RAE FOXX
Text Copyright ©2020 by Rae Foxx
The Series, characters, names, and related indicia are trademarks and © Rae Foxx.
All Rights Reserved.
Published by Market Street Books
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For Information regarding permission, write to: Rae Foxx at RaeFoxxBooks@gmail.com
Production Management by Market Street Books
Printed in USA
This Edition, August 2020
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
The Story Doesn’t End There Zero Fox to Give Also by Rae Foxx Join Me Online! About the Author
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
1
MY FATHER STOOD ON THE DAIS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BUBBLING POOL OF blood, ribbons of red streaming down his nakedness as it returned to the bowl.
The bowl of my blood that created him.
The bowl of my blood that had summoned him.
The bowl, the Nascence book, and the man they had created were all on the long stone table, looking like something out of a horror movie.
That’s what this was, a goddamned horror movie. And I was the blonde bitch who went down to the basement unprepared. Now I was being held up by a vampire as I bled out all over the floor. It was all starting to make sense.
Fucking Danvers.
“Oberion is in my control,” Nicky boomed to the monster of my father, her arms out like she was some kind of deranged god as she faced the man that looked at me with lifeless eyes. I was surprised she didn’t follow it up with a 'mwahahaha'.
“Fuck, woman, you are such a movie cliché. I swear to God.” Blood dripped from my mouth as I snapped at her.
“Too bad the hero won’t save us all this time.” Danvers’ snarled in my ear; her vampire canines glistened in the dark that was consuming me.
Dark as his eyes.
Dark as the death that was pulsing through me, throbbing along the ragged edges of where I had been stabbed. Pulsing like the
blood that was pouring from me.
“What would you have me do?” The monster of my father sounded as lifeless as he looked, his voice echoing in my mind as blackness blurred the edges of my vision.
“End them all.” Her words slithered through the cave, through the screams and shouts that faded in and out in time with the beating of my heart.
"You going for Uber villain now?" I attempted to mock her again but wasn’t quite sure the words had found their way out of my mouth--pretty sure it was all in my head.
Trapped behind my bleeding, dying heart.
God, I sure was dramatic when I was dying.
My heart pulsed in my chest, the cave fading in and out as though my own heart rate was counting down my end.
Pulse.
Screams of my mates as they called to me from the other side of the runes that spun around us like a merry-go-round.
Pulse.
A flash of black stone and dead eyes as the monster laughed.
Pulse.
A high laugh as painted nails pressed into skin. Cutting me.
Pulse.
Howl and Saxon fighting off the witches that were everywhere in the cave.
Pulse.
A hollow ‘ping’ of my magic as I tried to use it, as the runes drowned my ability into a shadow, empty and worthless.
Not even enough to heal me.
The world went in and out of focus with each beat of my heart, more and more of it fading as my blood poured from me. As the black threatened to take me, all of the screams and panic from the battle became nothing. A comfortable, beautiful nothing that gently cradled me to the other side.
I must be dying. I had officially hit drama level one-thousand.
‘Ivy! Don’t give in! Ivy. You have to fight!’ Howl’s panic ripped through the black, bringing back a bit of stone and screams as he
pulled me out of the comfort of whatever was beyond this.
‘Ivy!You’vegottostaywithme,littlewolf. Thisisimportant!’His panicked yell rattled my head, my bones. It jerked me out of the black and brought all of the screaming with it.
Nofuckingshit.Iknowthisisimportant.
“I want to watch as you rip her limb from limb,” Nicky laughed. Danvers shook me toward the stranger who smiled as he stepped from the dais, stalking towards me. Nicky clapped her hands like a boy seeing his first nip slip.
Well, a psychotic boy who cackled like an old witch. The sound ground against my skull. I jerked away from her, needing to fight, to escape, to call my goddamned magic. Fuck it all! I had magic; I should be able to fight this! All I got was a throbbing belly and the heavy sound of splashing that could spell nothing good.
‘Focus Ivy,’Howl yelled over Nicky’s laughter. ‘You’vegottofight. Fighther . ’
Fight her?
Like, poke her eyes out? Kick her she-balls in? Both seemed impossible with the hole in my belly bubbling my guts out second by second. I kneeled in a puddle of my own blood as more dripped from my lips, coppery scarlet pooling behind my teeth, making me gag.
‘You’ve got to get rid of those runes, Howl.’ With those things spinning around and blocking my power we were all dead.
“Kill her slowly,” Nicky drawled as my father took another step, his eyes looking through me.
“Dad,” I gasped desperately, gripping my side as Mama yelled something indistinguishable from the other side of the cave.
“He doesn’t recognize you as his daughter, Ivy,” Nicky sidestepped around the still approaching murder-zombie, leaning close as she taunted me. “Although I wish he did. It would make your death that much more beautiful.”
She was smiling, eager for my end. An end that she had tailored from the beginning...
Fuck this shit. If she thought I was going to go down on her terms without a fight she was very much mistaken.
“Bitch,” I snarled, blood spluttering through my teeth before I heaved forward, and spat on her. Bright red drops of red sprayed over her lips, cheeks, and nose like freckles. Horrifying freckles.
Nicky swore. Danvers gasped. And for good measure, I turned around. Screaming through the pain and faced the lying bitchmonster to spit in her face too.
‘Good girl! Don’t stop there,’ Howl said, grunting as he fought whatever member of Nicky’s weird army he faced. I didn’t have time to celebrate. That one act had knocked the wind right out of me.
“Fuck!” Danvers’ screamed, gripping me harder with one hand as she smeared the dots of blood into rivers on her skin. She looked like a tiger after their first kill.
I spat at her again and kicked weakly, trying to break free. Her nails dug in deeper even though she was covered in globs of red now. I would’ve laughed if my guts weren’t hanging out of my stomach.
“Never too far from the trailer park, I see,” Danvers’ fingers dug in as she shook me, throwing me to the ground right before the bare feet of my father.
Spitting blood over his curled toes, I looked up at the monster who stared at me with dead eyes as he lifted his hands to end me with whatever power he held.
“You’ll never be more than the trash you came from,” Nicky drawled still smiling in smug victory.
“Wrong. It’s the trash that taught me how to defeat you.” I smiled with a blood-red grin, clutching my hand to the slick, shredded remains of my stomach. Howl caught wind of my plans a second before I enacted them and yelled for me to stop.
Too fucking late.
I ignored him and jutted my arms forward, wrapped them around my father’s ankles and rolled, taking him with me.
Every muscle, every bone, every internal organ that I hadn’t cared about until now was trying to rip its way out. My spine cracked. Blood pooled and smeared over the stone as I rolled away like a meatball.
He toppled like a drunken cow, landing face-first into the stone I had vacated and barely missed Danvers who was trying to catch me, lift him, and ignore Nicky’s screaming; all at the same time.
Blood soaked my clothes and dripped from the hem of my skirt, coating the marble beneath me as I army crawled toward the redstreaked wall of spinning runes and the only things that could save me. My mates.
I needed to hurry. Hard to do when your body was being ripped in half.
“What are you doing?” Nicky roared as my arms gave out and sent me face-first into the floor. My nose cracked against stone and I screamed, but it was only one noise in an already flooded space.
“Oberion Potter, you will kill Ivy—now,” the shifter bitch screamed louder. I chanced a look as she and Danvers practically pushed my father to his feet, like he was little more than a paper doll.
Nicky turned to him, still yelling about killing me as Danvers positioned him toward his target.
My father’s lips twitched, jaw clenched as he shook his head back and forth like a schizophrenic patient with one too many voices telling them what to do.
Maybe that was why they stood him up and faced him toward me.
Creepy, psycho, rag doll.
That book didn’t just summon him. It had summoned a puppet. A soulless shell.
‘Are you saying he can’t stand on his own?’ Howl asked from somewhere else in the room, monitoring my near-death battle cry.
‘Morelikehecan’tthinkonhisownenoughtostand.’
The second he stood, however, the guy was on a rampage toward me, the entire fucking crypt shaking like he was the epicenter of an earthquake.
I flexed my fingers, balling them into fists and then stretching them out, beckoning and begging my magic to do something. Even if it started a tiny flame at the tip of my fingers, it would be something.
My red-stained fingers just shook and trembled.
“Shit.”
His calloused hands wrapped around my neck as he lifted me from the blood-soaked stone to hover in the air, my body dangling like ripped and sopping fabric. Blackened eyes peered into mine, the colorless depth holding no emotion. No life. Not even a soul.
I flailed as best I could, kicking and batting at the monster as the world continued to blacken and fade in and out.
‘Fuckingfight,Ivy!Useyourmagic!Dosomething.Anything!’
Then get rid of the damn runes…
Clearly, he had forgotten that Nicky’s witch-bitches had done something to block the magical part of me. On the other side of the runes Finn and his Fae warrior, Alias, were making fireworks rein alongside the witches they fought; but here, I couldn’t even feel my power.
I tried anyway, grunting in an attempt to throw the guy across the room, or summon some sort of fire attack with my hands. All that happened was that more blood gurgled over my skin, more black tried to seep in around the edges of my vision and pull me under.
“Make her hurt,” Nicky pranced behind Oberion, demanding of him like I was on some murderous menu.
Like I was on the menu.
An overpriced steak.
Rare.
“Try, Ivy. If there’s one fucking person in this world who can, it’s you!”
I don’t know who said it, but the voice pulled Oberion’s attention and his grip lessened. Taking my chance, I kicked like hell and sent my foot right between my dad’s bare legs, kicking him square in the nuts. He let out a long grunt and doubled over in pain, dropping me on the spot into a crumpled mess, arms and legs spread out like a murder scene chalk outline.
“Well, would you look at that,” I gasped, clutching my stomach as if I could put myself back together. “Originals have weak little balls like all the weak mortal males I know.”
“You bitch!” Nicky and Danvers said together. I jumped into action, screaming through the pain in my stomach as I lunged at Oberion, both of us tangling and grappling as whatever super immortal magic he had flared, and his hands started to heat.
“Shit,” I gasped, my bloody hands slipping against his skin as everything faded again.
“No!” The yell echoed around me, the sound coming from the battle like spokes on a wheel.
Spokes that pulled at me like a web.
A web from where each of my mates fought.
Oh my god. I didn’t know if I was delusional in my near death, but I didn’t care. I felt my mates around me, sensed them fighting, heard them grunting. Their voices, their pain, their struggle. They pulled at me like a web of rope was wrapped around us, connecting all of us. Pulling me toward them, keeping me upright.
As though their energy was tethering me to the world.
Supercharging everything.
Heating everything.
My magic. I could feel my magic! It buzzed and bumped against each spot where my skin made contact with his.
Somehow, I had connected to my mates. Somehow, they had brought my magic back.
Yep, totally delusional, but I was going with it.
I had a fucking chance.
I could end this.
I could end the she-bitch and her greased-up zombie man.
My back arched as my guys’ power spiraled through my marrow, weaving up and down my spine and renewing cells that had all but given up. Screaming, I smashed my hands into my father’s face and pulled all of that energy and power that was ripping through those ropes right into him.
The gaping wound in my stomach widened as I expelled the magic, as I pushed every part of myself into the attack.
There was nothing I could do to stop it. My magic took over, boiled my muscles in a bloody broth and singed my veins from the inside out.
Everything boiled. Everything detonated.
Light exploded from my skin, a blinding iridescence smothering the room and soaking everything in white. My scream turned into hollow agony as I contorted against the energy that was eating me alive.
The sound reverberated over the battle, falling still as it pierced the crypt, that shaking vibration resonated over everything as the cave shifted. The ceiling coming down on top of us.
The crypt was collapsing.
I don’t know if it was my light-exploding skin or my banshee scream, but the floor was shifting, the walls crumbled and everything moved to bury us alive.
Thismightbethefuckingend,I thought as blackness blurred the edges of my vision and I was sure that death had won the fight after all.
CHAPTER
2
"IVY
"Ivy!"
Voices echoed in a familiar panic that rattled off stone. Rattled everywhere. It pressed against the bones in my skull that felt like it had shattered. My legs twisted awkwardly, the limbs pulled and broken as though I had jumped from a very high building and landed on solid concrete. Although instead of landing like some bad ass superhero I had more splatted like a water balloon. It would make sense as to why my chest ached, why everything felt shattered and why my lungs felt as though they were one inhale away from collapsing.
Collapsing.
Oh my god. The cave.
"I'm here!” I tried to yell at them, to tell them I was alive and everything was fine. That I was fine. God, seconds away from death and I lie there, crushed by stone. I wasn't fine, and the inhale of dust, rubble, and blood that coated my mouth proved that. You know, if the boulder that was sitting squarely on my chest hadn't already.
"I'm here," I tried again. Sure the words hadn't worked their way passed the blood that gurgled from me. They weren't words as much as they were babbling noises from a broken fountain.
"Ivy!" The voice came again, and this time I recognized it. Howl, yelling both in and outside of my head. No wonder everything throbbed. His voice literally knocked around inside my skull.
"I'm here!" I tried yet again, yelling into the dust that wasn't coating my skin as thick as the rock that was so close I could kiss it. Everything was too heavy, too far away. "I'm here."
"I heard her!" Howl yelled; his voice so close that I was sure he was above me. When I opened my eyes, and I tried to shift against the stone that was on top of me, it was clear I wasn't going anywhere.
I hadn't just been pinned by some large boulder as it fell from the ceiling; I had been buried in them. Rocks surrounded me on all sides, the grey stone nearly black thanks to the absolute lack of light. It was all packed so tightly that I might as well have been a piece of paper among them. Crumpled. Torn. Broken.
My paper airplane days were long gone.
"Where are you, little wolf?"
Here. I attempted to push the word into his mind, but all that came out was a scream and a gasp. The heavy stone of my chest made it hard to do anything else. Because of course, it had to land jagged side down, too. Not only was I being crushed, but I was also being stabbed by the heavy rocks.
This was some medieval buried alive torture shit.
'Buriedalive?'Oh, good, at least he heard that.
'Yes,becauseIamunderrockdownhere!'I grunted, more blood pouring over my cheeks as I tried to speak, tried to wiggle out from under the boulder. I was pinned by a giant rock and still trying to wiggle my way out.
Yep, I was that cool.
"Where is she?" Tommy asked, out of breath as more screams, gasps and what I could have sworn was the sound of a fight, echoed through my stone tomb.
The cave had come down, and those fuckers were still fighting. Pointless. If we got lucky that sky avalanche would have taken down my zombie daddy along with Nicky... and me.
If I was in this bad shape, chances were low they had made it. Chances were low I was going to make it.
Well, I always wanted to go out buried alive while four hot guys stood on top of me. I was sure there was a kink for that.
"I heard her in my mind, I still can... but I don't know where she is..." Rock shifted as they searched, weight compacting against my chest as I exhaled and blood sputtered over my chin, dripping down my cheeks as I coughed and screamed as best I could. With the pain in my head, I was sure I screamed like a banshee down here, although it was just a gasp.
"Down here, you fuckers!" I spat through the blood, more rock shifting as I wheezed and tried to shove against the stone. Oh my god, I changed my mind. This was not the way to go. It felt like I was being crushed in a trash compactor made of knives.
"Stop moving!" I yelled again. I hoped that one would have gone into Howl's mind, and he would stop dancing the tango on my chest. I liked my chest. I liked my boobs too, and they were squishing them like cherry tomatoes.
Nope. Done.
Forcing another scream to rip from my chest, I wiggled beneath the stone. My bones bitched me out while razor-sharp edges tried to cut me from the inside out as I shoved every last bit of energy out of me.
If I could bring a cave down, I could sure as hell get the remains of said cave off my chest. One pitiful ribbon of light shot from me. While not enough to knock them on their asses, it was enough to get their attention and get off my chest.
"Oh my god! Ivy!" Howl screamed. Both his and the demon's weight vanished as they stepped back. More fighting grunts and shouts along with a few profanities rippled through the stone down to me.
"I found her!"
"Get over here!"
"Oberion is there!" What? No! What the fuck was he talking about? Certainly I’d killed the bad guy with my light. I mean, that was some Care Bear-stare-level magic shit.
"Don't let them get away!"
"Scarlet! Boys! Stop!"
"Don't do it! You won't make it!"
“Alias get them out of here!”
“You’ve got to catch them!”
“Stop, it’s coming down!”
Everything mutated together as the rock groaned and screamed in my ears, the stone around me shifted as though we were stuck in some gravel-- gravel being kicked around by a giant’s shoe. More screams, and the rocks I was trapped in rumbled, pinning me between two sharp-edged slabs of granite that were compressing against my chest, pressing what remained of my air away.
For a split second, the only sound I heard was the roar of the mountain as it tried to take me down to oblivion and my own heartbeat thrumming between my temples. My pulse was static against the slow, steady, beat...
"Howl..." I gasped. Even with my C+ average in biology, I knew that I should be in some heart thundering panic mode about now. But my heart was barely fluttering. It felt more like when I would trip over broken concrete along the sidewalk by the trailer park. Startled, processing, shifting into oblivion.
"We've got to get her out of there!" Finn yelled as the cave continued to groan. Pieces of stone shifted as everyone screamed. No one was fighting now.
"On it!" More rock shifted as Tommy did, and the dark stone around me grew even darker. Dark as the black smoke that was wrapping around me, cradling me, sweeping me up and taking the breath from my lungs.
The weight of the stone left, giving me room to breathe. My lungs and spine screamed with the simple action. Shit. I’d never felt pain like this.
Screw being crushed by a mountain. I had clearly been thrown off of one and landed in a pile of knife-wielding clowns with murderous vendettas. Everything ached. One breath made it feel like my spine was falling apart like those cheap building blocks we got at the dollar store.
Fake Lego’s… Ligoos.
My spine was made of Ligoos.
"Ivy!" They all yelled as the last of the stone weight left and the dim light of the collapsing cave streamed through the dust in
ribbons.
They all stood around me as Tommy lifted my broken body up like I was some kind of offering to the African safari gods. The whole thing would have been funny if I wasn’t close to dying… again.
Damn. Remind me never to fight in caves again.
"Fuck," Mama mumbled as Tommy laid me down. Warm breath rushed over my cheek as she leaned over me, only to be replaced by four sets of worried eyes. "We can't lose this one. We need to stabilize her and get out of here."
"I'm trying," Tommy said, the weight against my chest shifting again as he lifted me. "Hard to stabilize someone whose bones are in pieces."
Ligoos, I corrected, not that anyone heard.
“My rose, say something.” Saxon rushed to me, his arms wrapping around me as he tried to pull me from Tommy’s smoke. He wasn't having it.
His smoke-arms tightened as I tried to tell him to knock it off or put his tentacles somewhere else. But there were only gurgles of blood again.
So much for some epic last speech. I was going out like a fish out of water.
"No," Finn moaned, standing right behind the vampire. His cool skin tickled over my cheek. He didn't feel as cold as he normally did. Even his breath against my cheek as he pleaded for me to say something was hot.
Like temperature boiling hot.
The whole world was hot.
“Ivy stay with us,” Howl whispered as those black edges pulsed their way into my line of sight again. "You have to fight it. Let your shifter side heal you."
My shifter. My wolf.
My eyes opened wide. I couldn't feel my wolf. I couldn't feel anything. She was gone. Magic was gone. Shit. How do you call a wolf back?
Here, girl. Here, wolfy! I winced, as though my heart knew something that the rest of me didn't.
"If you don't move now, I'm going to take her," Mama warned as her wonky shape joined the others, the faded edges of the four boys who hovered over me fading from black to white again.
"Where are you going to take her?" Howl asked, his hand tight around mine. "She needs to heal."
"There is only one way that she can heal now," Mama said. My vision pulsed in as she leaned over me, her smiling face contorted into a grimace. I winced, expecting some kind of lecture. But she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at Saxon.
"You can't be serious," the vampire snarled, his hand warm against mine now. Warm like those black ribbons.
Fucking body. Could it stop trying to die? First, I get stabbed. Now, I get crushed. I was the daughter of two super-powered super beings. I should be able to walk out of here.
'You stillhave a mortalbody,'Howl answered my thoughts. 'You canstilldieifallthosesuperpowersaregone.'
"Do you know another way to save injuries this bad, Saxon?" Mama laughed. Damn, I knew she was heartless. She must be talking about throwing me to the wolves.
Or I guess one wolf. My father or Nicky, seeing as one of them clearly survived.
I kind of wished it was my dad over her.
“You know the way to save her,” I thought I heard as I teetered somewhere in the land between consciousness and death. "There is no other choice. Look at your mate. Really look at her. Use your vampire senses for fuck’s sake and stop being so damn selfish."
Tommy's smoke wrapped warmly around me, pressing me into him as everyone mumbled and fought. Because, you know, we weren't in a hurry or anything. I tried to talk, to yell at the bastards to knock it off and get me to whatever witch healer they were talking about. But the only thing that happened was that I coughed blood all over Finn's face. The Fae kneeled before me, pressed his hands against me, and filled me with that warm buzzing like he had a few times before.
Blood oozed from my pores, but I didn't feel quite so much like I was dying anymore.
"Thanks," I managed, the word sounding more like ‘skanks’. He smiled.
"If you don't lead the way to this secret healing room soon I'm going to take her to my dad," Tommy cut in, his smoke moving me closer to Finn. The Fae held me against him even as Tommy held me together.
"That would be worse," Saxon mumbled.
"Oh, I agree. So, get your head out of your ass!" Tommy said, clapping his hands together, giving me one worried look before fixing those eyes on Saxon.
“There’s no way we can get there…”
“Oh, I can get us there,” Tommy cut Saxon off. “I can get us anywhere.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. But before I could ask, Saxon mumbled something, the world fading to black as I swore I heard Tommy grunt, "Lead the way fang-boy."
"I need you to take me home, Tommy. Take us all to The Lowest Ground."
The mood instantly changed. Everyone grew quiet as Finn' s magic waned and sent a sharp stabbing pain down my spine.
Tommy huffed once and gave me a sympathetic smile as his dark smoke swallowed everyone. It swallowed the whole goddamned world. The pain I was already trapped in increased tenfold as that same death by clowns pain rippled through me again. My cheap Ligoos spine broke as I was folded in half, skin snapped as all the smoke stretched and twisted me. I didn’t know what Tommy was doing, but I wasn’t a fan. No one was. Everyone was screaming. The sound a rattling agony in my ears before the pain left. The smoke faded and everyone tumbled to the ground, yelling in agony and cursing Tommy out.
“Demon special. Get over it,” he said, even though his hand was soft on my back as I turned and vomited. Thankfully I aimed it away from the Fae that held me, although Tommy wasn’t able to get out of the way.
Tommy's smoke faded, or I thought it did. Dark blurriness had taken over my consciousness again. Either that or wherever he had
brought us was as dark as death. Death by demon. Death that was begging for me.
I was losing my fucking mind.
"This is the last place I ever wanted to be," Howl moaned from somewhere near my feet. His voice echoed over what I could now make out as stone, a long, dark, never-ending tunnel of stone. I gasped and wiggled even with the pain it caused me, determined to find out where I was--where we were.
"I think everyone but Saxon would rather be anywhere else," Finn said, his normal calm quivering.
"Ugh. For protectors, all you lot do is whine," Ivory growled and took off down the tunnel, leading the way toward what I was becoming increasingly certain was a pit full of knife-clowns.
“Where are we?” I managed to mumble out, but it sounded more like some kind of foreign language spoken by a chubby-bunny with cheeks full of marshmallows.
I wasn't drooling blood anymore, but my mouth was sure coated with it. Blood. I could taste it. Smell it. Feel its stickiness on my skin.
Hell, the smell was everywhere. All coppery and tangy and dripping from the air as if everything was coated with it.
It was.
All that dark stone was stone coated with cracked lines of blood. Blood that splattered over the floor. Over the ceiling.
"Where are we?" I asked again, staring at Saxon who didn't even respond as he came to a stop. A pale-faced man stood in the middle of the tunnel, smiling.
He was dressed in clothes the same color as the walls or covered with enough dried blood that it appeared that way. If it wasn't for the pale nothingness of his skin, I wouldn't have seen him at all. He was a shadow in this place, a shadow staring eagerly at all of us.
"Home," Saxon finally said, and the vampire beamed, tapping those long fingers together.
"Welcome," the other vampire said, that one word sounding like death would taste, icy and tinged with a sweetness that no one knew.
"She is waiting for you."
CHAPTER
3
“C
OME ON, LITTLE WOLF. "
Howl had taken over ‘holding Ivy patrol’ and growled into my ear as he held me to him, practically running down the long tunnel that Saxon and the other vampire were walking down. The cylindrical tunnel that Tommy had transported us to looked like the core left behind when miners checked the soil. Everything was perfectly round, the walls like cinched paper.
Cold, cinched paper. With how breath blossomed from us, I questioned if the walls were coated with dried blood, or frozen.
Howl slipped on the ground as he ran after the walking vampires, or they appeared to be walking. The only other person who was able to keep up with them was Tommy, and he was mostly smoke.
"Fight. Don’t you fucking give up yet. We are so close." Howl held me closer like he was holding me together like Tommy's smoke had. Yes, my bones felt splintered, and I was sure the majority of the blood aroma of blood was coming from me. But I wasn’t giving up.
I had fought my deranged daddy with a hole in my guts and been crushed by a boulder. I didn't know where we were going, but I could take whatever knife-clowns lay on the other side.
"I wouldn't try," Howl answered my thoughts aloud.
"Wouldn't try what?" Finn asked, his hand on my cheek, his touch hot against the cold air of the cave.
"She wants to fight them--"
"I fought my father," I interrupted him in a rasp. My father… “Why are we here? We need to be fighting Oberion!”
“You aren’t fighting anyone.” I wanted to pinch Howl in the ribs for that, but since my arms and legs weren’t currently attached to the rest of my body… I tired anyway.
I attempted to snap and beat my fists in the air like a war pilot, but I ended up slurring and flailing. Howl staggered to keep a hold of me.
Tommy rolled his eyes while Finn came over to rub my forehead, his touch igniting all that bubbly wonderful magic again.
Howl sneered at the mention of our enemies and balled his fists. “There is no fighting. There is no cave. Scarlet and the twins are following her. They took Alias as well, but I have no way of knowing if they caught up to her or if they were found out.”
I groaned. “And here I was hoping one big slab of marble sliced right through her.”
“Yeah, well, we were a little busy trying to get your dying ass out of there to take inventory of all the dead bodies, babe. Priorities and shit.” Tommy shrugged one shoulder and I pretended not to notice that he’d overtly called me his priority. It was like a passive aggressive I love you.
“Most of them belonged to that weird army Nicky had hiding in the shadows though, so at least you know your mates are badass.” Howl gave me a grin and held me closer, the silent promise that he was going to go all uber protector and shit on me.
‘Iamgoingalluberprotectorandshit,’he snarled into my head.
“I can still fight for myself.” I half mumbled, my words slurring again.
"You are fighting. Just not this. This isn't something to fight," Howl's jaw was tight. His focus forward as he glared at something in the cave. We must have reached the knife-clowns.
I winced, gasped, and released a few profanities as I turned, ready to take down Bozo and his brothers, and instead faced... a door.
The tall door was splashed with blood so thick it was red, the old slab of wood something like what you would see in a castle. A
medieval castle where mortals are tortured for fun.
Iron hinges came into focus as Howl carried me closer to the subterranean door, the winged dragons or bats that were carved there only making the blood more frightening.
Okay, maybe the door deserved the look that Howl was giving it. The door was horrifying. It reminded me of the wrought iron gate in front of the Alpha's house. All twisted and frightening. They were a matching set.
This one had more blood.
"She will be so pleased to see you," the death-voiced vampire drawled ahead of us. His voice carried as he spoke much louder than was necessary given that vampires could practically see in the dark and hear a pin drop a mile away. "She has been waiting so long for your return."
"Return?" I chanced a glance at Finn and Howl, but they looked as confused as I was. Even through the smoke, however, I could tell that Tommy was pissed. His jaw was set, and he had gone into some kind of protective stance, his shoulder straightening as he growled with a sound that nearly matched the grinding noise of the door as it opened. A lake of blood seeped out as though the door was a flood gate, a pool of blood flooding in a wave, splashing over the stone and coming to a stop before Howl's toes.
Saxon turned, looking at the four of us with pinched lips and eyes redder than I had ever seen them. Red like the vampires when they drank human blood, well, if the lore from Twilight was correct. I would daresay it was.
Saxon looked hungry. Saxon looked ready to pounce.
Fucking hell! I did not come here to become a vampire buffet. I tried to shift away, wiggle my way out of Howl's arms, but one movement and the entire room shifted, went black, and there were suddenly six different hands on me.
Okay, guess I had managed to roll my way out of Howl's hands anyway-- and then proceeded to fall to the ground.
"You can't fight them, Ivy."
"Who is them?" I asked Howl as three of my mates made sure I was secured, and Finn buzzed some more of his magic into my
veins.
"Come, friends," that strange vampire called over to us. Saxon's eyes were hooded as he glided through the door and we were left no other options.
"Buck up, you lot," Ivory said, streaming past us and making Howl jump. Guess I wasn't the only one to forget that she was there. "You do this, or my daughter dies. My daughter dies, and Nicky wins. Then everything I have been fighting for is worth nothing."
Gee, you would think that me not dying would be the top of her priorities. I rolled my eyes, which made my head spin more, and curled into Howl just in case I was going to fall out of his arms again.
Clutching me close to his warm chest, blood splashed beneath Howl's feet as he carried me through the door. Finn and Tommy were on either side as we followed Saxon and Mama into a cavern that was just as dark, just as cold, and just as soaked in blood as the hallway. I exhaled; a plume of condensation burst from my lips as all those splintered bones began to seize.
The tunnel of blood had been cold, but this was like walking into a cube of ice. The air was so cold it bit against my arms and legs. Steam rose from the river of blood that ran over the floor, seeping from its source as it ran down a stone staircase like a waterfall. A waterfall that sprouted from the feet of the most horrifying woman I had ever seen.
Her skin was a pale fawn. Paper-thin but without a single wrinkle. No line, no blush, just perfectly pale features beneath hair as dark as night and perfectly arched brows. All those pale features seemed nearer the almond glow of a human thanks to the stark white of the gown she wore, the surface pocked with drops of red, the hem soaked in it.
She was beautiful. Horrifyingly beautiful.
She rose from a crystal throne, the diamond surface as streaked with blood as she was, as the heavy velvet curtains that hung limp and dead behind her. Just like the body that lay at her feet.
If they’d asked the interior decorator of this place to give it a menacing, oppressive vibe, they’d succeeded.
Saxon, Ivory, and the vampire faced the woman, all of them bowing as she smiled and turned blood-red eyes to me. To Howl, who held me, and to Finn, and Tommy. All three of them looked ready to bolt, at least with Tommy I knew that was a possibility. He was already a little wavy around the edges.
“The fuck?” I wheezed out and felt a new sharp, stabbing pain as I tried to wiggle to a different position to see better and was instead rewarded with a stabbing pain in my abdomen.
Because, you know, I had been stabbed.
This bitch looked like she was ready to finish the job and feast on my remains for dessert. Her smile stretched as she looked at me, nostrils stretching like a bull when it smelled danger.
When she smelled blood.
Because Vampire.
Judging by the whole raised crystal throne and a blood-stained dress drama we had going on she was the Vampire Queen. And I thought mama was dramatic.
"The smell of this girl," the woman drawled, her voice slow and filled with a liquid lust that was doing weird things to the stab wounds in my belly. "Did you bring me a feast, Saxon? Is this my apology for your betrayal?"
"I didn't betray you," Saxon said, the grind of his teeth audible from here. "I left."
"So, you admit it a betrayal," she continued as she descended the blood-soaked stairs, each step filled with a splash and a slick of heels on stone. Heels against blood.
"It was not a betrayal. You know why I left." Saxon was shaking now. His hands were fists against his thighs as he faced this Queen of the Vampires.
"What in the donkey dicks is going on here?" I erupted, much louder than I should have been able to, seeing as the world was spinning again.
"You child. You are 'going on' here," she said with a drawl that sent what was left of my stomach into a tangle. Her focus flicked
back to mine. Her stare was harsh. While I should have regretted the outburst, I met her stare head-on, smiling at her with bloodstained teeth. "You are the reason for everything it seems, and yet here you are, bleeding all over my floor. Leaving your delectable scent in places it should never be. If Saxon wanted to keep you to himself, he has clearly misjudged his arrival."
One of her fingers flicked and before I knew what was happening, seven vampires burst onto the floor, busting their way through doors so perfectly inset into the stone that I hadn't seen them before. They walked toward us slowly, long pointy spears lowered to our neck height. The weapons were so tribal that I almost laughed, might have if I didn't know who was wielding them. A vampire could be to my side and slicing into my neck with their teeth before I could blink. I didn't want to know what they could do with a spear.
"Not so fast, Queeney," Mama said when the Queen stepped equally with her, the ballsy woman placing her hand against her shoulder. The powerful woman's face slid from shock to anger as she met her face on. The two locked in a stare down.
"Ivory." It wasn’t a question.
Yep. Totally arch enemies.
Was there anyone that actually liked my mother? The witches hated her. The Vampire Queen hated her. I was certainly close to hating her.
"Katarina," Ivory smiled as big as the queen was scowling. I was amazed that Mama hadn't summoned flowers and sunshine to counteract the blood queen. They were both clearly drama queens, although right now that drama seemed to be restrained to scowling.
“Not only do you bring the whore you left me for," Katarina said, hair flinging in Mama's face as she turned to Saxon. "But you bring her as well? You come to my lair, uninvited, and do nothing but disrespect me. What is your business here? Or, shall I feast from you all and teach you all for the sins you have committed against me."
'IfIever thinkI'magodwillyouslapme?' I buzzed into Howl's mind, the corner of the guy's mouth quirking.
'Isthatretroactive?'
"Ivy is not a whore. She is my mate," Saxon began, the queen's jaw dropped as she rounded on Saxon, all of the spears lowering and pointing right at my vampire.
"And my daughter," Mama decided to tack on, because that was clearly needed.
The Queen roared, rounded from Saxon to Ivory before turning to me, flinging her hair back as she straightened, the anger on her face vanishing as she splashed her way over.
"Give me one reason not to end her right now..." The Queen mused, her red eyes darkening to black as she looked at me, as her fangs began to protrude as she licked her lips.
"She's my mate," Saxon began, but Mama cut him off.
"Nicky, Nickolinia, has the Nascence Book. She controls the girl’s father. You let her die, our future dies too. You already know why we are here, Katarina. Why play these games? Drink her blood, then save her life. Like you did Saxon. Like you did to the Prince of the Dark."
"Saxon is no longer a prince in this court." She whirled on Saxon, giving him a red-eyed glare as she leaned over him, towered over him. He suddenly looked so small. Small and helpless. But he didn't even flinch. He had clearly been under her before. "He abandoned me. His creator. He was my first, and now he is no longer."
Holy fuck did she just say what I thought she said? The Queen of the Vampires created Saxon. Created Saxon first. Like, he was the third real vampire ever in existence.
"What if he could be your prince again?" Mama was playing some kind of cat and mouse game, but I didn't care - I fucking lost it.
"Holy fucking vampires." Yep. I really needed to learn to control those. They all turned to look at me, well, everyone but Saxon who was doing his best to look anywhere but.
"What are you suggesting?" Katarina said, still licking her lips as she stared at me, nostrils flaring.
"Heal her," Saxon said, still not looking at me. "And I will reclaim my title."
I might as well have blacked out. Hell, maybe I was hallucinating all of this. My vision blurred, my heart skipped a beat, and
everything in the room spun as the Queen smiled, her shoes sloshing in the blood as she approached.
"Done. A bite. A drop. And you are a prince once more." Katarina's face was even more beautiful close up. The perfect skin like a flocked brown silk. Her eyes dark, welcoming. Predatory.
She held her hand out to me, palm up as she waited for something to seal the deal.
What deal?
"Done," Mama said before anyone else could, grabbing my hand and placing it in hers. Placed my wrist in hers.
"No!" I yelled as her fangs protruded, as she leaned forward and sunk them into my skin and bleed me dry.
Sucked my blood from my veins. Memories from my mind. Life from my body.
Everything went black again, the world falling around me as I splashed into a warm pond, as everyone began screaming. I tried to open my eyes, to see what was happening and fight against the Blood Queen’s grip, but the world felt so far away. I flailed and fought back against her grip, from whatever her bite was doing to me, but I knew I wasn’t battling back. Mostly I was flopping around like a dying fish on the bank of a pond, gasping for air, waiting to be gutted and fried. Flopping in a pool of blood. Flopping around on the ground.
“Into the wounds directly for this one,” the queen said in a voice like slithery silk as my hand fell lifelessly to my chest. “We have a deal, correct, Saxon? Don’t even think about going back on your word. You know the consequences.”
“Do it.” His voice was low and menacing as his cool hands gripped my shoulders, his scent growing thicker in my nose as he leaned down. His soft lips grazed the rim of my ear as he whispered, “forgive me, my rose. It is the only way.”
Panic shook my bones and muscles as not only his words, but his tone sunk in.
I screamed, but no sound came from my mouth as drops of acid plopped into each cut that Danvers’ had made in my stomach. Each
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favorably received. Boieldieu was not yet ripe for operatic composition, but at least these works furthered his career in that they obtained him the privilege of free entrance to other operatic performances, and thus his experience and taste were gradually expanded.
BUST OF BOIELDIEU BY DANTAN.
From the Carnavalet Museum, Paris.
The partial success fired his heart sufficiently for him to leave Rouen and seek Paris for the second time. This time he carried with him thirty francs, an operatic score, and an abundance of selfconfidence. He was now nineteen years old. His reception was the chilling one usually accorded to young composers in Paris, and very
soon he began to feel the nippings of hunger, which put the thoughts of public success out of his head for the nonce, and drove him to teaching piano. He however had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the celebrated tenor Garat, and this gentleman became interested in him, and finally sang some of his chansons in public and in fashionable drawing-rooms. These little songs soon found favor, and Boieldieu became gradually known through them. M. Cochet, the publisher, paid him twelve francs each for these productions, a figure which seems ridiculous until one remembers that Schubert sometimes accepted a franc or two for some of his immortal lieder. Some of these early works of Boieldieu are still in the musical repertoire, and are occasionally heard in concerts, as for example, “O toi que j’aime,” and “Menestrel,” and they served at the time to spread the social success of the composer. Finally Boieldieu made the acquaintance of Fiévée, the novelist, who wrote for him a short libretto in one act, “La Dot de Suzette,” and this opera, after many intrigues and jealousies, achieved performance and success, thanks to a bright libretto, sparkling melodies, and the excellent performance of Madame St. Aubin.
Boieldieu’s prospects now changed with Aladdin-like suddenness, for his next opera, “La Famille Suisse,” was performed at the Theatre Feydeau for thirty nights in alternation with Cherubini’s “Medee,” and thus early began that connection with the great Italian maestro, at that time the best musician in France, which was to be so fruitful of good results to the new favorite. In 1798 Boieldieu turned for a while from operatic work, and composed a number of piano sonatas, piano and harp duets, and a piano concerto. Although these exercised no permanent influence on the art, they obtained for him the appointment of professor of piano at the Paris Conservatoire, two years later. In this position, however he was not very successful; he was too much wrapped up in composition to make a good teacher. The musical historian Fétis, who was his pupil, confirms this estimate; but the post at the Conservatoire led to a close acquaintance with Cherubini, by which Boieldieu began to remedy his lack of knowledge of counterpoint and fugal work. Although Fétis denies that Boieldieu was ever the pupil of Cherubini, there is every reason to believe that this was the case, even if a regular stipend was not paid for the tuition. The very fact that in 1799 the two worked in collaboration on “La Prisonnière” might tend to show that Boieldieu
was anxious to attain something of Cherubini’s musical learning, and his submission of many later operas to the judgment of this master proves that he was willing to be guided by him.
About this time Boieldieu produced two operas that carried his fame beyond his native country; these were the Polish “Benjowski” and the very tuneful “Caliph of Bagdad,” both of which will receive further mention in the analytical portion of this article. A little later there appeared a more advanced work,—“Ma Tante Aurore.” The success was now so well established that all Parisian managers sought for works from the gifted pen, and opera followed opera.
TOMB OF BOIELDIEU IN PÈRE LACHAISE, PARIS.
From a lithograph.
Boieldieu now lived on contentedly in Paris until 1802, when he almost wrecked his career in the same manner that his father had done; on March 19th of that year he married a ballet-dancer named Clotilde Mafleuroy, and immediately began to taste the bitterness of conjugal misery. He suddenly left Paris on this account and sought employment in Russia. He was received in St. Petersburg with open
arms, and the Czar Alexander at once appointed him capellmeister of the court. He produced little on this barren soil however, and although he stayed there eight years, and his contract called for three new operas and a number of military marches annually, scarcely anything of this period has been preserved. In 1810 the political horizon began to darken, and trouble between Russia and France became so imminent that our composer again suddenly packed up and returned to his beloved Paris, arriving at the beginning of 1811. Here however he found everything changed. The Napoleonic wars had exerted a deleterious influence on operatic patronage, and the taste, too, had changed in some degree; Cherubini and Mehul were silent, and Isouard alone ruled Opera Comique. Considerable jealousy of Boieldieu was at this time displayed, and at first he was unsuccessful in having any of the works he had written in Russia performed in Paris; therefore he set himself to producing an original work, and in 1812, “Jean de Paris,” a masterpiece of its kind, was produced at the Theatre Feydeau. Again a success was won, although not such a phenomenal one as the “Caliph of Bagdad” had attained, and for the next six years another series of operas proved that the composer had not lost his hold upon the Parisian public, and in addition to his own operas Boieldieu collaborated with Cherubini and Isouard. Two years later a great success attended the first production of “Le Chaperon Rouge,” but the composer was so exhausted by this effort that he was obliged to rest for a while from further composition. He now received the position of professor of composition at the Conservatoire, taking the place of Mehul, and for seven years he produced nothing more in opera. The crowning work was however to come later. During a stay at his brother’s farm in Cormeilles Boieldieu began composing once more. This time it was something far beyond his previous efforts, it was a chef d’œuvre in the domain of comic opera,—the ever-beautiful “La Dame Blanche.” This masterwork was performed in December, 1825, and at once awakened boundless enthusiasm. Boieldieu was not much exhilarated by the result, for he seemed to feel that he could never hope to equal this work again. Nevertheless he soon attempted another subject, as if to ascertain if his surmises were correct. Bouilly’s dull libretto, “Les Deux Nuits” was accepted, as much from friendship as from any other motive. The new opera was finished in 1829, and made a flat failure, a result which hurt Boieldieu’s feelings
in an inordinate degree. He had brought back a pulmonary trouble from Russia, and his disappointment seemed to aggravate the disease. He gave up his position at the Conservatoire, feeling too weak to continue teaching. The director of the Opera Comique had given Boieldieu a pension of 1200 francs for his great services to the art, but the expulsion of Charles X. now came about, a new direction was installed, the institution was found to be bankrupt, and the income from this source ceased just when it was most needed. He had married again in 1827, and this time the union was a fortunate one, for in these final days of trial, sickness, and pecuniary difficulty, his wife sustained his drooping spirits with unswerving fidelity. She was a singer, Philis by name, and was the mother of Boieldieu’s only son, a composer of good attainments, but overshadowed by his father’s ability. Finally Louis Philippe was established on the throne of France, and his minister, M. Thiers, made speedy recognition of the value of Boieldieu’s work by granting him an annual pension of 6,000 francs. It could not give back the composer’s health, however, and, after a tour to Pisa he came back worse. He had been obliged by poverty to take back his old position at the Conservatoire, and made a brave effort to continue in it, but it was useless; in another tour in hopeless search for health, he died at Jarcy, October 8th, 1834. At the tomb his old companion and teacher, Cherubini, gave a last tribute to the modest and talented nature that had passed away so prematurely.
Boieldieu may be summed up in a single phrase as a Parisian Mozart. He had Mozart’s gift of melody and grace, and in his later years something of Mozart’s skill in harmonic and contrapuntal combination, but, unlike Mozart, his work can be divided into three epochs, the third only being comparable in ensemble to the works of the German master. Boieldieu has been ranked as the best composer of opera comique that France ever produced, and it is not too much to say that only Bizet has approached him in characteristic touches and poetic inspiration. Three works are at present the chief representatives of Boieldieu’s fame, “The Caliph of Bagdad,” which shows his earliest method, “Jean de Paris,” which is a good example of his second period, and “La Dame Blanche,” which is the finest of all his operas, the best outcome of the French opera comique school, and shows the composer in his third and best period of growth.
Boieldieu was never misled by the popular applause which was showered upon him before it was fairly deserved. It has been well said that “there is no heavier burden than a great name acquired too soon,” and it is to the credit of Boieldieu that, although he acquired this burden with “The Caliph of Bagdad,” which has had over a thousand performances in France, he did not continue in the rather frivolous vein which had so captivated his earliest audiences. His modest desire to advance may be proven by the fact that when this opera was achieving its greatest success, Cherubini reproached him with “Malheureux! are you not ashamed of such an undeserved success?” when Boieldieu mildly begged for further instruction, that he might do better in the future. He even courted the opinions of his pupils in the Conservatoire as to portions of his work, a rather dangerous meekness. Pretty tunes and marked rhythms are the characteristics of this period. “Zoraime et Zulnare,” although at present almost unknown, always remained a favorite of the composer, but it is only another example of musicians not being the best judges of their own works.
Fac-simile musical manuscript written by Boieldieu.
“Benjowski” is a transition towards his second period. It has a Polish plot written by Kotzebue, and its music has much local color. It was composed in 1800, but was retouched by Boieldieu a quarter of a century later, when he wittily said, “It smells of Russia leather!” The opening quartette in this work is very dramatic.
“Ma Tante Aurore” may be said to begin the second period. It preserves the brightness of the first period, but is much finer in its scoring, and it is no exaggeration to say that in this matter Boieldieu surpassed all of his contemporaries in France, with the sole exception of Cherubini. The versatility displayed in this period speaks of growth.
The eight years spent in Russia may be passed over with but slight comment, for of all that he wrote there, he cared to preserve but three operas, “Rien de Trop,” “La Jeune Femme,” and “Les Voitures Versées.” One cause of the weakness of the works of this period was
the fact that no good librettos were obtainable, and the composer was even obliged to use many that had been set by other musicians. Some commentators class “Jean de Paris” in the third period of Boieldieu’s work. It is a beautiful and characteristic opera; the song of the Princess, full of charming grace, the bold and dashing measures of the page, and the stiff, ceremonious style of the music of the Seneschal, are a few of the striking touches that go to make up a very brilliant work which has not yet disappeared from the repertoire, but when compared with “La Dame Blanche” the ensemble-writing is seen to be inferior. In this latter opera, the climax of his works, Boieldieu did not depart from the melodious character of his first and second periods, but rather added to it. All through his career he clung to the folk-song, and exactly as “Der Freischütz” was evolved by Weber from the German Volkslied, so “La Dame Blanche” had its root in the French Chanson. The libretto was evolved by Scribe from Scott’s works by amalgamating the “Monastery” and “Guy Mannering,” but spite of the introduction of “The Bush aboon Traquier” and “Robin Adair” (the latter not a true Scotch song) the flavor is by no means Scotch either in libretto or music. The harmonization of the finales of this opera is beyond anything that has been attained in French opera comique, and shows Boieldieu as a master in a school of which we find no traces in “The Caliph of Bagdad.” Yet through all the three periods one finds the thread of the Chanson running melodiously. Music that is sincerely national can never die, and the secret of the success of Boieldieu’s operas, and their perennial freshness may be found in the fact that the composer builded upon the music of his country, and there is no firmer foundation possible.
ETIENNE NICOLAS MÉHUL
Reproduced from an aquatint portrait by Quenedey.
ETIENNE NICOLAS MÉHUL
One of the most unique and interesting figures in the French musical world of the close of the eighteenth century is Etienne Nicolas Méhul. Sprung from comparative obscurity, he mounted to a worldwide fame. Starting out in life with the scantiest educational advantages, he reached a high degree of elegant culture. Living in a most dissolute period, he retained through life an irreproachable character. The son of a cook in a regimental barracks, he was tendered the position of chapelmaster by the great Napoleon.
Méhul was born at Givet, in the Ardennes, June 22, 1763. Like many other great composers, he was of low degree, had but few opportunities for study at the start, and struggled hard to gain his musical footing. His talent displayed itself at an early age and he himself never had a doubt as to his ultimate vocation in life, though his naturally religious disposition had predetermined his parents to send him to a monastery. At ten years of age he played in the Franciscan Church at Givet, such qualifications as he may have had being the result of his studies with a blind organist. Shortly after this time, Wilhelm Hauser, a distinguished German organist, arrived at the neighboring convent of La Val Dieu, whither the boy repaired to pursue his studies. He was fortunate enough to attract the favorable attention of the Abbé Lissoir, under whose auspices he studied for three years with Hauser. He made such rapid progress that he soon equalled his master and was appointed deputy organist at the
convent. It is altogether probable that he would have been his successor had not good fortune attended him again. His playing attracted the notice of an officer of the garrison, who was a musical amateur, and it needed but little solicitation to induce the boy to go to Paris. He arrived at the capital in his sixteenth year and placed himself under the tuition of Edelmann, a Strasburg composer of eminence, who some years afterward deserted music for politics and perished ultimately upon the same scaffold to which he had consigned many a victim. With Edelmann he studied both the piano and composition, supporting himself meanwhile by giving lessons and writing sonatas and minor compositions for that instrument. The genius of his good fortune did not desert him in these days of stress. It was shortly after his arrival in Paris that Gluck’s “Iphigénia en Tauride” was placed in rehearsal. The popular interest in the performance had been heightened by the feud which had raged so bitterly between the Gluck and Piccini factions. Méhul caught the infection and, being without the money to purchase a ticket, he smuggled himself into the theatre the day before, intending to remain in concealment until the next eventful evening. He was discovered, however, by one of the inspectors, and as the latter was on the point of ejecting him, Gluck’s attention was drawn to him. He made some inquiries, and upon learning the facts in the case gave the young man a ticket. It was the turning-point in his career and decided the direction he should take; for Gluck followed up the chance acquaintance, took a decided interest in Méhul, gave him the benefit of his experience and advice and instructed him in the dramatic qualities of music. The young composer already had produced a cantata at the Concert Spirituel, written upon the subject of Rousseau’s Sacred Ode, and was ambitious to become known as a composer of church music, for the religious element was always strong in him; but Gluck changed all this and set his feet in the path of the opera, which he was destined to follow to the end of his life.
MÉHUL.
From a lithograph portrait loaned by the British Museum.
Méhul began his dramatic work by writing three operas (“Psyché et l’Amour,” “Anacréon” and “Lausus et Lydie”) merely for the sake of practice. He was testing his wings before flight. He made his debut before the public with “Euphrosine et Coradin” in 1790 and achieved a brilliant success, though his first opera was “Cora et Alonzo,” which was produced later and met with only a moderately favorable reception. He was now in the full tide of musical activity, and opera after opera came from his prolific genius. “Stratonice” followed “Euphrosine,” and by many was considered his masterpiece, especially for the fine treatment of the ’cello parts, which instrument he had specially studied, and for the general excellence of the orchestration as well as its dramatic strength, in which quality he showed his close study of Gluck. The revolutionary period which now ensued was not favorable to the opera, and as if in sympathy with the depressing character of the time, Méhul brought forward such works as “Doria,” “Horatius Cocles,” “La Caverne,” and others, which did
not add to his reputation. There were others, however, that proved an exception to the rule. “Le jeune Henri” for instance, was hissed because it introduced a royal personage, but the overture, with its lively and picturesque representation of the chase, was demanded several times over at the close of the performance. The overtures to both “Adrien” and “Ariodant” were also general favorites, as well as the romanzas in the latter. It was about this time (1799) that Méhul had his first encounter with some of the French critics, particularly Geoffroy, a well-known writer, who declared that he could not write in any other than a severe and heavy style. Shortly afterwards the opera of “Irato,” written in the Italian style, appeared anonymously. After its first performance the journalist wrote: “This is the way in which Méhul should compose.” The composer had his revenge on declaring himself the author and followed it up with another opera, “Une Folie,” in which his critic was satirized. Soon afterwards, however, he lapsed into the serious style. In 1806 he produced “Uthal,” in which he made the daring innovation, at the suggestion of Napoleon it is said, of doing away with the violins entirely and filling their places with the violas, as better adapted to the sombre Ossianic character of the composition. The result was so depressing that Grétry, who was present at the first performance, made the remark: “I would give a louis to hear the sound of a chanterelle, or the E string of the violin.” Undismayed by the reception of “Uthal,” Méhul followed it up with “Joanna,” “Hélène,” “Les Amazones” and “Gabrielle d’Estrées,” all written in the same serious style, showing high scholarship in counterpoint, but lacking in those light and elegant graces of composition which were so popular with the French. His activity was great during this period. Between 1791 and 1807 he wrote no less than twenty-four operas, besides six symphonies; music to poems of Chénier, Arnault and Sontanes, composed in honor of the Republican fêtes at which Napoleon presided, among them the “Chant du Départ,” “Chant de Victoire” and “Chant de Retour”; choruses to the tragedy of “Timoleon”; the incidental music to “Oedipus” and the drama of “The Hussites”; four ballets, “Le Jugement de Paris” (1793), “La Dansomanie” (1800), “Le Retour d’Ulyss” (1807), and “Persée et Andromède” (1810); besides many operettas and smaller works. He had enjoyed the favor of Napoleon to such an extent that upon the death of Paisiello he was offered the position of chapelmaster. Méhul, who was a devoted
friend of Cherubini, was anxious that the latter should share the office with him, but Napoleon, who was incensed at a sharp reply Cherubini had made him in Vienna, sent word back to Méhul: “What I want is a chapelmaster who will make music and not noise,” and at once nominated M. Sueux to the position. Méhul was not without his honors, however, having been appointed a member of the Institute in 1795, and of the Legion of Honor in 1802.
In 1807 he achieved the crowning success of his career. “Joseph,” written on a Biblical subject, was produced and spread his fame all over France and Germany. Though not often heard in this country, it still remains a great favorite to-day among the Germans by its dignity, nobility and elevated style. It made ample compensation for his many failures and regained for him all the advantages he had lost. After 1810 he wrote but little, “Le Prince Troubadour” (1813) and “L’Oriflamme” (1814), written with Berton, Kreutzer and Paer, being his most important works.
MÉHUL
From a portrait in Clément’s “Les Musiciens Célèbres.”
Méhul made his parting bow to the public with the opera of “La Journée aux Aventures,” which was produced in 1817 with considerable success. The same year closed his earthly labors. He had been in ill health for some time, and shortly after the production of his last opera he went, upon the advice of friends, to the south of France, where he had a residence, hoping thereby to regain his strength. His ailment, consumption, however, had so weakened his constitution that the change was fruitless. Moreover, he was homesick for Paris. In writing to a friend he mournfully says: “I have broken up all my habits. I am deprived of all my old friends, I am alone at the end of the world, surrounded by people whose language I can scarcely understand—and all this sacrifice to obtain a little more sun. The air which best agrees with me is that which I breathe among you.” He returned to Paris, warmly welcomed by his friends and the public. He made one, and only one more visit to the opera.
He was soon stricken down in his last illness and died Oct. 18, 1817, in his fifty-fourth year, universally lamented both in France and Germany, for, like his pupil Hérold, he was as much of a favorite in the latter country as in the former. In fact neither of these composers was appreciated to the full extent of his ability in France, at least until after death, a neglect which was not confined to them, however: Berlioz shared the same fate. More than one French composer indeed has made his greatest success in Germany. Tributes of respect and admiration were shown to his memory in both countries. His funeral was attended by a great concourse of persons, and the pupils of the Conservatory with which he had been identified so many years, covered his grave with flowers. On the day of his interment memorial services were held in many places in Germany and France at which public addresses were made. Méhul married a daughter of Dr. Gastoldi, but having no children adopted his nephew, M. Daussoigne, a young musician of excellent promise. His posthumous opera, “Valentine de Milan,” was finished by the nephew and was performed in 1822, upon which occasion the composer’s bust was publicly crowned. The popular success, indeed, which he achieved as a composer, was unquestionably expedited by his high character as a man. His uprightness and natural tenderness had commended him to all the pupils of the Conservatory, and his strong affections did the same service for him with his friends. His generosity and benevolence were proverbial. The utter absence of jealousy in his disposition especially commended him to musicians. He had a particular abhorrence of intrigue and of those small rivalries which were abundant at that time, and which sometimes developed into great wars, as has already been hinted at in the reference to the famous struggle between the factions of Gluck and Piccini, which not only enrolled musicians, composers and opera-goers in opposing ranks, but even brought courtiers, the nobility and members of the royal family into fierce antagonism. In the midst of all this small turbulence Méhul had carried himself with even poise, working for the best interest of his art and always true to its canons, though he made many tentative innovations when fortune frowned upon him. At a time of more than ordinary dissipation and immorality, he maintained the highest moral principles and a sterling manhood. It was but natural, therefore, that such a man should have been mourned sincerely, and it may have added to public admiration that
he had reached his high distinction by his own efforts, rising from rude and obscure beginnings to the summit of European fame.
Méhul was the legitimate successor of Gluck. It was that composer’s “Iphigénie,” as we have seen, that first caught his fancy, fired his ambition and directed his attention to dramatic composition. It was owing to Gluck himself, who at once recognized the ability of the young musician, that his feet were set in the right path, and it was to his advice and instruction—the instruction of a friend rather than of a teacher—that he owed his discovery and appreciation of the dramatic quality of music. Other composers, among them Cherubini, had a certain influence upon him, but Gluck was the all in all of his system, the source of his inspiration and the dominant element of his methods of treatment. He clung to dramatic truth with as much tenacity as did the great author of “Orpheus” and the “Iphigénias” and strove with the same earnestness to make his music a close and perspicuous illustration of the text, and to keep it elevated in style. Meanwhile his own nature was assisting him. Style and character are closely related, and Méhul’s music is a reflection of his own personal traits, namely, refinement of sentiment, seriousness and earnestness of presence, strong religious tendencies as shown in the opera—or shall we not call it oratorio—of “Joseph,” and nobility of character as shown in all his dramatic work. His style is always elevated, though at times he made the effort to unite light and graceful melodies of the effervescent and short-lived sort which find so much favor on the French stage. He was not successful in these, however. He was more at home in passion and pathos, in strong, broad motives, rich harmony and ingenious and elaborate accompaniments. In a word, his standards, like those of Gluck, in whose steps he followed so closely, were classical and of the highest romantic type. At times he was daring and ingenious in his innovations, as in “Ariodant,” where four horns and three ’cellos carry on an animated conversation; in “Phrosine et Mélidore,” where four horns have a full part in the score; and in “Uthal,” where the violas are substituted for the violins, as already has been mentioned. These, however, were only experiments, though they serve to show his originality of conception as well as his curious scholarship—a scholarship all the more remarkable when the poverty of his early training is considered. And yet he did more than almost any other of his contemporaries to elevate the Opera Comique, and has come
down in musical history as one of the principal founders of the modern French School.
Fac-simile musical manuscript by Méhul, from Cherubini’s collection.
Méhul’s name, in upper left-hand corner, was written by Cherubini.
Méhul’s activity was almost incessant. He has left forty operas, of which the following are the more important: “Alonzo et Cora” and “Euphrosine et Coradin” (1790); “Stratonice” (1792); “Le jeune Sage et le vieux Fou” (1793); “Horatius Cocles,” “Arminius,” “Phrosine et Mélidore” and “Scipion” (1794); “La Caverne,” “Tancrède et Chlorinde” and “Sesostris” (1795); “Le jeune Henri” and “Doria” (1797); “Adrien” and “Ariodant” (1799); “Epicure” (with Cherubini) and “Bion” (1800); “L’Irato” (1801); “Une Folie,” “Le Trésor Supposé,” “Joanne” and “L’Heureux malgré lui” (1802); “Helena”
and “Le Baiser et la Quittance,” with Kreutzer, Boieldieu and Nicolo (1803); “Uthal,” “Les deux Aveugles de Tolède” and “Gabrielle d’Estrées” (1806); “Joseph” (1807); “Les Amazones” (1811); “Le Prince Troubadour” (1813); “L’Oriflamme” with Berton, Kreutzer and Paer, (1814); “Le Journée aux Aventures” (1816); and the posthumous opera, “Valentine de Milan,” finished by his nephew, M. Daussoigne, and first performed in 1822. Besides these dramatic works he has left four ballets, several symphonies, songs, operettas and incidental dramatic music to which reference has been made in the body of this article. Méhul’s literary ability, though never specially cultivated, was of a surprising kind, considering his early disadvantages. He has left two reports which have been greatly admired,—one upon the future state of music in France and the other upon the labors of the pupils in the Conservatory. Taken all in all, he was one of the most earnest, high-minded, conscientious and thoroughly artistic composers France has produced. He carried on the great work of Gluck and is one of the important links in the evolution of music which led up to Richard Wagner and his musicdramas.
LOUIS JOSEPH FERDINAND HÉROLD
Reproduction of Hérold’s best known portrait, drawn from life on stone by his friend L. Dupré with the epigraph “Virtute non ambitu, laurum meruit.”
