Friday, June 5, 2020

Blog Tour with Teasers + Giveaway: Treachery by Lily White @lilywhitebooks @EJBookPromos


Treachery by Lily White
Series: Antihero Inferno #1
Publication date: May 27th, 2020
Photographer: Michelle Lancaster
Cover Designer: Lori Jackson Designs

Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
Ninth Circle.
Treachery.
Also known as Tanner Caine.

He is a temptation with cold, dark eyes.
A man with a seductive smirk and a body built for pure sin.
The linchpin of a group of wealthy bad boys known as the Inferno.

A dark presence that repels as much as he attracts, Tanner is the poisoned apple I want to bite even when I know it will destroy me.

Our story started in college, but I ran from him so far I believed I was safe.
I should have known he'd find me eventually.
I should have known that nobody escapes.

He has me in his sights again with an offer I can't pass up.
I know better than to make a deal with the Devil.
Not unless I'm willing to pay his sensual price...

(Treachery is Book One of the Antihero Inferno Series. Nine Standalone novels. Nine dangerous men. Nine unrepentant sinners you'll hate to love.)


Available at:
Free in Kindle Unlimited!!


Praise for Treachery

"Oh I love me some Alpha men!! Fantastic story!!" -- Amazon Review 5 Stars

"A SEDUCTIVE SIZZLER... THE PREY TURNS THE TABLES ON THE PREDATOR... SHE BITES BACK!" -- Amazon Review 5 Stars

"Just like usual, Lily White SLAYED me." -- The.beauty.and.the.bookies 5 Stars

"My unicorn author did it again!!" -- Kitty Kats Crazy About Books 5 Stars






About the Author:
Lily White is a romance writer who like to dabble on the taboo side of eroticism. She is most known for her Masters Series, Target This, Wishing Well, and Asylum. In addition to dark romance Lily writes contemporary romance, taboo romance, and psychological thrillers. Lily enjoys stretching her writing muscles by continuing to challenge herself with each book she publishes.







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Book Blitz with Excerpt + Giveaway: Shadow's Lyric by C.A. Worley @caworleyauthor @XpressoTours


Shadow's Lyric by C.A. Worley
Series: Crossing Daggers #1
Publication date: June 1st, 2020

Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
It began with a blood oath.
It ended in bloodshed.

When twenty-one-year-old Lyric is told by her father, Gabrian, she will be crossing into the Otherland as payment for a favor he owes the Shadow Lord, she thinks her life is over. In truth, it is just beginning. Years of training as a soldier and an uncanny ability to learn pretty much anything give Lyric the tools she needs to survive her new reality--and it totally helps that her new lord and master is sex incarnate.

Draven has long awaited Lyric's arrival, and not just because he needs her to track a powerful weapon stolen by an unknown adversary. He believes he has everything firmly in hand, despite the subterfuge he foolishly agreed to some twenty years back. When Draven's enemies and lies of omission both threaten the fragile bond he and Lyric are forming, he refuses to allow anything to stand in the way, not even the razor-sharp blade of Lyric's favorite sword.


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Excerpt
Draven was waiting for me in the hall when I exited my quarters. Something about the way he was casually leaning against the stone, with his arms and legs crossed, made him look especially yummy.

His nostrils flared right as his silver eyes took on an ethereal glow. I turned into a startled rabbit, frozen in his high beams. The oxygen between us heated, increasing in weight. Suddenly I felt hot, my mouth dry.

"I know how we can wet it," he rumbled, pushing off the wall and crowding my personal space. 

Stupid shield!

In my defense, it was hard to concentrate on anything when Draven was looking at me like he was about to eat me alive.

"Do you have any idea what you did to me out there?" he accused.

"I didn't do anything to you."

Draven grabbed my hand and flattened it on his crotch. My fingers reflexively squeezed, like they had a mind of their own. A dirty, naughty, whorish little mind of their own. A thrill shot through me and my adrenaline kicked in.

Well, hello there, nipples. Are you trying to tear through my shirt? Looks like.

"I'm not sure I'll be able to watch you best them again and again, but that's exactly what you'll do, isn't it, Angel?"

"You--you liked that? It was just me losing my temper."

Squeeze.

I was somebody else at the moment. Someone whose hand had no problem fondling big packages. 

"No, it was so much more," Draven contended.

Squeeze.

This time he released a satisfying exhale. I was affecting him. I liked--scratch that--I loved how I was affecting him. I felt powerful. Desired.

Despite any misgivings over the Shadow Lord's intentions, I wanted him with an irrational craving bordering on obsession. I wanted this male I hardly knew. Wanted him enough that I was standing in the hallway, after getting pissed on by a gargoyle, stroking him through his leathers.

We were having a conversation about what I did on the archery range while I was giving him a handy. Damn if I could get my stupid fingers to let go. I knew Draven wanted me. I didn't understand it, but he'd made it very clear. The proof was throbbing in my palm.

The question was, what was I going to do about it? Probably what I always did when someone pushed me. I was going to push back.

"Did you follow me up here for a quickie, Draven?"

Ohmysweetjesus, I seriously just said that out loud. Another person was inhabiting my body. Probably a prostitute's ghost.

"What would you do if I said yes?"

My heart sped up, thinking of the answer, picturing it vividly in my head.

"Shield, Lyric. My control around you is tenuous at best, and the images you're projecting are telling me you'd be more than okay with me locking us up in your room for a few hours while I take up residence in the cradle of your thighs."

I bit my lip, which I guess was code for go ahead and do me because Draven had me pinned to the wall with my legs around his waist faster than I could blink. So distracted by this exalted male, I hardly noticed the discomfort of my swords getting sandwiched between my back and the cool stone.

"Maybe just a taste, then," he bade, his mouth so close to mine I was breathing his exhale.

I waited, then quickly realized he was waiting for me to decide. My sensitized skin felt tight. My core ached. I hungered. Gods, how I hungered.

These stirrings had always been dormant in me. One second in Draven's orbit had awoken the carnal side of my being, the demon side which should have always had an appetite for pleasures of the flesh.

Mateus and the other demons in our clan had no issue finding a warm body for just a night. Getting naked with the humans whose names they'd not remember was commonplace.

I'd grown into adulthood believing I was lacking in this, convinced my halfling chromosomes had dampened those instincts. I had lived in the presence of hundreds of males my entire life and not one of them made me feel any amount of sexual desire, not even Mateus. Only Draven made me feel this way and had since the second I'd stepped into his world.

"Lyric," he growled.

I involuntarily tilted my pelvis, groaning at the faintest touch of sweet friction. Draven shook, holding himself in check. For me. He was holding back for me.

It was heady stuff having any sort of power over the biggest and baddest Shadow in the land.

My soul pushed energies out and when his magics pushed back, I was lost. I could no more stop this than I could stop a rising tide.

My hands flew to his hair, grabbing two fistfuls. I yanked him the rest of the distance, holding him to me, unable to get close enough.

Unlike our first kiss, this one was raw. Primal. All teeth and tongue and desperation. I loved it. Locking my legs behind his back, I ground against him.

"Fuck, Lyric."

His curse added to my impulse to behave badly. I'd bet he was a dirty talker in bed. Not that I had much experience with that, but I did have satellite television in my room back home. One can learn a lot from soft porn.

"Have to... make you... come," he gritted between kisses.

Oh, yes, please!

Draven's mouth drifted down the column of my throat. He kept one hand under my ass and the other slid under my shirt, then under my sports bra. I threw my head back when he reached my nipple, pinching and pulling. All the while he continuously rolled his hips into me.

Shadows started moving around us. Just like in my dreams, they slithered against my limbs, humming with vibrations. I froze.

"Draven?"

"Shh. It's just me," he whispered, licking my collarbone. "I need your mouth, but I want to taste and touch you everywhere. Let me show you how I can do both."

"Uh--"

His lips were on mine again, the tendrils of darkness taking over his scorching kisses below my ear and down my neck. The maelstrom of sensations obliterated any hesitation I might have had. It was like there were three Dravens making out with me against the wall.

He dropped his other hand back to my rear. Magics skated under my clothing, across my breasts, feeling like electric fingers.

When he started lifting me up and down against his rigid cock, I moaned. The movement was chafing, holding me in that narrow space between pleasure and pain.That foreign storm, the one I'd only ever experienced in my dreams where a shadowy figure played my body like a master, built with the force of a tsunami.

Electric currents slithered down my abdomen, under my pants, and settled atop my clit. Holy fucking shit. They increased in intensity, alternating with his jerking hips. Every part of me was covered in his essence.

The only place he wasn't was the one place I knew we both wanted him to be. Conjuring the image of Draven moving inside me, imagining his weight pinning me down as he thrust between my legs, the dam finally broke.

I cried out in pleasured shock, unable to hold it in. On and on it went with those electric currents prolonging my ecstasy until I was nothing more than a drooping form Draven had to hold upright.

My body went limp, my head dropped to his shoulder. He was still hard and I wondered if we should do something about that, though, maybe not only here in the hall. 

Draven kissed my neck then straightened. Pulling gently on my hair, he tilted my head enough to see my face.

"You're exactly as I knew you'd be," he said.

"How's that?" I puffed, still somewhat winded.

"Passionate. Wild. A force to be reckoned with."

I blushed hard. Make-out session against wall? No problem. Complement from the Shadow Lord? Totally embarrassment.

"Yes, well, you're nothing like I thought. None of this is, aside from the atmospheric differences."

"What did you think I'd be?"

"Cold. Scary. Murdery."

He fought a smile. "I'm not sure murdery is a word, but I can be--and often am--all three. Though, not to you, Lyric. Never to you."

Emotions rolled through me, plucking a haunting tune on my heartstrings. I wasn't sure I was ready to identify what I was feeling.

He spoke to me as he might speak to a lover. He showed care for me, concern even. He'd fucking bought me a set of katanas and a personalized flask, things I'd treasure far more than any gift of flowers or jewelry.

"Draven..."

His lips pressed softly to mine. I knew my shield had been annihilated, so he was catching everything. It was grossly unfair. 

"It's okay, Angel. This was all I needed, for now. You come beautifully, by the way."

If I flushed any further, I was going to have an aneurism.

Draven lowered me to my feet, brushing back the stray hairs that had fallen out of my ponytail during our hallway tryst.

"You might want to shower and change again, unless you want everyone to know what we were doing."

"They'll still catch traces, anyway, won't they?"

"Probably."

Lamerson's words about my worth got stuck on repeat in my mind. "I don't want them to think I'm, that I'm..."

"That you're what?"

"That that's why I'm here, all I'm good for."

I waited for the regret to seep through my pores. When it didn't, I chalked it up to the endorphins still pumping through me. Surely, I'd regret this by morning.

Draven pushed open my door and nudged me inside. "Then go rinse off, get dressed, return to the training area, and kick someone's ass."

Oh, gods. Draven got me. He sooo got me. How could I possibly keep my panties dry when the Shadow Lord was over there getting me?

I was in over my head.


About the Author:
C.A. Worley is the alter-ego of Romance Author Cass Alexander. Where Cass tends to focus on humor in her publications. C.A. loves to write fantasy. She chose to write under the two different monikers so as to not confuse (or tick off) her readers.

C.A. currently resides in the Midwest, but was born and raised in the South. She spends her days working from home and her evenings are spent shuttling her kids to and fro. Her dinners are subpar, but she makes a mean dessert.

When she's tired of living her sons' travel sports schedule, C.A. enjoys a glass (or four) of wine. She needs the liquid courage to click the publish button for her fantasy romance novels.

Her motto is, "Be Brave," and she tries to live it every day. It takes a healthy dose of courage to get through this thing we call life.




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Book Blitz with Excerpt + Giveaway: The Right to Remain Silent by Anya Summers @anyabsummers @XpressoTours


The Right to Remain Silent by Anya Summers
Series: Crescent City Kings #3
Publication date: April 23rd, 2020
Publisher: Blushing Books Publications

Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
He never expects to find her there...

Officer Quinten Blackthorne is working undercover to bring the Rudnikov Mob Empire to its knees. He never expects to find his best friend's baby sister, Becca, in the center of a powder keg situation at the infamous mobster's home. With her life on the line, he does the only thing he can think of to save her--he pretends that she's his fiancee, who knows nothing of his clandestine activities with the criminal enterprise, and stands as her stalwart protector.

Forced into marriage...

But Quinten never expects the mob boss to force them into marriage at gunpoint as a test of loyalty. Not to mention, the idea of her belonging to him isn't unappealing, nor is he as averse to the prospect as he lets on. Becca, with her sweet curves and take no prisoners attitude, fascinates him, stirs him, and leaves him craving her submission. Yet his past is fraught with broken dreams and death, so he uses his friendship with her brother as a shield against his yearning to claim her as his own.

Resistance is futile...

However, circumstances soon compel Becca and Quinten to become the most unlikely allies in a deadly game of deception. Now they must depend on one another for survival. As they race to unlock the keys to breaking the case, will Quinten be able to maintain his hands-off policy with Becca? Or will he surrender to the earth-shattering passion and turn their marriage of convenience into the real deal?

Publisher's Note: This steamy friends to lovers romance contains elements of power exchange. While it's the third in the Crescent City Kings series, it can be enjoyed independently.


Available at:


Excerpt
Becca said a silent prayer at the echoing clomp of multiple footsteps approaching. Her anxiety ratcheted up to cataclysmic levels.

The double doors swung inward. Becca wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but it wasn't a relatively trim man with salt and pepper hair, dressed in gray tweed slacks and a button up navy cardigan sweater over his ivory dress shirt. He looked much more like a history professor than a criminal mastermind--at least, until you looked into his eyes. They were cold, devoid of any humanity or warmth, and calculating. Rudnikov assessed her from head to toe as she rose. That stare made her feel underdressed in her jeans and Kelly-green chenille sweater. A sense of helplessness invaded her soul. The uncertainty infused by doubt that she would love through the next hour.

Rudnikov didn't travel alone. He had four of his paid thugs guarding him. Becca skimmed her gaze over them. They were all similar in manner and form to Konrad, as if they had come off an assembly line. But it was the last man her gaze landed on who brought her up short. She kept her jaw from dropping to the floor, but just barely.

Quinten Blackthorne was a member of Anton Rudnikov's mob team? What the hell?

Not six weeks ago, she'd danced with the man at her brother's wedding. Quinten was an officer with the New Orleans Police Department and one of her brother's best friends. He'd been a groomsman in the wedding party, and had looked downright sinful in his tux, like a dark prince of the underworld.

Why was he here? What was he doing with Rudnikov?

Tonight, Quinten wore a charcoal gray suit, almost identical to the rest of the crime lord's hired goons. Shock flitted through his warm cognac eyes the moment his gaze landed on her. The man was mister badass personified. The utter confidence Quinten exuded in his pinky made the hired goons look laughable at best in their attempts to seem imposing. He was the alpha of alphas, top of the food chain, and he knew it. The suit, combined with the ivory dress shirt, was unbuttoned at the neck and stretched over muscles that should be indecent. Becca knew that from experience. The night of the wedding, as he'd held her on the dance floor, she'd had the good fortune to feel those muscles flex beneath her hands. The man was ripped, and solid as a tank. He wore his hair, black as midnight, in a military style cut. And he had one of those masculine faces that tended to have perpetual dark stubble which, combined with his strong angular jaw, full lips, and dark slash of eyebrows, only served to make him hotter. As in: five alarm fire, panties have disintegrated into ash, and a woman was ready and willing to do whatever the man wanted.

"Miss O'Malley, a pleasure to meet you. I thank you for coming to meet with me on such short notice. I'm Anton Rudnikov. My associate, Sasha, speaks highly of you and your gallery. I admit, I've not had the chance to attend one of your showings, but I am impressed with your use of color in your art," Anton Rudnikov stated with a friendliness that belied the underlying air of hostility in the room.

"Thank you, Mister Rudnikov. You have a lovely home with some rather spectacular artwork. If I'm not mistaken, you have an original Renoir in your entryway." Becca redirected her attention to the mob boss. She shook his hand, hoping she was hiding the dread coursing through her.

"You've got a good eye. If we had more time, I would give you a tour," Rudnikov said with a frigid smile that didn't reach his eyes. Did that mean her time was running out?

Quinten marched up beside Rudnikov, directing a scowl her way. His fury was evident; he glowered, apparently angry that she was there. Well, that made two of them. Becca wasn't thrilled about the fact either. But he held her gaze, trying to impart some indistinct meaning that went straight over her stunned head. If she were being fanciful, she would have said he was pleading with her.


About the Author:
Born in St. Louis, Missouri, Anya grew up listening to Cardinals baseball and reading anything she could get her hands on. She remembers her mother saying if only she would read the right type of books instead binging her way through the romance aisles at the bookstore, she'd have been a doctor. While Anya never did get that doctorate, she graduated cum laude from the University of Missouri-St. Louis with an M.A. in History.

Anya is a bestselling and award-winning author published in multiple fiction genres. She also writes urban fantasy, paranormal romance, and contemporary romance under the name Maggie Mae Gallagher. A total geek at her core, when she is not writing, she adores attending the latest comic con or spending time with her family. She currently lives in the Midwest with her two furry felines.




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Thursday, June 4, 2020

Blog Tour with Excerpt + Giveaway: Nocturne by Cheryl Mahoney @MarvelousTales @RockstarBkTours


Nocturne by Cheryl Mahoney
Series: The Guardian of the Opera #1
Publication date: June 5th, 2020
Publisher: Stonehenge Circle Press
Pages: 300

Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
Set against the backdrop of 1880s Paris and the stunning Opera Garnier, The Guardian of the Opera: Nocturne brings you the familiar tale from a different direction. Meg Giry met the Phantom once when she was twelve years old, a new ballet dancer lost in the Opera's maze. Years later, when an Angel of Music offers singing lessons to her best friend Christine Daae, Meg is sure she knows what's actually happening. But as strange events unfold and the pieces stop adding up, Meg has to wonder if she truly understands the Phantom--or Christine.

Erik is a man of many talents and many masks, and the one covering his face may be the least concealing. The opera house is his kingdom and his refuge, where he stalks through the shadows as the Phantom of the Opera, watching over all that occurs. He never intended to fall in love; when he does, it launches him into a new symphony he's certain can only end in heartbreak.


Available at:


Excerpt
Sometimes I believe the course of my life was set because I got lost one day when I was twelve years old. I got lost often that year, but only once that mattered.

I had first come to the Opera Garnier only three days, and I defy anyone to learn that labyrinth of rooms and passages so quickly. It didn't help being a girl from a small village, come to Paris with my mother just a week earlier. The city was bewildering, unimaginably bigger than my little village of Leclair. And the Opera was the heart and center of Paris, stranger and wilder and even more confusing.

I was supposed to be on my way to ballet practice. I was a petit rat, the lowest tier of society among the Opera's performers. Madame Thibault the ballet mistress presides over us, and she did not tolerate tardiness. I didn't want to be late. I desperately wanted to be at ballet practice--but I was lost.

Some wrong turn mixed me up somewhere, and from there I could only fly through the maze like a small ghost, unable to find the way back to my intended path. The Opera held too many similar corridors, with their polished marble floors, gilt paneled walls, and long arrays of mirrors. No space in the Opera was plain or generic, until the dizzying amount of detail, the carvings and the gold designs and the patterned grates overwhelmed me, so that I couldn't pick out one familiar note in the crashing, thundering symphony of it all.

It felt equally impossible to ask for directions from anyone I passed, the looming scenechangers with gap-toothed grins or the elegant sopranos with their noses in the air. By the time I might have built up enough reckless courage to speak to someone, no one was left. I had got below ground level, probably not very far, but low enough for the halls to be deserted, low enough for it to feel cool despite the summer warmth above. I'd left behind the human smells of the upper corridors, the grease paint, perfume and cigar smoke. Down here the air smelled damp, reminding me of the fabled lake said to be even farther down. In stark and jarring contrast, these walls were plain, white-washed stone, unevenly lit by flickering gas lamps.

When I came to a bleak and empty dead-end, I gave up. I slid down to sit against the cold stone wall, one arm around my ankles and forehead against my knees. With my other hand I held tightly onto my small gold necklace, the barest of comforts in the desolation. My hair fell forward like a golden curtain around my face, blocking out the dismal, silent, baffling corridor. I half-believed that I would never get out, that I would die lost in the depths of the Opera.

Part of me found that the preferable option. To stumble in late to ballet practice would mean facing the ballet mistress' mocking disapproval. She would hate me, the other girls would laugh at me, and my entire life, not to mention dancing career, would be over forever. I'd never earn any money to help Mother afford to stay in Paris, and we'd have to go back to Leclair where nothing would ever happen to me ever again.

So I sat in that dead-end corridor and cried.

"It can't be as bad as all that."

The voice that broke the silence was the most beautiful I had ever heard. Perhaps that was a strange adjective for a male voice, but it was a true one. It was a melodic voice, every syllable flowing smoothly into the next while the punctuation stayed crisply clear. And it was a kind voice as well, sympathetic with a bracing amount of levity. It was a voice I would have had the courage to ask directions from, just a little earlier.

By now, the situation felt too far gone to be salvaged. Ballet practice would start within minutes; I couldn't imagine getting there in time now even if I knew the way. So I just sobbed out, "I can't find my way to practice and the ballet mistress is going to kill me."

Only then did I lift my head to push my hair back, wipe my eyes and look at the man who had spoken. And then--sob catching in my suddenly tightening throat--then I got scared.

The other ballet girls had already taken great delight in telling me about Le Fantome, the Phantom of the Opera, the specter who stalked the corridors, harbinger of death and disaster. I froze, staring at this strange figure so tall above me.

He was wearing the formal, all-black evening clothes the stories had promised. The legend also mentioned hands covered in blood, which his weren't. His eyes weren't the glowing yellow of the tales, but he did wear a molded white mask over the right side of his face in a more mysterious touch, while a broad-brimmed hat cast another layer of shadow.

A mask and evening clothes in the morning were unusual, but we were in an opera house. My instincts that he was the Phantom came from cues harder to define than a mask: a shroud of mystery surrounded him, from the swirling black cloak to the inexplicable way he seemed as much shadow as man, indistinct in the dim light, as though he was so used to blending in that he forgot to stop.

Somehow I thought of the Phantom at once, before he even had time to say, "In that case, I understand why you're upset. There are many people I would rather cross than the ballet mistress."

It was a sympathetic remark, made in that perfect voice, with a faint smile as well. However, my mother had warned me often enough not to trust strange men just because they smiled, and this one was stranger than most. "Who are you?" I gasped out, though I felt horribly sure that I already knew.

He fingered the brim of his hat, and I read thoughtfulness in his stance. "I am a sort of... guardian of the Opera," he said at last, which only confirmed my worst fears. "You seem unfamiliar. Are you new?"

I could think of no answer that felt safe, so I chose the truth and said, "Yes." In a way, everyone was new. The Opera Garnier had opened in January, and this was only June; I couldn't imagine learning every face in six years, let alone a mere six months.

"I see. Old hands have no business getting lost, but when new it is difficult to avoid. I will help you." And he extended one black-gloved hand.

My heart pounded in my chest so loudly he must have heard it, and my fingers tightened, wrapped around my legs. I stared at his hand, unmoving, for so long that he took it back again and said, "Not too new, I see, to have heard of the Phantom."

So it was true, and only more terrifying that he admitted it. I looked up at his green eyes, at that mask, and squeaked, "Are you going to kill me?"

He crouched down, bringing his face nearly to my level, black cloak pooling around him. Closer now, I could see his eyes through the shadows, greener than anyone's I had ever seen. "I will tell you a secret but you mustn't tell anyone else because it would ruin my reputation. I do not eat girls' heart. I have never drenched any walls in blood, at least not in this country. I cannot read minds or send nightmares, and--brace yourself, this one will be shocking--I am not actually a skeleton with glowing yellow eyes."

He said it with such perfect solemnity that a giggle escaped me in spite of myself. It may have been slightly hysterical.

He nodded once. "I swear on Mozart, Beethoven, and Stradivari that if you come with me, you will reach ballet practice unharmed."

When he extended his hand again, I took it. Even though I knew it was probably just a trick of voice, I was obscurely reassured by the vow--and I was also acutely conscious that he could kill me whether I went voluntarily or not.

His fingers closed around mine and he rose to his feet, drawing me up. For a supposed ghost, he had a warm and solid hand.

"One story that is true--I walk through walls." He reached out to the wall behind me, and I turned my head in time to see a panel pivot out, revealing a dark space behind it. How many doors like that existed in the Opera, if one had happened to be right next to me all along?

He waved his hand through the air, a candle appearing between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted the candle and blew lightly over it. I was still noticing that he was a ghost who could breathe when the candle crackled to life with flame.

"How did you do that?" I asked, eyes widening.

His half-smile broadened. "Magic." He stepped through the opening, candle illuminating a narrow tunnel of bare stones and wooden cross beams, more a space between walls than a proper passage.

Following him was either the bravest or most foolish thing I had ever done.

The Phantom guided me through endless turns and up a multitude of tight curved steps, the candle seeming to cast as much shadow as light. At first I walked stiffly, spine tingling with terrors, but slowly my breathing began to steady and my heartbeat to settle down, as we kept walking and he kept up a pleasant, if mostly one-sided, conversation.

He told me that the ballet mistress, though fearsome, had never actually murdered anyone. He advised me to stay away from the cellars, and if I got lost in the future I should keep going upstairs, never down. Some time when I wasn't lost, I should go up to the roof and see the excellent view. He also told me I was not to worry if the ballet girls weren't friendly at first, and I was never to feel that their opinion defined who I was, a statement that at the time seemed absurd and yet became remarkably comforting in later days.

I peeked at him when I dared, though with the shadows around us, the shadows cast by his hat, it was hard to see even his unmasked features. I thought he maintained a friendly expression throughout, rarely looking at me, focusing instead on the path ahead. I couldn't hazard much of a guess at his age. No gray hair or stooped shoulders, definitely not an old man--but also definitely belonging to the foreign realm of mature adults that any people at least ten years older than me seemed to inhabit.

I had time to contemplate. That dark walk didn't last more than five minutes, though I would spend far more time remembering it. That day, he was soon reaching out to another wall. A movement of his fingers and a panel slid to the left. Beyond it, I could see a brightly-lit hallway, empty of people, full of the Opera's characteristic decorations.

"Turn left, go right at the first intersection, and you should be just in time for ballet practice," he said, handing me over the threshold.

I stepped out into the light, flexing my newly-released fingers. For feeling so reluctant to follow, I now felt strangely adrift to be sent back on my own. I hesitated, looked back at him in the shadows. "Thank you." It felt inadequate.

He touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement, stepped back a pace and vanished into the darkness. The wall slid shut, looking no different from every other panel in the corridor, as if it had never existed. As if he had never existed.

I tentatively reached out and touched the wall, patterned in pale blue with generous gold molding. Nothing moved, and I couldn't even see a seam amidst the intricate design. I drew my hand back and shook my head, fuzzy, as though I'd just woken out of a remarkably vivid and extraordinary dream.

Here in the waking world, I still had to get to ballet practice, with no minutes to spare. At that thought I dashed off down the hall, spun right at the intersection, and arrived breathless at the mirrored practice room just ahead of my time. 

The ballet mistress looked down her narrow nose at me as I came in the door. "Do save some breath for dancing, Mademoiselle Giry."

But that was nothing; that was harmless. I was on time to take my position at the barre and she wasn't angry with me, and besides--I had met the Phantom of the Opera and lived to tell the tale. In the afterglow of that, even Madame Thibault didn't seem so terrifying.


He waited until the rapid beat of her footsteps faded around the corner, then turned to make his way through the narrow passage towards the nearest descending staircase.

He didn't often intervene so directly. It wasn't safe. But he found it hard to consider a crying little girl dangerous. She was small and alone. Before she lifted her head, he had thought she was even younger than she was. Helping her had seemed harmless enough--even amusing, to show off that candle trick. Mere sleight-of-hand, but enough to impress a Persian Sultana, and certainly good enough for a little ballet girl.

Nothing was ever unmixed though, and for all he had found the encounter pleasant, it hadn't been without a pang. He hadn't liked hearing the fear in her voice. Surprising, when it was exactly what he wanted, what he had spent these past months carefully composing.

He needed the fear. He needed the Opera Company to think that he was the dangerous one, so it wouldn't occur to them that they, with their numbers and their confidence and their ability to cooperate, were the true dangers, the ones capable of hounding and harrying and hunting down the outcast in their midst.

He ran his fingertips along the rough wall of the passage, mere inches from the busy life on the other side.

Any attack would be more complicated than a raging mob with pikes; France was a civilized country, outside of her sporadic revolutions. But the result would be the same. The guillotine, or even worse--a cage. He was guilty of the crime of being different, the world had convicted him at birth, and he had ample precedent to suggest how they would sentence him.

But not while he possessed the Opera Garnier. Not while he was the Phantom of the Opera, stalking as ruler through its hidden passages, shadowed vaults and lofty catwalks. They would never catch him. They would never cage him.

Not again.

He would do whatever was necessary to ensure that. For all their melodramatic complaints, the Opera Company was happy enough to be occupying a haunted theatre--a high-quality ghost lent a certain prestige--and if Monsieur Poligny the manager was not so happy about paying a salary to a ghost, well... the man should have chosen more wisely than to marry a woman with his wife's background. The Opera Ghost had recently obtained some very interesting information, and a little judicious blackmail should resolve any further issues with the management.

As for the little blonde girl, likely it would turn out for the best with her in the end. The ballet dancers and chorus girls loved telling tales about the Ghost, and they much preferred blood-curdling horror stories to ones about a helpful specter. She would be absorbed back into the anonymous crowd of little dancers, all much alike. It had been merely an educated guess that she was new--he didn't really know every face, at least not yet. By the time she was telling the adventure to a dozen giggling friends, it would be about how the terrifying Phantom had nearly abducted her and she'd barely escaped with her life. He wouldn't waste his time watching that conversation. He knew that was how it would go.

And it was better that way.


About the Author:
Cheryl Mahoney lives in California and dreams of other worlds. She is the author of the Beyond the Tales quartet, retelling familiar fairy tales, but subverting expectations with different points of view and new twists to the tales. She is also a co-author of The Servants and the Beast, and its companion piece, After the Sparkles Settled. Cheryl loves exploring new worlds in the past, the future of fairyland, and builds her stories around characters finding their way through those worlds--especially characters overlooked or underestimated by the people around them.

She has been blogging since 2010 at Tales of the Marvelous. Her weekly Writing Wednesday posts provide updates about her current writing, including excerpts. She also posts regularly with book and movie reviews, and reflections on reading. She has been a member of Stonehenge Writers since 2012, and has completed NaNoWriMo seven times.

Cheryl has looked for faeries in Kensington Gardens in London and for the Phantom at the Opera Garnier in Paris. She considers Tamora Pierce's Song of the Lioness Quartet to be life-changing and Terry Pratchett books to be the best cure for gloomy days.




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