Page 92 of Angel's Fall
“Have you ever stopped to think that...” Shaya sighed. “That she believes this is love. Honestly believes it. Maybe that’s not so different from real love.”
“No one could love that thing – you know that just as well as I,” Raoul snapped. “So no, I have never even bothered to consider it because it’s insanity. She’s been manipulated and used and defiled. That’s all.”
“I admire your faith,” Shaya muttered as they began to descend. He had experienced faith once too. In the Shah and in his God and that he was doing right, even when all evidence and logic pointed in the other direction. It had to have been right and righteous back then, just as now. Because otherwise...
“How close are we?” Raoul asked as they arrived at the third cellar, where set after set hung in narrow rows.
“Very. We’re looking for a stone wall fromLe Roi de Lahore.”
“You think I know what different sets look like?’
“It looks Indian. I think it’s towards the back.” Shaya’s lantern illuminated forests and markets and distant castles until, at last, they came to the right place.
Shaya pressed against the false stone as he had seen Erik do and, sure enough, the trap door opened to reveal an entrance to utter darkness.
“Are you sure?” Raoul asked quietly.
“I’m sure that if we go in there, there will be no coming out the same way. We will have to fight him or break in. Something awaits us.”
“I’m ready.” Raoul drew his pistol. “But I shan’t mind you going first, as it is your discovery.”
Shaya scowled but did not argue. He heaved one leg, then the other, into the hole and fixed the handle of the lantern around his thumb so he could grip the ledge as he lowered himself. There was no indication at all how far down the passage went, but it had to be at least two stories if it went to the fifth cellar and Erik. With one final breath for courage, Shaya let go.
The fall was long, and his knees and ankles smarted when he hit the cold ground, but he lived. That was something.
“I’ve made it down!” he hissed upwards, trying to make out Raoul’s shadow as he followed through the passage. Shaya raised his lantern and jumped at the sight of a shadow also holding a light right in front of him. Stumbling back, the lantern dropped – and so too did the light belonging to the other. Shaya scrambled as the metal clanged against the hard floor, his heart suddenly pounding in terror. “No...”
“I’m following!” Raoul grunted above him as he prepared to drop. At the same time, Shaya raised the lantern to see his own face reflected in a mirror. One of many.
“Don’t—” he began to cry out, but it was too late.
Raoul landed on the floor beside him, looking around the mirrored chamber in confusion. “Where—”
Shaya gestured for silence, listening for any sound through the walls. The lights were not on yet. The torments had not begun.
“This is worse than I could have ever thought,” Shaya told his companion, as quietly as he could manage. “Do not make a sound. We cannot let him know we are in here.”
“Where are we?” Raoul asked in the barest whisper.
“The torture chamber. The one he used to drive men mad in our rosy hours of Mazenderan.”
––––––––
Christine didn’t wantto let go of Erik when he lifted her from the boat, then put her down outside the house on the lake. She wanted to hang on to him and feel that he was real and solid and alive as long as possible. If she held him, she could reach him and calm the storm in his mind that had propelled them through the dark. The rage that had brought the great chandelier crashing down.
Christine shivered from the cold and to recall that sight. It had been horrifying, and at the same time, glorious, to see everything brought to ruin. There was no going back now, for any of them.
At last they entered the house, and Christine sighed in relief. Erik stalked through the parlor with some urgent purpose, checking the corners and the walls as if he might find some adversary waiting there, muttering softly to himself. He paused at the wall to the left of the organ and smiled strangely before turning to Christine at last. He was a mess, at least what she could see, his hair unkempt and matted, and a smear of blood on his ravaged cheek.
“I’m sorry I’m not more presentable. So much to do, no time to dress properly,” he said with a shrug as she stared.
“Erik, did they hurt you?” she asked as she approached, wary of alarming him.
“I’ve had worse.” Erik looked at his wrists, where fresh red marks were visible above his old scars. Carefully, Christine reached out to touch the wounds, trying to hold in her tears as he winced before allowing her to touch him. Her fingertips grazed his livid flesh, and he let out a shaking breath as she stepped close.
Slow and tender, Christine unfastened Erik’s red robe to reveal that he was in shirtsleeves underneath, the same white one he had been wearing when they had taken him. It was clear because of the hole in the right arm and the hasty bandage he had affixed around his bullet wound.
“I’m so sorry,” Christine murmured, reaching for the wound. “I can’t imagine how awful it was to be chained—"
