended not to remember.

“What school did the children attend?” Erik butted in with perfect French. The woman reached down and pulled out a thick three-ringed binder. Upon opening it, she rapidly flipped through the pages and replied, “Lycée International.”

******************************

St. Germain en Laye, in the Western Suburbs of Paris



Up to this point, Hamilton hadn’t written a single word in his little notebook. His mind fluttered at getting shot at, the flight to Paris, and punching out the pilot before tying him up. The journal had been stolen. Why? What did the ancient, water damaged book contain that anyone would steal let alone kill for?

A school kid? How indeed could a child be capable of knocking out the electricity long enough to snatch the journal and files? Wouldn’t the guards see them? Or at least see them with the file? Hamilton had read and handled the documents and they could not fit in your pocket.

Before entering the administration office, Erik talked his wife and Raoul to remain outside; just in case. “Just in case what?” retorted Mae, but no reply.

The principal and administration of Lycée International tried to be polite, but accusing one of their students of theft didn’t set well. Mae tried to explain without telling them the real reason for their visit would get them nowhere, but Erik had a stubborn streak and had to find out the hard way.

Raoul spoke up and suggested he cause a distraction while someone slipped in to look at their records. With a wicked grin, Erik nodded and ordered Mae to help the young noble with the distraction while he and the reporter nosed around.

In a matter of minutes, the young man stumbled into the administration office disrupting the stiff-necked atmosphere and sterile looking room. He clutched his chest and feint illness, what type, didn’t matter, as long as he staggered around a lot and made an ungodly amount of noise; which he did. Mae burst in behind him and together they made enough raucous to wake up the dead.

The mousy clerk ran to him and tried to help support the poor man who seemingly writhes in pain. Another couple of ladies, all looking just like a bunch of old hens cackling about a wounded chick. With all attention centered on Raoul and Mae, Erik and Hamilton slipped passed all and to the farthest computer. Since the former Phantom still wrestled with his computer skills, he allowed the reporter the pleasure of digging for the information.

In a few moments, a list of students printed out on a nearby printer. Erik snatched it up. Everything they wanted was there. Quickly and quietly, he and Hamilton tipped toed past the old biddies fussing over Raoul, but just as they reached the door, the mousy clerk squawked at the two.

“Are you still here? I’ve told you all I know. Please, help us get this poor man to the hospital. The way he’s acting he may not survive long enough until the ambulance arrives,” she said with such deep concern and honesty it almost made them cry, almost.

Folding the list of names a couple of times, Erik then shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he and the reporter lifted the screaming noble and carried him outside with Mae trailing behind. The clerks cackled a farewell as they waved
and urged them to hurry in getting the poor man to the hospital.

Outside and out of sight, the men promptly dropped le Vicomte on the plush lawn.

“Ow! Watch it!” chided Raoul. “I’m a sick man.”

“We know, but you will be a dead man if the black Mercedes shows up,” Erik reminded. Without another word, Raoul pushed himself up and dusted off his clothes.

In the rental, the four went over the list. The problem they now discovered was finding the addresses of the students or at least the names of the parents. For a moment, all eyes turned to the reporter. “Hey, not my fault! With all that commotion you folks were making it’s a wonder I could find this,” Hamilton defended himself.

Mae suggested they find a computer and see if they could search there, but the reporter had a better idea.

Very interesting... They found something, huh? Wonder what's gonna happen now...

Lol, cool that Raoul is such a good actor

Please do continue soon, Fay, I can't wait to see what happens next.


D

awsome good work

Sorry it's been so long in posting. I've been job hunting and all sorts of things like interviews and careers fairs. Since I've found a job, perhaps I can write more.

Thank you Slitherliggie and GerardButlerisawsome01 for your kind comments.

The following is a new chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

*******************************

CHAPTER 12

Paris, France 1894, 20 February

I’ve been awake for the passed three days with little or no sleep or food, preparing to destroy the dark mistress. The mirror is complete, designed with the glass I’ve enchanted.

Four young monks have given their lives to forge this
looking glass. Brianna must not be underestimated. Her powers enable her to shape-shift into whoever or whatever she desires. Unfortunately for the four unwary monks, they discovered this too late.

The archbishop and reining magistrate have left all the details of eliminating the sorceress to me. Of course, they do not know I am the supposedly dead Opera Ghost. Daroga has made them think a brilliant detective will save Paris. Rumor says someone like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes is working on a brilliant plan. This so-called ‘brilliant plan’ has taken me a decade to perfect, and yet I still stand in jeopardy of being killed by it. Magick is not to be toyed with and should never be in the hands of an amateur. Even with success, magick
always has consequences.

A walk through dimensions could only occur if the subject is willing. How can I make a cold-blooded killer like Brianna, want to enter a portal called ‘en passage de
l’enfer’(the passage to hell)? Spawns from hell rarely desire to make the voyage back.

Philippe de Chagny allegedly my brother, left an heir,
Louvel, who now reigns as count. I still lament over the passing of Philippe, but how was I to know he had engaged the alarm that fateful night when Christine begged for freedom and I tried to coerce her into choosing me over the boy. Yes, the very night, I allowed my beloved to depart with that wretched Raoul, le Vicomte de Chagny.

I should be the count, or at least my son, Chayce. This burns me as well. Life has been nothing but cruel. How much more can I endure? In a few days, it will not matter. Death waits for the dark mistress and I shall lead her to him.

After much persuasion, Christine allowed me to meet
Chayce. Surprisingly, he knew I was his father and not the Vicomte. More than anything, I wanted to embrace him, but my stiff-necked ways came between us. However, again to my surprise, the lad embraced me and called me ‘father’. Christine warned that frequent contact might be too dangerous, the very reason she never wanted me to know I had a son. Chayce is a bright young man. At fifteen years, he is nearly my height. Certainly he will grow to be as tall as me. Already he has the gift of composing music and songs as well as operas, something the Vicomte tries to discourage.

Why must everything good in my life be short? Why must I live alone? At first, I thought to enjoy the solitude, but now I hunger for the life of a normal man.
My son should be with me. Yet, how can I think of that now when I may very well go to my death when I seek out the dark mistress?

Guess we're all busy. Hope someone finds time to read and review.

Here for your reading pleasure is Chapter 13. Please R&R. Enjoy!

*****************************************

CHAPTER 13

Paris, France Present Day Home of Lucas McCleary


Young Antoine sat on the sofa reading the last page his uncle restored from the journal. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he’d actually find the diary of the legendary Phantom of the Opera. Uncle Lucas did a fine job restoring ten of the water-damaged pages, however, the Phantom didn’t say much about his prior life before the opera house incident with Christine and le Vicomte de Chagny. Even that didn’t pique the interest, as did the parts telling of the rightful heir to the Chagny title and who should actually reign as count. The wealth of the Chagnys exceeded that of even the riches baron or marquee. The only one to possess that kind of money would be Marie François (Sadi) Carnot the President of France himself. The sudden acquisition of wealth appeared to have come from a book Joël de Chagny received and kept for a short period of time. Joël being the eldest son of Philippe reigned in his father’s stead after Philippe was found floating face down in the underground lake beneath the opera house. The book belonged to the Phantom and somehow fell into the hands of Joël. According to the account, a terrible fight ensued between the two. Of course, the Phantom got the upper hand, but not until all wealth and power came to Philippe’s twenty-three year old son.

It seemed that Philippe and Raoul had an elder brother, which no one spoke of or even acknowledged existed. They called him Erik. Because of the hideous disfigurement of his face at birth, their father had tried to put him away. But no asylum could hold him, no dungeon dared. At the age of sixteen, young Erik fled from the mother, which despised him and the father that loathe him. The story went that the freak who looked like a living corpse was the son of an architect and mason. Once he took off on his own, no one looked for him; they felt relieved he had gone. And so Philippe became the count and for all intents and purposes became the elder brother of the Chagnys. Things seemed, as they should be; with no word about the poor lonely lad who should have been the count, but for his horrific looks had been driven from his home and family.

After the death of his father, Philippe stepped in and ruled as the count. Only he and his mother knew Erik should have had the title, and no one else. All who knew of the forgotten son either died or were sent away. Not even Raoul knew, until he
heard the truth from Brianna, the sorceress.

In the present day, should this hideous Erik had an heir, they would surely rule as count or countess and present day Philippe would be unseated most disgracefully and loose all his money and power.

Antoine now realized the gravity of the situation. Should this journal fall into the hands of the proper authorities the present count would be humiliated and removed from office. All of his money would go to the rightful heir and he would be left penniless. If Philippe could not find the journal, then the spell book, spoken of in Erik’s journal would be the next item to retrieve. Apparently, the Phantom whole-heartedly believed in magick and so did his alienated family. Uncle Lucas had told Antoine that modern-day Philippe relentlessly sought some sort of document; one of grave importance, enough to kill for. This must obviously be the document, Erik’s journal.

At that moment, Uncle Lucas entered the room carrying a small plate filled with a sandwich and some assorted vegetables in one hand and a glass filled with soda in the other.

“Are you well, Antoine? You look rather pale,” stated Lucas as he set the food and drink on the coffee table before the young man. Antoine laid the page atop the stack of other pages on the other side of the food.

“If this is for real, we can’t let anyone see this book. Count Philippe will kill us all,” the young man bit his bottom lip and sat back. Lucas sat in the straight back chair near him and nodded.

“Uncle, no one knows we have this, do they?”

“I have told no one. Certainly you haven’t said a word…” his uncle’s voice trailed. “If I continue to restore the pages, where will we keep it? And why would we keep it? The count is always doing business with us. Somewhere, somehow he will discover the journal. Then you and I will be no more. The present day count will not be so kind to pay us off or send us away.”

The young man shook his head sadly. I’ve killed us both”

Sorry I've been so quiet, been quite busy with work and all...

Wow, toil and trouble in paradise it seems. I wonder what will happen now?

Great chapter as always, my friend, I do hope you continue again soon, I sall be waiting anxiously...



D

Great chapter i love it.

Sorry i havent been responding trying to find a job as a teenager is hard no one wants to hire anyone without experiance. I have also been away.

I managed to read chapters one and two so far.
Again, very original!
I love the occult playing a part in this. I look forward to reading more!

Slitherliggie thank you for dropping by and for the kind words.
I thought you might be busy. I've been working a lot as well.

GerardButlerisawsome01 so happy to see you. I was wondering where you were. Thank you for a lovely review. Hope you find work soon. I know it's difficult to get experience. Been there, done that.

SnowMoccasin good to see you. Thank you for the compliment. So happy that you and others enjoy my work.

Now for your reading pleasure I post the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

******************************************************

CHAPTER 14

Paris Le Bourget Airport

In a forgotten hanger set the private jet BC Hamilton had rented using the company credit card. Stuffed in the far corner of said airplane, the pilot struggled to free himself from the ropes, which bound both hands and feet. An old water damaged journal would generally mean nothing, but hearing the name Philippe de Chagny made dollar signs pop
into his eyes, until Erik temporarily put out his lights.

Hardin Barrington the ruddy faced red haired pilot flew private planes for most of his career, but only once had he seen a glimpse of real money; the time he flew le Comte Philippe from Miami to Paris two years ago. The fare of $25,000.00 dollars when to the company Hardin worked for, but the tip of 20K all went to him. Not just for flying, but for other things, favors, information and the like. Yes, that was truly only a glimpse of real money. Without a doubt, if he could free himself, there would be tips like thatand more, when he contacted the Count.

After several minutes, Hardin rolled and scooted himself over to a first aid box he kept under the pilot’s seat. With much effort and exertion, he finally got the box out from under the seat where he could open it. Inside, a lovely pair of sharp scissors lay tucked neatly beneath a roll gauze and of bandages. In a few moments, the scissors sawed into the rope and freed his hands. Hardin then grabbed up the scissors and clipped the ropes around his feet. How glad he felt that his suspicious passengers couldn’t find ropes any thicker. If they had, he would still be sawing at them with his cute little scissors.

Grabbing the headset, he put it on and switched on the radio.

*******************************

Sidewalk Café at le Champs Elysées

Sipping a demitasse of espresso, Philippe le Comte de Chagny sat watching people and vehicles pass, when his cell phone rang indignantly. Quietly, he drew it from his inside coat pocket.

“Oui, qu'est-ce que c'est?” le Comte gruffly answered.

“Monsieur le Comte, it’s me, Hardin Barrington,” said the voice on the other end.

“Who?”

After a few minutes of recalling events to jog the Count’s memory, the pilot finally succeeded and then went on to tell him what he knew about the reporter accompanying two men and a woman who sought a misbegotten journal allegedly written by the legendary Opera Ghost. At this, Philippe’s ears perked up and he chatted with Hardin for a few minutes. Lady Luck just smiled on him. He may have lost them at the motel in Miami, but they now roamed his territory, his stomping grounds. His skin tone flushed from fair to red and his eyes flashed a similar color. Anger coursed through his veins, but the journal was as good as his. Since the pilot confirmed they possessed a smaller brown book he knew had to contain
spells, then he would sit back and allow them to find the precious diary for him.

A wicked grin crossed his face as he gave instructions to Hardin. He never liked Americans, especially this one, but Hardin proved to be exceptionally greedy and willing to do anything for money, nothing short of murder.

With craggy-faced Orlando dead, he would need another money-hungry henchman to serve him. Palmer looked worried. Certainly he didn’t want someone muscling in on his territory. With craggy-face gone, he stood to receive double the pay. Hearing that Barrington the pilot would play a part in finding the journal made him shift and squirm uncomfortably in his seat. No doubt, the Count employed other such men to do his evil bidding, but up until now, Palmer and Orlando had been number one. Up until now…

Magick never seemed important to Philippe. He knew it existed and heard tell of what it could do from the writings of his ancestors, but nothing said endless power and money beyond your imagination like a spell book (or book of shadows) from an ancient foe.

“What do you know of magick, Palmer?” Philippe turned to his
stunned bodyguard. “Not magic as in pulling a rabbit from a hat or card tricks, but magick, casting spells, mixing potions and controlling the elements?”

To this, Palmer sat speechless. Not only had he never given it much thought, but he didn’t know there was a difference. In ignorance he finally replied, “Magic is magic, sir. It’s all a trick.”

“YOU FOOL!” bellowed the Count. “Don’t you know the difference? I just described them both and you sit there like an old sot and reply ‘magic is magic’. I will shoot you
myself if you don’t give me a proper answer!” The Count set down the demitasse and glared at his hired gun.

Palmer squirmed and again shifted nervously in his chair. “Really don’t know, sir. In truth, I never knew there was a
difference until now.”

The old Count arose from the little table and grinned wickedly, “Then you will not only know the difference, but you will experience it. Come, we must see what our crazy American pilot will do for us,” and with that, the Count gestured and Palmer arose and followed him.

***********************************************

Inside Hamilton’s Rental

In his hand, BC Hamilton held a iPhone, as he searched the
Internet for the address of the last student attending the field trip to the Paris National Archives.

The iPhone proved to be a handy internet-connected,
multimedia smartphone. Its minimal hardware interface had no physical keyboard but the multi-touch screen offered a virtual keyboard when necessary. The iPhone functioned as a camera phone (including text messaging and visual voicemail), a portable media player (equivalent to a video iPod), and an Internet client (with email, web browsing and Wi-Fi connectivity).

Antoine Livigne, seventeen years old, lived in a dingy apartment in town along with his uncle Lucas McCleary. After interrogating all the students on the list, one more wouldn’t be difficult. None of the others seemed to know how to answer or even understood what they asked. This last kid had to know something.

Erik suggested Mae and Hamilton ask the questions. He and Raoul wanted to skulk about the alley and hallway to see what they could find. After Hamilton said he thought someone
other than the black Mercedes followed them, Erik grew more aware and ever mindful of who followed them in the car or who walked behind them on foot. Seems like old times, he thought as he fingered his deadly lasso.

Wow! The plot thickegns... I'm sure Erik will have a field day with that pilot dude... The only question is when.

And finally they got to the kid who matters. I wonder what's in store next...

Great new chapter, my friend, I can't wait for the next installment.

D

I am now playing catch up. I'm wayyy behind, but love what you have so far. (I skipped over to the latest chapter, too.) Very intense and dramatic.

Slitterliggie thank you for your support and lovely comments.

Chica de Nueva York so happy to see you. Thank you for you kind words. Hope to see you more often.

If I am posting too fast, let me know. The following is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

*******************************

CHAPTER 15

Apartment of Lucas McCleary

Lucas McCleary stared in confusion at the two strangers standing before him at the door. Mae explained they wanted to ask certain questions of his nephew for a survey they conducted for an American magazine about French private schools. Lucas shook his head not sure what to say accept ‘no’. Hamilton seemed persuasive enough and soon had Mae and himself invited inside.

When the questions alluded to the journal, this raised a red
flag. At the moment he couldn’t be sure if Philippe had sent them or someone worse. Tiny pearls of sweat beaded on his forehead and streamed down Lucas’ face, even though the day seemed cool and overcast. Only a few meters away lay the basement/workroom with the untreated water damaged pages of the old journal. He had no weapon on him since they had taken him by surprised. What should he do? What should he say? If he denied the field trip, that could be digging his own grave. Should he refuse to allow Antoine to speak with them that could be tossing them both into said grave. Not good!

At that moment, the door burst open and Lucas’ nephew
trotted in without a thought about the strangers conversing with his uncle.

“Antoine, this is Mr. Hamilton and his friend Mae. They want to ask you some questions about your school and the outing to the National Archives,” Lucas shot a wary glace to his nephew. The lad sensed something out of place. His uncle seldom sweated profusely. “They mentioned something about missing documents from the Archives. A journal…” his uncle’s voice trailed.

The boy said nothing at first. Eying the two strangers suspiciously, he moved a little closer. The woman looked harmless, but when the man got up, he could tell he packed a weapon in his belt at his back. The sports jacket didn’t hang right.

“You don’t mind if we ask you a few questions, do you? It’s for a magazine called Other Worldly News,” Mae tried to smile as Hamilton extended his hand in friendship.

With is guard up, Antoine slowly backed away. “What questions? Why me?” the young man had several scenarios of escape run through his mind. His lip twitched a little and his stomach turned over. He’d been caught!

“We’ve already talked to all your classmates. You’re the last one. It won’t take but a few minutes,” Hamilton reassured noticing the boy’s nervousness.

Lucas shifted in his seat and inched forward a bit trying to get up the nerve to get up and make a dash for his workroom.

“We were at the National Archives earlier today and they claimed some documents are missing. Do you recall the power going off for three minutes before coming on?” Again Hamilton tried to sound professional. From Antoine’s shifty eyes and inching backward, it seemed obvious that he knew about the missing file.

Uncle Lucas arose and offered his guest some tea. Mae almost refused, but Hamilton agreed. At this, Lucas seized the moment to make a dash for the basement; locking himself inside. In the same instant, Antoine shot out the door and down the hall, with Hamilton hot on his trail. Mae hung back to find out why the boy’s uncle locked himself inside the basement off from the living room. Without a sound, Mae arose from the sofa and moved to the other side of the closed door.

From the basement the young woman could hear soft shuffling and then a whispered voice. It sounded as though the uncle were speaking to someone. Telephone or cell phone? Mae
glanced about the room. A telephone stared back at her from a distant table. Quietly she moved to it and carefully lifted the receiver.

Dial tone.

He must be on a cell phone, she thought. But just as she started back to the basement door, it burst open; Lucas rushed out, violently knocking her into the wall and then sped out the open door to the hallway with something in his arms. Mae tried to get a look, but it all happened too fast. For a moment she gasped and tried to breath since McCleary knocked the wind out of her.

After a couple of minutes and much scuffling of feet, Raoul
appeared nearly out of breath.

“Mae, are you all right?” he asked extending his arms to her. She grabbed an arm and pulled herself from the wall.

“I think. Where did he go?” After scanning the room she then poked her head out the door, and looked up and down the hall.

“Who? The boy or the man who bolted out of here like the devil was chasing him?” Raoul pulled her back. He worried she might be hurt.

“Actually, both. I know Hamilton went after the boy.”

“And Erik went after the man cradling something in his arms,” Raoul finished and again asked if she felt all right.

Once again she assured him she was well. Glancing back to the basement/workroom, the two gingerly descended the stairs and entered. The small room held a table, a device to vacuum freeze-dry paper, several bottles of isopropyl alcohol and a small commercial freezer. Mae and Raoul examined the items carefully, but neither one could figure out what the items at hand were used for.

After a few more minutes passed, Hamilton returned breathless, his blond hair disheveled.

“He got a way,” he managed to puff out while rapidly descending the short staircase, trying to catch his breath.

“What about the older man?” asked Raoul.

“Erik was still chasing him last I looked. Hey, they did it here. They did have the journal.”

The two exchanged puzzled looks as Raoul and Mae watched the reporter snoop through the items on the table.

“They did what here? How do you know they have the journal?” Mae had to know.

“Isopropyl alcohol and a vacuum to freeze-dry…over here,”
the reporter stooped to open the small freezer. “Here’s the freezer to help dry the pages. It was water damaged, so this is how they were restoring it,” pushing a stray strand of sandy colored hair from his eyes, Hamilton ticked a look from one to the other.

“How do you know what’s needed to restore water damaged
paper?” the young Vicomte furrowed a brow.

“I’m a reporter, remember? I make it my business to know
things.”

“Then you must know who Lucas McCleary really is and where
he would hide,” came a familiar voice entering the apartment.

Erik stood by the door of the basement and looked down at
the three eying the place suspiciously. “The rascal got away. So Mister Hot Shot Reporter, where would he go?”

Stunned by his choice of words, Raoul looked to Mae, who in
turn smiled. “He’s had a little more than a year to catch up on today’s lingo.”

“What does ‘hot shot’ mean?” asked the poor confused
Vicomte.

“Highly successful and aggressive,” the young woman
explained.

Hamilton only grinned and said nothing, but moved passed the two, ascending the stairs as he motioned for them to follow.

Am caught up. Dedicated some time to reading. I think this "Erik in modern times" story is suspenseful romance. Erik using our modern lingo.... That takes some getting used to. I felt so bad for Raoul when I read his brother was trying to have him killed (ch. 10). Hasn't the poor guy been through enough?

Cheers.

Very good chapter once again, my friend. So now they have found the one with the journal, I wonder what will happen next...


Please do continue again soon, I'm anxious to see what they will do now...


D

Chica de Nueva York thank you for your lovely review. I am glad you are liking this one. Sequels to me should not be a rehashing of the first. Modern day Philippe is not really Raoul's brother. He is an ancestor with the same name as his brother. Still and all, no one wants to have a realtive hunt them down.

Slitherliggie thank you for the kind words.

For your reading pleasure, here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

**********************************************************
CHAPTER 16

Street corner near McCleary’s apartment.

Once again Erik decided they should split up. For some reason the generally busy corner fell silent, as the whisper of a breeze kissing a nearby tree and the rustle of discarded paper tickled their ears. This time Hamilton went with le Vicomte de Chagny and Mae accompanied her husband. Pretty sure the older man had what they sought, Erik and his wife moved quickly and quietly among the shadows of twilight. Somehow this felt like the old days of tracking down the prey, ready for the kill. The thrill of the hunt invigorated Erik and the thought of beating the truth out of the man exhilarating. His sweet wife worried about him in time like this. She could feel his enthusiasm. Not sure if he felt excited to do the right thing, or just wanted the opportunity to pulverize someone.

Hamilton suggested they look for McCleary at either a nearby bar or a place for geeks into all aspects of science called la Société de la Science. During his years of reporting, he’d heard of such a place. Erik agreed to seek out la Société de la Science while Hamilton and le Vicomte paid a visit to some of the bars. The young Antoine they didn’t need unless he had the journal.

La Société de la Science seemed unheard of. For several hours Erik and Mae scowled the streets. Neither shop nor business would admit to hearing of la Société de la Science. It seemed like the association never existed.

Cursing under his breath, the former Opera Ghost slipped back into the shadows with his wife close at hand. To their surprise, the pilot who had brought them to Paris, the same one they had tied up, stood several meters from them. Having no reason to think someone spied on him, he never once thought to check the scrubs and trees on the corner behind
him. Busily engaged on a cell phone, they overheard his brief conversation with the modern day Philippe de Chagny.

Stunned at the name, Erik ticked a look of genuine puzzlement to his wife. Did he hear correctly?

Hardin Barrington repeated when he last encountered Antoine, a mere ten minutes ago. The boy seemed out of breath and swore someone sought his life. Hardin knew Philippe wouldn’t kill the lad for nothing, since he frequently did business with Lucas McCleary the uncle.

One thing made Barrington’s ears perk up, the journal. The young man mentioned it in haste and without thinking. When he realized what he’d done, he made tracks away from the pilot.

The first thought to eliminate Barrington had Erik in an unusually jovial mood, if choking the life out of one’s enemies can be called jovial. However, his wife’s suggestion to follow the man did make more sense. Without a sound the former Opera Ghost and spouse followed the flaming haired pilot for some time, keeping to the shadows and the darkest of corners.

Philippe’s last hired gun, Palmer, caught up to the pilot who then whispered something and pointed in the direction ahead. Straining to hear the conversation, the two shadows could only make out the words ‘dead’ and ‘tomorrow’. Would someone be dead tomorrow or would someone be dead before tomorrow? They couldn’t be sure.

Palmer stood a full 6’2”, at least a four inches over the flaming haired pilot. As they walked, they chatted about something, which again only came out as a whisper. In a few moments, the stopped in front of FNAC (originally Fédération nationale d’achats des cadres, or National Purchasing Federation of Managers), one of the largest video games stores in Paris.




Finding Lucas would try the nerves more, but finding a seventeen-year-old boy not so much. As brilliant as he was, Antoine still showed his immaturity by seeking out and playing video games. One in particular, only this store sold; Meurant Demain (Die Tomorrow). Perhaps this was what they overheard earlier, the name of a video game.

Keeping out of sight inside of a busy video store in the early evening deemed harder than it sounded. The bright lights from the ceiling flooded each and every corner of the huge store. People of various ages, mainly in their teens, pushed and shoved passed them. Most made their way to the video demo section where Palmer and Barrington headed.

In the center of the vast expanse, stood a platform, which allowed three play stations with a young man at each, ready to commence the violent and deadly game. True it appeared to be only a video game, so where came the fascination? The execution. Also, it didn’t matter whether you won or lost, it as how you played the game, so to speak.

Looking about the crowd and the center platform, Antoine did not seem to be around. No one recognized any of the boys. Erik tried to keep back far enough away from view of the two men.

Palmer pointed to something near the platform. Suddenly a few cords of music filled the air just before the hash, brash sounds of the game began. In this version, the three boys competed against each other. This served as a demonstration of the many facets of the game and skill of the players. So where was Antoine?

Barrington looked about carefully, narrowing his eyes now and again to get a better look at certain sections of the crowd. Palmer fingered the gun holstered beneath his jacket.

Unbeknown to the criminals, Antoine cloaked himself behind the gamers, where he watched silently from within a cardboard tree. The disguise seemed perfect. The tree set as a prop behind the gamers anyway. Why not crawl up inside and
watch?

Mae saw the tree sway. At first, she assumed the rush of air from the open doors caused the movement. Closer scrutiny confirmed that someone occupied the tree. Mae nudged her husband. Quickly and quietly they pushed through the crowd, past Barrington and Palmer.

Antoine may have been occupied with the game, but he saw the husband and wife team creeping upon him. Without a sound, he slipped out from the back of the tree and melted into the sea of screaming bodies.

As disappointed as they felt in finding the tree empty, Erik and his beloved caught the excitement when Barrington and de Chagny’s button man vanished from the crowd. The hunt was on.

Local bars may draw a crowd in a gathering of friends, a place to relax after a hard day of work or maybe just a place to hide. Hamilton did know his science geeks. Knowing the owner for a number of years and sharing their most intimate oments (a rousing game of rugby or an occasional game of chess), McCleary now hid in the rear of the building generally used for
storage. He had to hide the journal. It had to be a place in plain sight where no one would ever think to look.

For sure his nephew would eventually mention the journal to someone. That someone would enviably send word to Philippe. He just might believe he didn’t have it if he can’t find it.

Lucas’ heart pounded in terror as he looked about the storeroom. Racks and racks of aged wine, brandy and other fine liquor lay before him. Shelves and shelves of canned goods surrounded him. The pub generally served a light mid-day or evening meal, so a few jars of pickles and other items for snacks lay about.

With shaky hands the poor frightened man stumbled about for a hiding place.

A rustle sounded just outside the door.

The owner?

Lucas blanched white and swallowed hard.

Outside the door, Raoul and Hamilton hesitated in going in. For some reason the reporter seemed to sense a presence occupied the storeroom. As he phrased it, he could hear them breathing. Raoul reserved his feelings about the man. Reporter or not, he acted more like a man hiding his identity and his reason for seeking the journal. After all, how many true reporters are armed and with a Steyr GB Austrian double action handgun? Certainly time hadn’t change reporters that much.

After testing the door, they found it locked. Shooting the lock off would definitely bring attention. Breaking it down quietly seemed impossible. Hamilton motioned for Raoul to exit the back door while he flushed out the culprit. Not sure what else to do, le Vicomte appeared to obey the man he distrusted.

Pretending to slip out the back, Raoul ducked down behind a barrel filled with he didn’t-know-what, and watched. The reporter replaced the gun in his belt and slipped a small case from his inside coat pocked. Upon finding the tool he wanted, he removed it from the case, poked it into the keyhole and proceeded to wiggle it about until the lock clicked and the door
swung open.

The room appeared empty as the reporter moved in quietly with drawn gun. A small window made a noise as a breeze pushed against it. After careful examination, the reporter concluded it did appear that someone had crawled through and escaped.

Without a sound, Raoul crept to the back door and peered out.

No one! Not even a sound.

Could the man still be in the room? He couldn’t have slipped out the window without some kind of noise. Or could he?

You ever tried your hand at writing a thriller, or even mystery, Fay? You seem to have a knack for writing suspense, and you definitely know to rule to ending a chapter.

Nicely done.

Chica de Nueva York thank you for the compliment. I have written a lot more than you've seen.

Now for the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

**********************************************
CHAPTER 17

Paris, France 1894, 2 March

The moment was nigh at hand for me to confront the sorceress when Louvel stepped in to save Paris. The absent-minded fool gave no thought to ask if someone had a plan to remove the menace. Instead, the sot moved in on the monastery and challenged Brianna. Such beauty and fire no man had ever known. Her raven coloured hair caught in the up current of wind danced about her snow-white skin when she ascended toward the heavens and called forth lightening bolts to destroy Louvel and his men. Philippe must have turned over in his grave to see his idiot son charging an unstoppable killer.

The wind frolicked with the ebony gauze that made up Brianna’s dress as it floated around her. The woman had the face and body of a goddess, but no heart beat in her lovely chest. Deadly daggers seemed to jut forth from her eyes as the pupils dilated to an unholy red glow. As the Opera Ghost I had seen much death, much hatred and unholy acts, but what I witnessed that day deemed the most evil I could have ever imagined. It made even me shudder. The woman killed without conscious. A life meant nothing to her. Again and again lightening bolts struck and consumed Louvel’s men. Their screams of pain and death fueled her madness. Both my mind and body reeled from the death cries and stench of burning flesh.

The monks tried in vain to vanquish the she-devil, but none of their exorcisms or spells worked. The walls of the monastery both inside and out lay before me covered in blood. Body parts lay all around as I cowered in the shadows waiting for my chance to call her into the looking glass.

Two lovers of the sorceress stood afar watching in horror. Etienne teleported to my side, but Landru was caught in the crossfire of lightening and gunfire. His wicked mistress taunted as his life’s fluid flowed freely from his side. Life slowly ebbed from his weak and battered body. I had to take a chance. Quickly I made a dash for the door and inside the chapel. The hidden room behind the bigger than life crucifix slid open at the touch of the counterweight. Etienne could heal Landru if I could get Brianna’s attention.

My song began sweet and low, building in volume to catch the woman’s attention. The longer she lingered and tried to ignore, the louder and more seductive came the tones. Alas, she could no longer resist. As all females in the past, the evil seductress succumbed to the lure of the lyrics. The promise of endless pleasure and indescribable ecstasy drew her to me. With a fixed gaze, she moved as one with no will of her own into the chapel and to the full-length mirror encased in gold gilding over bronze.

Her overwhelming beauty captured me and nearly left me speechless. The enchantress made even me, the Phantom yearn to take her to my bed. But reason stared me in the face and logic reminded how many men had died at the hand of this creature.

My song remained steady and strong. Without hesitation Brianna took my hand as I led her deeper and deeper into the mirror of roiling clouds. When the clouds dispersed, she was gone. Vanished into the sphere of endless torment, where flames burn the wicked and consume the souls of the damned!

as oliver twist says " Please Mam i want some more"