Key to Redemption Read online

  It turned out she was from a wealthy family and had been raised in a rather bohemian household for the time. Her family remained liberal nonconformists, even after her father’s death, and encouraged her independent, charitable spirit. They honed her idealistic beliefs of everyone being equal, that everyone was entitled to love and acceptance no matter what their social standing, that people should not be judged on how they appeared. They also never dreamed that she might actually act on their teachings.

  Several weeks later, at her insistence, he agreed to meet her family. Perrin was firm in his principles that they would not make love or live together until they were married; so married they would be, she decided.

  The hope and altruistic nature of youth are unparalleled. Believing her progressive family would accept her brilliant mentor as a suitor no matter what he looked like on the outside, she asked him home. Having been raised to be kind and accepting to everyone, especially the less fortunate or those less than attractive, she honestly believed in her family’s benevolent teachings. It was to be the affirming conclusion of the family meal when she reached up, casually peeling away his mask at the dinner table as proof to Perrin of their acceptance of him as a suitor. If her family had truly practiced what they preached, the two of them might have had a joyous life together.

  She was not prepared for what came next, but while not prepared, he was very familiar with her family’s response. The immediate, utter horror of her mother, uncle and grandfather, the rage of her brother, was swiftly directed at him and a complete shock to her. He blundered from his seat at the table, cowering against the wall.

  Creature. Monster. Beast. Inhuman. Those were the kinder things they said before they chased him from the house, his little soprano sobbing and clinging to him in desperation until they pulled her away. He was literally thrown into the street, after they flung his mask into it first, and the door slammed in his face. He was not to contact her again and to forget he had ever known her. She would not be back to the theatre.

  Fearing that their headstrong, radical girl would defy them in their demand never to see this “thing” again, her family had packed her up that night and sent her away to live with relatives in Italy. There, she soon contracted pneumonia and died despite the efforts of the best doctors the family could afford. Some said she died of a broken heart more than of the illness since she was forbidden to sing or to contact her former teacher and true love.

  When she did not return to the theatre for several weeks, he had made inquiries. Getting no answer, Perrin had finally summoned his courage and gone to their home again in the dead of night, demanding to know where she was. Grieving, her family didn’t care anymore that he might know. She was beyond his reach—that was all that mattered—so they cruelly told him the news of her death and lay the blame at his feet. If he had never been in her life, she would have still been alive.

  He stumbled back through the darkened streets of Paris, his own heart broken, hope shattered. He had gone away then, taken himself deeper beneath the streets to avoid all contact; into the sewers, hiding from all things which reminded him of that night. Soon, he left Paris, making a home for himself on a secluded estate in Rouen, which he purchased with the money he’d made being the Opera’s resident Ghost.

  Eventually he returned to his home by the lake when he thought he could face the pain again, and at the opera manager’s urging. The Phantom added a mystique to the palatial building; he was a popular draw for the patrons and they wanted him back in his trademark box for performances. His time remained divided between his lair and his estate in the off season of the opera. Perrin was financially very well off; he had all the material things he could possibly need. The only things missing from his life were acceptance and love.

  On one of his forays in Paris to the surface streets for supplies, he found a discarded end table set out as trash and brought it down to his home. As he cleaned it up, he opened the top drawer and found a book titled The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux.

  Intrigued, he had read it and was appalled to find that it was about him. It was a story about him and his original angel, the first girl he had tutored. She must have sought out the author and had him pen the story. Most of it was completely false and portrayed him as an aged, shabby, skeletal recluse, an egocentric, murdering monster.

  Perrin was beyond despair. The wench had betrayed him, after all he had given her, done for her, after he had left her alone and not taken advantage of her. It nearly destroyed him, this news coming on the heels of his beloved’s death. He resolved never again to have contact with another being.

  But alas, the life of a mixed blood Gargoyle-Sidhe-Human is long, though he daily prayed for death. Living as he did, completely isolated from the world and its influences, Perrin had no teacher himself. No one told him how to get through a day he didn’t control. No one had ever heard him, listened to him, wanted what he had to share, but his two angels. He had reveled in the power and authority he was able to wield as he taught them; enjoyed the level of his influence the way he enjoyed the complete control he had over his own lonely world.

  When that control was shattered, the finality of it rocked him so completely that he believed he went mad for a while. There were missing pieces in his memories of the days following the discovery of that book. Reading it, seeing the girl’s depiction of him, almost convinced him that he truly was that monster. He played his part of the watchful ghost for the theatre managers well, drawing in more crowds than ever just being the lurking phantom presence with the booming voice when a performance displeased him. Every show where he guaranteed personal attendance was a sellout.

  Time eventually will heal even the deepest cut. In due course Perrin found the courage to play, to compose and to sing again, but never again would he allow another being into his life; he never dared to hope that he might be something other than an outcast. It never occurred to him that he might actually ask for help.

  He lived surrounded by mirrors that he kept covered up. Once in a while when he could bear it, he would examine his reflection. Always, it was the same. A fit and handsome figure would greet him. Always impeccably dressed, always perfectly correct in its movements. Then he would see his face. Sometimes he looked with the mask on and sometimes he took it off to ply his fingers around the horror. The mirror would once more be covered, and he wouldn’t look again for a very long time.

  Finally about a year ago, after allowing himself the luxury of a television set at his home in Rouen, he had heard about people like Gillian: therapists who could help Paramortals. People who cared about the life inside the shell, not about the shell itself. After watching news reports about her and her accomplishments, he had seen her picture with Dr. Gerhardt’s on the magazine which Jenna had dropped on the table of a coffee shop in Rouen.

  The article was about the IPPA and her. It talked about her as one of the pioneers in the field of Paramortal psychology. The reporter mentioned all the advancements and progressions in the science, including sex therapy. Mostly, he remembered it praising her for demystifying psychology for Paramortals and for treating her patients as people, rather than oddities. In other words, he thought she would treat him like a man, rather than a creature.

  Finally he had an avenue to pursue. It had been so long since he’d had any hope. At last gaining the courage to come forward, he had entered one of the opera’s offices one night and called the IPPA. Fortunately he had gotten transferred to Helmut, who was working late. Helmut, a psychologist himself with years of experience, knew exactly what to do with this broken man he was speaking to, so he made the arrangements to bring Perrin to Gillian.

  There was complete silence for several minutes after Perrin finished his tale and sat expectantly, waiting for Gillian’s reaction. When he finally turned to look at her, thinking perhaps he had bored her to sleep, he was stunned to see tears on her face.

  “Dr. Key? Have I upset you?” he asked anxiously.

  Gillian shook her head
as if to clear it, then felt the tears on her own face and reached for a tissue to dry it off. “Perrin, I’m sorry, it’s just that it was such a moving story. Such a sad story. I am so very sorry that you have had to live with this much pain.” She reached out again and he took her hand willingly this time. “I hope you will allow me to help you,” she said earnestly.

  A slight smile ghosted over his perfect mouth, the sculpted face framed by that perfect hair and sideburns.

  “You really are Human, after all. The tears on your face prove your empathy. I could have told my tale to another Sidhe and they would have walked away from this. The Gargoyles would have laughed. But you . . . you have the courage even after what I have said about my true appearance to stay here and ask if you are ‘allowed’ to help me.”

  “I want to help you, Perrin,” Gillian said, smiling through the tears, which still sparkled in her eyes. “What has to happen is that you let me.”

  CHAPTER 5

  DALTON, Lord of the Light Court, found Gillian sprawled in a chair in the library, swearing at her laptop as she meticulously entered data on a private session, an hour before. “What ails you, my lady?” Dalton said brightly, not really expecting an answer.

  Gillian spared him a glare, then went back to typing furiously. “I hate computers. That’s what ails me.”

  He plopped down on the couch near her and peered intently in her direction with eyes that were the lavender of a twilight sky. As he hoped, she looked up. “Can I help you with something, Dalton, or did you just come in to spread Fairy dust and joy around?”

  Rich, musical laughter was his response. “You are a delight, little Human. I am glad of this crisis we are all having or I would not have had the opportunity to become acquainted with you.”

  Blazing green eyes looked at him from over the lid of the laptop. “I can’t tell you how much that thrills me,” she snapped back in a sarcastic tone.

  Hell’s bells, couldn’t he just shut up? Go play Happy Fun Time Fairy somewhere else? She was trying to focus on Perrin’s case. He had disclosed today how he heard about his heritage by cruel accident from a Fey of the Dark Court who had once braved the shadowy halls of the catacombs to meet the Theatre Ghost.

  Perrin. Fey. Shit, she was an idiot.

  She sat up suddenly, spilling notes on the floor. “Dalton, you’re Fey!”

  “As am I,” purred another silky voice, “but not of the Court of Light.”

  “Hi, Finian, come in, please, this might be something you both can give me an opinion on.”

  The purple-haired Prince joined Dalton on the couch. Gillian was momentarily speechless in the presence of two spectacular specimens of Sidhe beauty, then caught herself staring and got back to her train of thought.

  “What are the rules and standards for a mixed-blood Fey?” There. That was to the point.

  The two Sidhe looked at each other, then back to her. Finian spoke. “I am not sure what you mean, Gillian. Could you explain further?”

  “Sure, what I mean is, what happens to mixed-blood babies and children? Are they discarded? Left with their mother? Do you take them into your Courts and raise them? I am not that familiar with Sidhe traditions, and I would like to learn more.”

  “In truth, it depends on which Court they are born into,” Dalton offered cautiously.

  Finian snorted inelegantly. “What our Lord of the Light means is, and to answer your question more completely, the Light Court does not often care to gaze on those whose blood is not pure. The Twilight Court and the Dark Court are far more forgiving of one’s origins, but even they have a tolerance level.”

  “You’re saying that you’re racists?” Gillian asked, rather surprised. She thought the older tribes and magic nations were more progressive than Humans. Maybe not.

  “That is exactly what they are saying.” Trocar glided in, cape swirling, and deliberately took a seat next to Finian, who nearly blanched but didn’t move away.

  “The business of the Sidhe Courts does not concern the Grael, Trocar,” Dalton admonished the Dark Elf.

  Trocar affixed him with an icy stare. Easy, since his eyes were like faceted diamonds, iridescent with every color sparkling in them. “Are you really that stupid, Dalton, or is this an acquired skill?”

  Now it was Dalton’s turn to blanch. “How dare you, you insufferable assassin!”

  “Knock it off, all of you, or get out because I’m busy trying to help a patient and I don’t have time for Fairy-versus-Elf Supremacy fights! And Trocar, you’re not one to talk about racial snobbery, given what you told me about Grael philosophy on interbreeding when we were in Finland.”

  Gillian had risen without realizing it and faced the three breathtaking males, clearly angry. “If you can’t or don’t want to contribute helpful dialogue to the conversation, then fuck off and I’ll find it on the Internet.”

  Finian and Dalton stared at her as if she’d grown two heads—not that she gave a shit. They weren’t clients; they were there because of the treaty and because they liked being there. She didn’t owe either of them a damn thing. Trocar had the decency not to smirk . . . much. He stretched out his long, booted legs and slumped down in the couch, eyes closed, like a lethal, elegant poster boy for Elven GQ Casual.

  Gillian straightened her shirt and started to sit back down, happy to have made her point, when Moose came in, escorted by Pavel. Trocar half opened an eye, then went back to resting. The two Sidhe, in contrast, bolted up and started out the door without a word. Moose and Pavel came around to take the seats they had vacated. The misshapen creature balanced precariously on the edge of the couch next to the beautiful Grael.

  “What the hell was that?” Gillian said indignantly after the retreating backs of the Fey Lords.

  “Sidhe prejudice in action, Gillyflower,” Trocar mumbled.

  “Because of what? Moose? Pavel? Er . . . sorry, Tuuli.” It was hard to think of the creature sitting in front of her as a lovely Sidhe maiden.

  “Yes, Gillian,” Pavel said, disdain dripping from his voice, “a Wolf and a Moose are only animals to them. They do not look at us as Human or Sidhe.”

  “Well, fuck both of them. I’m glad you guys are here.”

  To her surprise, Trocar shifted, sitting upright, and turned to look directly at Moose. “As am I. It is good to have you here, Tuuli. My people have no such prejudices about one’s outward appearance or what they shift into. Nor do we stigmatize anyone’s heritage unless that being carries a portion of Grael blood. Only then is it a travesty of nature. Gillian is a master, she will help you through this, as will I if I can.”

  He rose fluidly and looked at Pavel, “Come, Wolf, I am not so particular about my hunting partners, and we need fresh game to feed this lot.” He headed out the door in a swirl of cape, with Pavel tagging along behind him, smiling at the courtesy extended by a Dark Elf. Gillian was amazed. Kindness from Trocar, the king of the elegant insult? Who knew?

  Moose sat, looking forlorn. Gillian got up and shut the library doors so they wouldn’t be disturbed. She’d already had a few sessions with Moose . . . Tuuli. Dammit! It was slow and ponderous going due to her not being able to speak properly or write, but they were getting somewhere.

  “We left off with you telling me about the curse,” Gill started.

  The creature nodded its heavy head. She wished she could speak or at least write. Gillian was tirelessly patient with her and her inability to communicate properly. Tuuli felt bad. She knew Gillian’s quick mind would have understood everything by now had she been able to verbalize the sequence of events better.

  “So, you were cursed because of your vanity?”

  Again, the heavy nod.

  Gillian muttered about Sidhe bullshit, pulling up some website links from IPPA’s computer. “It says here that a Sidhe curse can either be inherited or cast on someone. Let’s take this one at a time: Is your curse an inherited one that affects specific individuals in your family?”

  Moose shook her head negativel
y. One down.

  “Then you were the victim of hostile magic? A curse was placed on you and you alone?”

  Affirmative nod.

  “See? Now we’re getting somewhere,” Gillian said brightly. “Do you know who cursed you?”

  Nod again.

  “Do you know how it can be lifted?”

  Nod and tears.

  “Great! Oh, sorry, Tuuli. I mean, we’re getting somewhere with this, a little at a time.” She leaned forward and squeezed Moose’s forelimb, radiating warmth and compassion. The hideous head rose, and the liquid brown eyes had a grateful look in them.

  “We will figure it out together. Don’t worry,” Gillian said softly, wanting this being to know that she was valued and cared about. Leaning forward snapped her laptop shut and she had to reopen the case. Then her papers skidded off her lap again, so she stuck her pen behind her ear and bent to retrieve them, leaning over the computer. The pen slipped out, falling to hit a few keys, making the machine beep annoyingly at her. Gill stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Tuuli with a big grin. “Can you hold an item in your mouth?”

  Moose nodded.

  “Can you write in English?”

  Nope.

  “Russian?”

  Still nope.

  Shit.

  “How about one of the Sidhe or Elven languages?”

  Yes.

  Yay!

  “Wait right here.” Gillian jumped up and hurried off to find an Elf, Fey or both, just in case. As she left the library, Tanis and Aleksei were just coming in from outside. It was early in the evening, so she figured they were returning from feeding. Anyway, she didn’t really want to know what Aleksei was doing, nor did she care. He had yet to apologize directly to her.

  She’d heard that he was sorry for his insensitive and shitty remark from Tanis but Aleksei had avoided her as much as she had avoided him. Looking at the two brothers brought a wrenching in her heart. The Rachlav family would have been spectacular even if they hadn’t been Vampires. The Vampire conversion had only enhanced what they already had.