Transcend Read online

  TRANSCEND

  by

  Christine Fonseca

  Transcend

  Christine Fonseca

  Copyright 2012 Christine Fonseca.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, or by any information storage system without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN (limited edition hardback): 978-0-9851804-7-8

  ISBN (paperback): 978-0-9851804-8-5

  ISBN (eBook): 978-0-9851804-9-2

  Compass Press books may be ordered through booksellers, Ingram, or by visiting our site and contacting us here.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the internet, any web address or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Stock imagery provided by Thinkstock. Cover design by CP Design.

  Compass Press 3/13/2012

  Dedicated to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber – two men who understood the poetic beauty and complexity of a character such as Phantom.

  And to Phantom lovers everywhere – may this story continue your love for this timeless character.

  Other titles by Christine Fonseca available from Compass Press:

  Requiem Series:

  Dies Irae (novella prequel to Lacrimosa)

  Lacrimosa

  Mea Culpa (novella)

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  1.

  “Innocence, once lost, can never be regained.

  Darkness, once gazed upon, can never be lost.”

  ~ John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Upstate New York

  March, 1895

  ~~

  I stare at the mirror, my heart pounding wildly against my ribs. Do it. Do it now. Raising my hands to my face, I finger the torn scraps of linen. I want to rip them off once and for all and see the horror for myself.

  Wedging my finger between the layers of fabric, I gently tug. My pulse quickens as the bandages begin to loosen with every pull. The air stiffens, tightening in around me.

  Time stops.

  A moment pauses. And another.

  The tension climbs to a feverish pitch and I swallow hard. Staring at my reflection, I give the linen one more tug.

  The fabric slips, moves.

  My eyes grow wide, taking in the vision—dead skin, black and hard.

  “No,” I say too loud. My voice echoes off of the stone walls that surround me. “No.”

  Releasing a ragged breath, I slide the bandage back over the exposed skin and close my eyes.

  I’m not ready, not now. Maybe never.

  I turn away from the mirror, my shame. My body crushes under the weight of my pain and torment. I pace, desperate to out run a life that could have been, settle thoughts that refuse to be contained.

  So many fantasies I now question.

  So many dreams I’ve all but forgotten.

  A life…my life…abandoned.

  I collapse onto the hard wooden chair seated at the far end of my cupboard-sized room. I have few luxuries in this purgatory that’s become my home, my writing set—paper and a nib pen—amongst them. Taking a breath to calm my nerves, I start the letter I’ve been composing in my thoughts for days, ever since Mother left me for dead.

  My hand shakes, dotting the page with ink. “Damn!” I crumble the paper and add it to the growing pile of discarded attempts at my feet. I clench my jaw and start again…

  My Dearest Kiera,

  There are so many things I want to remember about that night. The feel of your lips on mine, the longing they held when we said goodbye, the promise of a life together with you. But, sadly, that is not what fills my thoughts.

  Instead I am forced to relive the damp air, thick with fog that blanketed my skin. And the veins of mist as they hugged the ground and spiraled into smoke, choking the air from my lungs. I remember the crackle of flames when they ignited the spaces around me, turning my face to ash.

  But most of all, I remember the silence. Relentless and unyielding, like the pause before a deep breath. Or the moment before sound begins. There was a time when I welcomed such solitude, desperate to create a wall against the noise that forever bombards my thoughts. But not now. Not if the price of such respite is you.

  You are the barrier against the chaos of my thoughts. You chase away my nightmares and make me feel whole again. Only you. And now that the realization of all that I’ve lost bears down on me, I am left to wonder if you will ever be able to look at me again. Will you still love me?

  When I left you that night, it was with plans for the future—our future. But now that fate has dealt us a twisted blow, I fear our paths are no longer intertwined. Silence is all that remains, a dark void where you should be. There is no comfort in it, no peace. It smothers all that I am, sinking its cold tendrils into my heart and I am again lost inside a deep abyss.

  Part of me craves the quiet, afraid that in your absence the noise and clutter of my thoughts will grow too loud to ignore. But this silence is no friend. It condemns me, mocks me.

  Without you in my life I am nothing more than an empty shell of longing. I pray that we find each other again and fulfill our promises, lest our love be shattered and I become altogether lost.

  I will be strong for us and endure all that I must in order to leave this perpetual agony. All I ask is that you wait for me, as I cling to the memory of you.

  Forever yours,

  Ien

  I choke back a sob and lay the paper on the desk, blowing the ink dry. The letter says everything I need to say, not that it matters. Kiera will never accept what I’ve become. How could she?

  I lay the pen down and sigh. A lone tear streams down my face, lost in the bandages that must forever cover the monster I’ve become.

  “I love you, Kiera,” I whisper as I fold the letter and place it in an envelope. “Wait for me.”

  I swallow back the sob that threatens to undo me and tip the candle adorning the writing desk, allowing the wax to drip into a large puddle on the parchment. Pushing my family ring deeply into the sticky liquid, I seal away my hope.

  I stand and stretch my neck, shoulders, back, desperate to release this yoke of pain I’ve worn for so long.

  Too many memories are teased up by my thoughts for Kiera. Too many images from the nightmare that will never end; one I am desperate to forget.

  Gas-lit streets lined with hotels and businesses.

  People crowding around me as I walk home.

  The smell of sulfur wafting past me.

  It is that scent, sulfur mixed with ash and burning flesh, that always makes me weak. I bend over, dropping my head to the floor. The room spins, my stomach lurches.

  “No,” I mumble. “No more.” But the images do not listen, repeating over and over in endless
succession:

  Glass exploding, shattering.

  Flesh tearing from my body in chucks.

  Shadows consuming my mind.

  And something else. Someone lurking in the darkness, watching. Waiting.

  Someone who knows secrets I mustn’t forget. Secrets I

  can’t

  remember…

  2.

  “There are some secrets

  which do not permit themselves to be told.”

  ~Edgar Allen Poe (The Man of the Crowd)

  Four Months Earlier

  ~

  Ien’s heartbeat thrummed hard as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers, fingering the smooth loop of metal. His mind focused solely on Kiera—her fiery copper hair that hung in waves half-way down her back, her emerald-colored eyes, impossibly round and made more pure by their contrast to her alabaster skin. She was short compared to Ien, but fit perfectly into his arms. To him, nothing was more important than her. Not even his mother.

  Especially not Mother.

  Kiera wouldn’t be expecting this, not from sensible Ien. No one would.

  Sensible Ien. The phrase was foreign in his mind. Oh yes, Ien was always considered the proper sort, never willing to stray too far from the demands of his elitist family. But sensible? Prudent?

  Was the music he composed, free and unabashed, proper? Or the fact that he did so in private, clearly against Mother’s wishes? Was his plan to ignore his family obligations sensible?

  No, Ien Montgomery had grown wild over the past year. And asking Kiera to marry him was the epitome of not sensible.

  Mother would never approve of the match, but her harsh words and threats had pushed him to this point. She’d left him with no alternative. He would take control over his life—while he still could.

  Mother had always been supportive of him. No, not supportive. Controlling. She held a specific dream for the family, a goal, and forced everyone else to fulfill it. Up until now, Ien hadn’t minded. He rather liked the power Mother infused in him, relishing the way people treated him like royalty. Her decisions had always been right in the long run, even when they squelched his desires.

  “There is no future in that, Ien,” Mother would say every time he strayed too far from her ideals. He hated admitting she was right, but she had been. Every time.

  That is, until now.

  Ien forced the images of Mother from his thoughts, returning his focus to the plan. The ring in his palm began to burn his skin as his nerves frayed. Run through it again, he told himself.

  “Kiera,” he said to his empty room, his words nothing more than a faint whisper on his lips. “I know we’re too young for this, but I can’t imagine my life without you.” Each syllable caught in his throat. This is stupid. Say something more clever!

  Ien shook his head and stared at the reflection in the mirror. His blond hair, too long for Mother’s liking, was pulled back at his neck, revealing sharp cheekbones, full lips and a chiseled jaw. The Montgomery family features. He looked into his blue eyes, their intensity matching the tightness in his shoulders. You can do this. He practiced his speech again, trying to imagine the look on Kiera’s face when he slid the ring onto her finger. For a brief moment, his forehead creased with doubt. His shoulders curved in, weighted down with apprehension.

  Say yes, Kiera. Please say yes.

  A soft knock pulled him from his fear-riddled thoughts. He swallowed hard. Now or never. Giving one last look to his reflection, he opened the door.

  James stood at the threshold, propped against the door jam. He was so different from Ien. Muscular, instead of lanky. Dark, instead of fair. James stretched every boundary to its limits, exuding a sense of danger Ien could never quite pull off, no matter how much he wanted to.

  Why would you ever choose me, Kiera?

  James and Ien had been friends for more than six years, bonding over the burden of expectations placed on their shoulders by their family names. Ien Montgomery and James Thoburn III—children born into two of the wealthiest families in America.

  “Are you ready for this?” James paced the floor.

  Chadwick Academy for Boys, the most prestigious preparatory school in New York state, wasn’t hard to break out of. In fact, James had made it his goal to find the best ways in and out of the school. For the last six years, James had figured out how to break every rule at Chadwick, while Ien had provided the cover for each and every adventure. Now it was James’s turn to return the favor.

  “Let’s go.” Ien stepped into the hallway with a deep sigh, closing the door on his old life.

  Chadwick Academy looked like many of the more prestigious preparatory schools in New England—Georgian architecture modeled after many of the universities. Frederick Hall, Ien’s dormitory, was a long building made of brick with a slate roof. The interior featured mahogany paneling, gas-lit hallways and narrow winding staircases. Gilded frames adorned pictures of now-famous benefactors, a reminder of the future Chadwick boys were supposed to achieve. Even the rooms screamed opulence, with arched windows, gilded mirrors and 4 poster beds. To say the dorm was lavish was an understatement. Money practically seeped from the walls themselves.

  “You know you can never come back from this, right?” James said in hushed tones, following Ien down the hallway. “Once you start down this road, your life will be forever changed. Ruined. Your parents won’t accept a union with her, no matter what you say to them.” His face carried no smile, none of the familiar mischievousness that usually accompanied him on his adventures. Instead, he was solemn and grim, pale despite his olive completion.

  Ien ignored James’s words, refusing to submit to his own disquiet. He walked down the hall, his focus narrow.

  “I know you think you need to do this,” James called to him. “But it’s rash, Ien. Too rash. Even by my standards.”

  Ien flinched, saying nothing.

  “I fear you haven’t thought this through. Not completely.”

  Ien slowed and James grabbed his arm, stopping him completely.

  “You’re only seventeen,” James said. “You aren’t ready for this.”

  Ien pulled his arm free and walked further ahead, stoic.

  “Ien! You’re headed for a disaster. Even if Kiera says yes, no good will ever come from this arrangement.”

  He stopped and spun around, eyes ablaze. “I won’t give her up, James. I won’t! Mother isn’t going to chase her away from me. Not this time.” Ien turned away and stormed further down the wood-paneled hallway, pushed forward by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He eased down the stairs, careful to make no sounds. With his luck, Headmaster Billings would catch him and send word to Mother about his most recent indiscretion. Then what would he do?

  Balling his hands into fists, Ien chewed on James’s words. He was right; Ien’s family would never accept the betrothal to Kiera or anyone else. Not yet. At best, all Ien could expect was another fight with Mother.

  He pictured the scene in exquisite detail. Mother would walk into the library at their estate. Her penetrating glare would go straight through him, stripping away his resolve and confirming every fear, that he was nothing more than a disappointment. She would ask, no demand, that he break it off with Kiera and forget all of his nonsense.

  Anger welled inside as he pictured his mother’s tirade. He tightened his fists. His pulse quickened. He wouldn’t allow her to destroy his dreams this time, wouldn’t cave into her expectations.

  Not again.

  Taking one last deep breath, Ien opened the door to the mudroom at the back of Frederick Hall. “Let’s go,” he whispered over his shoulder as he fingered the ring once more.

  James hesitated at the threshold. “Ien?”

  The worry in James’s voice clung to the air, adding to the weight already bearing down on Ien.

  “Aren’t you the one always telling me to ignore Mother’s ranting? Aren’t you the one saying I need to get a life—my own life? This is me, getting the life I want.�
�

  “This isn’t some little school prank, Ien. Or you sneaking into the conservatory to play your music. This is marriage. Outside of your parents’ wishes. This is big. And it’s going to get ugly. Far uglier than you’re willing to admit, I think.”

  “No it won’t. Mother will come to her senses. I just need to stand up to her for once. She’ll come around. I’m the only one who can take over Father’s businesses. So, to get me, they have to accept Kiera.”

  James looked down, shaking his head.

  “Trust me.” Ien sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as James.

  “I pray you’re right. But, what if Kiera says no? Have you taken a moment to consider that outcome?”

  “She won’t,” Ien said through a strained smile. “Trust me. It’s going to work out.”

  James’s brow crinkled.

  “It will. I know it.” Ien wanted to believe the lie pouring from his lips, but deep inside he knew James was right. Mother would never forgive this betrayal. He and Kiera would never be accepted. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  Ien was past caring. He wasn’t willing to give up the only person he’d ever loved, the one that quieted the turmoil in his soul and chased away the noise and the chaos. The only person that could free him from Mother.

  Ien turned away from James and started down the path away from Chadwick. “Are you coming?” he called back to James.

  “Yes,” James said as he released a sigh. “Of course I’m coming.”

  ~

  Tense silence gathered between Ien and James as they forged their way through the overgrown woods that separated the two schools. Ferns and vines littered the ground, coated with a sprinkling of pine needles. The air smelled of evergreens, clean and vastly different from the noxious construction odors that seemed to define the growing township of Rutherford Park.

  The Montgomery family had moved from New York City more than fifty years earlier, creating a Mecca for the wealthiest families. But the recent expansion and construction in the town made Ien miss the quiet country life he had associated with the world outside of the city. Fortunately, Chadwick and Whitehall were both surrounded by the rich forests of Upstate New York, quelling Ien’s needs for escape.