The Tale of the Bloodline: Le Couer Inspire (Book 3)

"The Tale of the Bloodline", third in a series of books from Etienne de Mendes, takes the reader on a harrowing new adventure. Departing from the nineteenth century world of the first two novels, the story remains closely tied to the main character, Erik the former Phantom of the Opera. Awakened in a new millennium, no longer a man with the face of a ghoul, the Phantom discovers he still has a heart and it beats for the same woman that it always yearned for - Christine Daae. Plagued by memories that haunt every corner of his life, he searches for a way to bring her back to him. In the process he discovers not only his past, but the identity of the creature who shadows and guards him, the very personification of brotherhood - the manifestation of new life.Natura non facit saltum.  Nature makes no such leap. Or does it?Prepare for a ride into worlds spawned by the evils of pride and science. An intense graphic tale describing man's ability to create and the horrendous circumstances for making bold choices."Of dust and earth and bone I'm made. I rose and came, when called - obeyed."

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Tale of the BloodlineLe Couer InspireBy Etienne de MendesAuthorHouseCopyright © 2010 Etienne de MendesAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-5709-1 ContentsPROLOGUE...............................................11. OPENING PANDORA'S BOX...............................52. SCORPION VS. GRASSHOPPER............................163. EXAMINING A BREACH OF MIND..........................264. RANK AND SPLENDOR...................................395. SANCTIMONIOUS EGOS..................................526. DEN OF THE MAGUS....................................627. EMERGING ASSASSIN...................................758. NOT INSANE, HAUNTED.................................859. INTO THE DEVIL'S KITCHEN............................9610. ELUSIVE TREASURER..................................10611. DOUBLE THE TROUBLE.................................11712. FAR FROM BLESSING..................................12813. ASCENT FROM THE RIVER OF GRIEF.....................14014. LIAR!..............................................15115. SCAVENGER OF THE DEAD..............................16316. INVESTIGATING THE CRYPT............................17417. TEMPER, TEMPER.....................................18918. YESTERDAY'S AFICIONADO.............................20419. SOUR GRAPES........................................21920. CATERING TO RELENTLESS WANT........................23621. RECONSTRUCTING A LOVER.............................25022. ENDURING A BLOOD FEST..............................26423. A BIRTH WITHIN THE QUAGMIRE........................28224. MASTERING THE PUNJAB...............................29825. ACTING OUT.........................................31226. TELEPATHIC INSERTION...............................32327. ONE IS THE LOWLIEST NUMBER.........................33528. RECRUDESCE.........................................35129. MISSED CUES........................................36630. EVANESCENCE........................................38031. NEEDLED AND PRICKED................................39532. TACKLING THE MONSTER...............................41033. EENIE, MEENIE, MINEY, GO...........................42734. DESTINY AWAITS.....................................44235. TO THOSE THAT WEEP.................................45636. HEARTLESS, HELPLESS................................47037. ENIGMA.............................................48538. MERRY, MERRY QUITE CONTRARY........................503EPILOGUE...............................................522Chapter OneOPENING PANDORA'S BOX Pinioned reader, heed this warning. Venture no further if you are timid of heart or tend to prudish regulations. Consider that only happenstance brought you here and excuse yourself from traveling onward. Turn back. You have lost nothing. Let those whose allegiance remains undaunted devour the story held within these pages. And know this, stalwart souls, the Phantom knows of you and calls you allies. As soon as the limousine cleared the gate, the driver brought the car to a second abrupt halt. Only a momentary delay - Dr. Delaquois was informed - as security stepped forward to scan the car for bombs or weapons. In the rapidly advancing daylight, Delaquois saw tall towers of motion sensitive klieg lamps dotting the sides of the wall. Still turned on, they shed a tremendous light on the grounds. Thayer shifted uneasily in his seat. "Watchtowers, electric razor wire, this place looks more like a dreary prison under guard than a spacious home." My god, this brain trust of the twenty-first century, this hope for an overcrowded world, lives on a police state! "I suppose he's welded shut all but one entrance," he muttered. The chauffer offered no response. At a signal from a uniformed guard standing beside the driver's door, John put the vehicle in gear and drove smoothly forward. The chateau's signature frontage had certainly changed. Gone were the sylvan landscapes, replaced by a dreary open expanse of rolling winter-brown grass. The limousine veered right to where a healthy apple orchard once stood - every spring its branches so full of promise. Only a few bare fruit trees still remained. These few neglected stragglers stood as evidence against the abrasive winds tormenting their branches. Drawing his tan cashmere overcoat closer about him, Thayer twisted to get a better view of the barren grounds. High up in one of the mansion's mullioned windows, a rather dull nondescript face watched the car's approach. "Did you know, John, that these old mansions used to have dirt and gravel driveways? Years ago flagstones and colored cement led up to the frontcourt of the chateau's main entrance. Does it still look the same?" "The entrance is basically unchanged ... and I do know about the chateau's history." John guided the car around a curve. "Off to the left are the stables, still standing next to the pond. They've been renovated into garages and a guardhouse." Thayer sighed with heavy disappointment. Decades ago the picturesque lower segment of the driveway was redone with asphalt blending into concrete nearer the chateau. Even back then change was dawning. Tradition sacrificed for a smoother ride. Something is always lost when the new usurps the old. They crossed an arched bridge made of fieldstone taken from a nearby quarry. Constructed in the 1800's by expert masons working over sturdy wooden forms, at least the bridge still functioned. Thayer, as most French, admired all things lovingly and artistically pieced together. Crossing the granite arch, they spanned a seasonal pond and came to a brief view of the chapel. Speeding past the corbelled structure, they headed for the mansion's circular driveway. In the early morning light tattered flags with the de Chagny crest, symbols of outdated status, whipped atop the French Renaissance chateau. Such a proud archaic-looking house of fancy balconies, Thayer mused. Six non-functioning fountains stood in an ordered line, patiently waiting for the moment when they might again cast brilliant sprays of water into a complex and computerized ballet - one complimented by colored lights and long syncopated stanzas. The car came sideways before the front steps leading to a formidable ancient door. Surrounded by doubled columns, the carved capitals of which extended loftily beyond the level of the second floor, the entrance seemed strangely morose. No one waited to greet them. Without a word, John opened the passenger door then proceeded up the steps, standing ready to open the main entrance. Thayer slid out, stood, and stretched his back. Icy fog ... breath stealing cold air. "I hope it's warm inside!" "It is, Sir. I'll see you later on. I need to park the car. Dr. de Chagny will meet you in a moment." Inside, the classic interior of the main reception area appeared to be in a moribund state of disuse. It was as if Delaquois had entered the eighteen hundreds, before the time of vacuum cleaners and electric dusters. Odd, there's no servant approaching to take my coat. He stood eyeing the grand marbled foyer, waiting patiently. The space had a dreamy, romantic character that played so refreshingly against the rigid formality of the digitalized hospital where he worked. In the dim light of a fabulous Bohemian crystal chandelier, Thayer could see an exquisite Louis XVI side table. On its surface stood a tall Delft porcelain vase containing silk flowers, long stemmed white orchids and red tulips. Unusual couple to pair together, he thought. He took off his leather gloves, smacking them impatiently into his left hand. A grave silence surrounded the hall - in the early half light of dawn, the chandelier's tiny electric bulbs were set on low - a particularly dull light for viewing objects. He wondered again why no staff member hurried to him. "Hello," he shouted. "Dr. Delaquois is in the foyer ... unattended!" Standing on an intricately patterned Italian marble floor, Thayer looked upward, past the punctuation of the magnificent crystal chandelier, to a soaring vaulted ceiling. Some talented soul had painted a mural in trompe l'oeil fresco on the dome. Above him, in the illusion of a celestial sky filled with clouds, dozens of baby angels played a variety of earthly musical instruments. The painting's objects were depicted with such photographic detail, that their realism misled truth. Deceiving the viewer's visual acuity into believing he'd actually entered some magnificently playful portion of heaven's realm. Thayer heard his old friend's voice as if it were a Silurian whisper spoken from the paradise displayed on high. "Welcome ... welcome to my home." Strange that the utterance sounds so weak. His brain flashed on the memory of a medical school classroom where that same voice boomed and commanded the attention of every trembling student in the room. Isidore was never timid when he had an idea to present! The sparkle of lights playing off the crystal chandelier blocked his view of the great geneticist. Stepping to his right, he caught a somewhat cryptic vision of his host. De Chagny appeared as a distant figure standing in the shadows of a mezzanine that projected several yards into the space of the great entrance hall. A wraithlike elderly man, a tangled mass of thick white hair wafting about his head, Isidore wore a perfectly tailored sharkskin-gray suit. The most astounding feature of his dress - a plain, bone-white mask that covered his entire face! Thayer was so startled by his friend's abject appearance that he merely gawked. Eventually he recovered enough to wave, from waist-height, at the keen unsettling eyes staring down at him from the balcony. "It's good to see you, old friend. You've grown gaunt and frail. Isidore ... you no longer need to wear glasses?" Thayer mentally slapped himself for sounding presumptuous and strained. He'd expected a more personal greeting. They'd been so very close. "I'm still spry enough to get about," the subdued voice answered. "Apologies for this creepy mask. I've contracted a non-contagious disorder and this costume," he flicked a fingernail against an immobile cheek, "affords some minimal privacy when dealing with employees." The receding eyes behind the mask stayed fixed on those of his guest. Thayer nodded obligingly in response. "See yourself into that small green parlor. I'm sure you remember where it is. I'll be down there presently." Thayer frowned in momentary confusion, "By all means, let's confer in the comfort of a room instead of the vacant splendor of the foyer." Where shall I stick my coat, Lord? Dutifully, he walked past an oil painting of Bacchus, the Roman god of wine and merriment. Yearning to throw a finger at the mocking god, he restrained himself. For all he knew cameras still watched him. Turning right, into the southern corridor, he went along a series of closed rooms. About midway down the hall, he opened a large mahogany door and stood scanning what should have been a prestigious area with a breathtaking view of the chateau's posterior gardens. The faded interior of the side-parlor reflected a calmer more genteel time. The furnishings hadn't been reupholstered in four generations. A visitor might easily surmise that the aged room was falling into ruin and neglect, except that there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. Still occupying their exact same stations: the sofas, chairs, and tables remained, for all intents and purposes, practically untouched. Not unpleasant. Except that the smell of furniture polish and the distinct scent of newsprint from stacks of dailies, intermingled with the redolence of dry desiccating fabrics, managed to make his nose itch! Because this was Isidore's private parlor the eccentric interior was perfectly maintained. Thayer could be in a museum. "Does nothing ever get replaced in here?" He inquired of no one in particular as he took off his overcoat and white Peruvian wool scarf. Draping both over the back of the most immediate chair, the tiny slits in the teal green upholstery offered no answer. Finely crafted velvet green wallpaper ran the gamut of the room from floorboards to cornices. Its pattern of faded realistic leaves provided a backdrop for a number of Impressionist oils depicting various hunting scenes. Standing the test of time, the elegant wallpaper showed no evidence of cracks or signs of peeling, but certainly presented a definite washout of color. Removing any of the gilt framed paintings would be proof enough of that. He chose a comfortable side chair. Plucking a dainty lace antimacassar off the armrest, he pressed it to his nostrils. Smells like its just been laundered. Lovely. Patting the covering back into place, he sat, crossed his legs, and folded his hands on his lap. Too bad Isidore never married, he mused. It's 2012 - the new age is upon us and he has no heir to all of this. Women must have remained an issue for him. Thayer's thoughts returned to their days at medical school. In their final year, his friend had fallen in love with a nurse from a nearby hospital. What was her name? Ah, yes, Lisette. So predictable ... such a sad history. After a car accident, she'd been taken to an emergency room where an aging physician failed to take needed precautions. She'd suffered a fat embolus to her brain and Isidore had suffered right alongside his fallen girlfriend. In those grief stricken days following her death, he allowed Thayer to console him. He'd welcomed Delaquois' comforting embraces. Isidore de Chagny, brilliant with finances and science, developer of genetically coded death and sole owner of the serum's patent was a very obstinate individual. The world was still prejudiced against such homosexual liaisons. Propriety demanded he let go of his only solace. In the aftermath Isidore's grief had doubled, turning despair into burgeoning anger. Lisette had been denied a long and fruitful life. He'd wanted to grow old with her, to have children ... that was the normal way. Isidore began to rave that the aged were too heavy a burden on society. He would devise a means to equalize the debt he felt humanity owed him, A Death Serum. Once administered, it locked into DNA codes, waiting to permanently alter the manufacture of certain amino acids, bringing life to an end before aging and disease could completely take hold. Impatient, Thayer took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and rapidly clicked the implement open and closed, open and closed. A crippled Isidore, walking with the use of a cane, entered and quietly shut the door behind him. Thayer stood, trying with difficulty to discern if the problem was in his friend's knees or hips. "Isidore!" he exclaimed, stepping forward, hand outstretched. "It's so good to see you. I came the very instant I read your note." Cool fingers caressed the proffered hand. In disparate contrast to the rest of Isidore's withered form, his fingers were rather young and quite perfect. Bizarre, marveled Thayer to himself. Isidore hobbled painfully to the backrest of the chair holding Thayer's overcoat. "Please, take a seat, my old friend. It's good to see you, too. Thanks for coming so quickly." Thayer stepped back. "Not exactly how I expected to be greeted after so many years of silence." He promptly retook his seat. Resting his hand on a side table, he pointed to a small frame containing a picture of the two medical students standing side-by-side, smiling. "But I am more than prepared to forget being snubbed for over half a decade, and then summarily summoned on a Sunday morning. Let bygones be bygones, I say. Am I here to assist with this disorder that afflicts you?" Isidore folded slowly onto the wingchair opposite Thayer. The strange incongruous hands reached for a sturdy Aubusson pillow trimmed with silk tassels. He propped the cushion under one of his arms. "Sometimes I need a little support to sit more comfortably." A short brisk inhalation was the only indication he suffered some discomfort straightening his back, the face behind the mask was unreadable. Thayer carefully studied his old classmate. It grieved him to see this great man so debilitated. Embarrassed, he let his eyes roam the room. Almost intuitively, Isidore noted, "You know, I've always tried to preserve my heritage. I've kept a good portion of the above ground chateau in the condition it was in when it passed to me from my father." Isidore was speaking almost in a monotone, as if his jaw or tongue didn't function properly. "Has a stroke afflicted you?" Isidore's eyes fell to the silver buckles on his polished, Italian, ostrich-leg loafers. Thayer tried to lighten the mood. "What period are you shooting for with this decor?" "Around nineteen hundred or so. But my laboratory, housed in the basements, and the chateau's kitchen are the most modern facilities. Those areas require finesse and the best technology available." "I see that you're also burdened with the need for high-tech security." Isidore ignored the testy statement. His expressive fingers gestured toward an old family album laying on an end table. "The photographs in that book tell quite a story. My grandfather, Rupert de Chagny, had only one son, my father Lowell who was born in 1920. In 1938, when Hitler invaded Austria, my father was only eighteen. He went to England to work with the Allies against Germany. He foresaw a terrible storm brewing on the horizon, and stayed single in an effort to remain focused on the war. In late spring of 1944, when France was liberated, he returned to the chateau and sent for an English girl he'd worked with in the intelligence arm of the British government. I wasn't born until 1948. My mother died of pneumonia when I was only one year old ... too early ... too young. Though he grieved to the point of ruining his health, my father managed to last until I completed university. He sold parts of the estate to put me through school. When you and I met in the medical academy, I never told you how haunted I was by their deaths. One never forgets a loss endured at such a tender age." Of course, he only alludes to the unspoken tragedy of Lisette's demise. Thayer was familiar with his friend's preoccupation with death. Perhaps the world should die rendering retribution to Isidore de Chagny. So morbid! As his friend continued rambling, Thayer found it disheartening that he made no mention of their former relationship. "At twenty-seven I left clinical medicine and began an earnest study of DNA. Now black marketeers and unscrupulous physicians, in countries where my genetic patent is not protected by established law, try to copy the sequence or alter the predictable effects. It can't be done. But so many are willing to pay to have the code cleansed from their systems. They want to grow old ... attain whatever age finally destroys them. Certainly you know that the scientific and theological world is in an uproar, yammering to undo the stabilization I've afforded them. They debate endlessly, hour after hour, the basis of something for which most governments are clamoring." Thayer personally believed this whole discovery a grand mistake, despite the benefits to population control. And how, just how, was the loss of two parents more significant than the loss of two sweethearts? "And you've remained unmarried all these years? Who will succeed you?" Isidore's shoulders jerked as he indulged an unspoken snicker. He walked the topic sideways. "My ancestors favored gathering in the southern salon, but really ..." He paused to suck in a noisy almost asthmatic respiration, "All life centered in the kitchen, just a short way down the hall from the family dining room. Shall I call for coffee, Thayer?" His guest shook his head negatively. "Refreshments can be here momentarily," Isidore reassured. "The kitchen and lab are outfitted with state of the art equipment, even though the rest of the house has been left in memoriam. The kitchen has red jasper countertops and deep Italian cabinets." Isidore pointed a delicate finger toward the immense windows. "Do you remember that there used to be ornamental pools and sweeping gardens visible through those panes of glass? They ran the entire length of the chateau's backside ... a product of my great-great Grandfather's labors. You could step from the kitchen directly into the spice garden and pick fresh herbs. Butlers and female servants stood ready to serve guests who were being entertained. Those were the grand old days. Now the grounds have shrunk. Metered away by war, government need, and the cry of society to expand and gobble up land for housing. This estate is but a pittance of its former glory. There were acres of pasture and dense woodland, a road leading to an ancestral cemetery to the north. Now that cemetery has been turned into an historical site." He sighed heavily, both hands grasping the carved head of his ebony cane. (Continues...) Excerpted from The Tale of the Bloodlineby Etienne de Mendes Copyright © 2010 by Etienne de Mendes. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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