I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Assassin's Creed, or any other show, movie, etc. I reference. Suing me would be useless, as I have no money!
Welcome to my new phic and the first under this penname! As this is a story concerning adults, I will include scenes containing drinking, cursing, and topics of a passionate nature…if this offends you please look elsewhere for something to read!
Tucson, Arizona, June 9th, 2011
"I'm sorry, Shaun, but I don't think we're going to work out."
Without further explanation, Artemisia hurriedly shut the door before he could begin to argue. Feeling quite guilty, she sighed and ran a hand through her long, light brown hair and surveyed her darkened apartment.
I shouldn't have shut the door on him, she thought, leaning against the door, but hopefully he'll leave me alone after this.
Acting on the insistence of Morgan and utter boredom, she had finally relented to Shaun's numerous and non-too-subtle requests for a date. While Artemisia, Art for short, enjoyed dancing, drinking, and reveling in her youth like everyone else, she quickly tired of such places. She also had the sneaking suspicion that Shaun had chosen a club so they would have little opportunity to talk about anything of substance.
Somehow I doubt he's capable of having a conversation actually worth listening to, Artemisia thought, yawning and scowling at the time displayed on the microwave.
3:15 a.m.!
Groaning at the thought of work the next day, Artemisia slowly removed her red, satin heels from her aching feet. She shuffled across the pitch-black living room to her bedroom at the back of the apartment and turned on the lamp by her bed. The only sight greeting her was the mess of clothing and makeup she had left in her haste to meet up with Shaun.
At least I didn't drink a lot, she thought, tossing a pile of rejected dresses from her bed to the floor; a hangover would be extremely inconvenient tomorrow!
After a brief sojourn into the bathroom to complete her nightly toiletry rituals, Art jumped into bed, her dark blue eyes lingering on the empty side of her bed. Wishing for the entire world that she wasn't alone, Artemisia flicked off her lamp and quickly fell asleep. Perhaps if she had stayed awake for a second more, she would have seen a shooting star illuminate the sky like a bolt of lighting before it descended below the horizon.
Istanbul, Turkey, June 9th 1854
"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think we have a room available for tonight or for the rest of this week"
No room for me, you mean, Erik thought bitterly, turning away from the terrified desk clerk without another word. As he left the shabby little inn/tavern, he noticed several of the gruff looking patrons staring insolently at him from over their tankards and pipes.
If you bastards had any idea who you were pissing off…
Bristling with resentment over the promise he had made Nadir in a moment of camaraderie, he pulled up the hood of his black cloak over his dark hair and exited into the dark streets.
Glad to be out of that stinking rattrap, Erik began retracing his steps. He had ventured to the poor district of Istanbul, hoping that his ample supple of gold would distract the poverty-stricken innkeepers enough to rent him a room for a few days, but he had found no such luck. Reluctant to leave the city before he had a chance to fully enjoy all of the sites, Erik decided he would have to be a bit more inventive if he wanted a place to hide from the world once the sun rose.
The normally bustling city, with dusty, narrow streets and color bursting into bloom in every corner, seemed a mere ghost of its daytime splendor. Although it was very early in the morning, the wandering genius observed many people more desperate for shelter than he was, most of them terrified children huddled together in rags. A young boy and girl caught his eye as the boy pulled the shivering girl into his arms in a pathetic attempt to keep warm. Although their eyes widened with fear as Erik approached, like death silently choosing his victims, their expressions changed to bewildered wonder as he dropped several gold coins into their severely battered begging cup.
At least they'll get a room tonight, he thought dispassionately as he heard the exclaim of delight and grateful prayers to Allah, I hope they don't get robbed before they make it to shelter…
Shrugging, Erik continued up the street and cynically noticed the gradual improvement of his environment as he slowly traveled back to the wealthier parts of the city. Hoping to discover an abandoned house in which he might stay, he lost track of the time and soon found himself standing in the middle of the largest bazaar in Istanbul. The sun had risen, driving the inhabitants of the city house from their stuffy houses and into the brilliant light of day. It seemed to Erik that the entire population of Istanbul had decided to visit the open-air bazaar in search of food, clothing, or whatever else they deluded themselves into believing they needed.
Pulling his hood further over the mask, Erik tried to navigate through the massive, boisterous crowd without bumping into anyone but failed miserably. Body tense with apprehension, he quickly slipped out of the crowd into a dark alleyway.
Cursing, Erik leaned against an alley wall; trying to think of a place he might rest for the day. Against the other wall, a young man sprung out from under what looked like a bundle of rags.
"Hey!" he said, angrily, "get out of my alley before you attract the guards!"
"And why should the guards bother you? It's not illegal to be poor, is it?"
Instantly the man's dark brown eyes looked around warily. His disheveled appearance and torn robes suggested to anyone with half a brain that he was up to no good. The sounds of jingling coins, more than any street urchin should possess, reached Erik's ears as the man straighten up in an attempt to look intimidating.
"I don't care if you stole anything," Erik said, turning away, "I will warn you not to try robbing me, for you will not live to realize your mistake."
As he began walking down shadowed alleyway, littered with discarded goods from the bazaar, Erik quickly realized that he was being followed.
"Hey, wait up!"
Erik paused out of surprise. Rarely had anyone ever called out to him. The young man caught up with him, slightly out of breath, and Erik was able to get a better look at him. A few inches shorter than himself, the young Turk wore the customary turban and robes, although the dark red fabric was a bit worse for wear. Curly brown hair peaked out from the turban, and although he was covered in a layer for dirt and grime, Erik could tell he was around his own age.
"Big words for a new-comer," the man said, grinning at Erik, "my name's Ahmed, and as you may have guessed I am a professional thief."
Ahmed gave a funny little bow and frowned as Erik began to laugh.
"Professional?" he said, sarcastically, "If you were, you'd know that the name of the game is to act like you know what you're doing. Looking guilty is the fastest way to be caught."
The thief's eyes narrowed into slits. Glaring at Erik, he crossed his arms and huffed.
"I'd like to see you do any better!"
Pulling the hood from over his mask, Erik was prepared for Ahmed's surprised intake of breath. His mismatched eyes bored into the thief's brown ones.
"I already have," Erik said, smirking beneath the mask and holding up ornate coin purse.
"How did you do that?" Ahmed exclaimed, his expression dumbfounded, "I didn't see your hand at all!"
Tossing the purse back to the thief, Erik shrugged.
"And that," he said, replacing his hood, "is why you are not a professional thief."
Waking with a start, Artemisia, immediately registered the fact that she was covered in sweat. Shaking her head in disgust, she threw off the covers and sighed with pleasure as the ceiling fan blasted her with cool air. Judging from the position of light streaming in through the red curtains, it was about 9 a.m. on a sunny, June morning. Although she had fallen asleep only a few hours before, she felt wide-awake.
What a crazy-ass dream! She thought, as she tried to remember specific details about the vision. A middle-eastern bazaar, exotic spices and finery, a thief named Admed…wait; it wasn't even her in the dream! She had been looking through the eyes of young man, heavily cloaked and hooded.
While Artemisia had, on occasion, been other people in her dreams, rarely was it this clear, not to mention someone of a different gender!
"I've got to stop playing so much Assassin's Creed," she whispered to the empty red room, already glowing bright as an ember, "it's messing with my brain!"
Laughing at nothing in particular, she sat up in bed, grabbed her iPod from the nightstand, and proceeded to check her mail. Artemisia Jones, graduate student and self-proclaimed fashionista, rented a one-bedroom apartment in an uninspired, generic-looking building within walking distance of the University of Arizona, in Tucson. By day, she worked diligently on her master's degree in Art History with a part-time job at the campus museum. By night, she was a hostess at the only German restaurant in town.
With a "click!" Artemisia set down her iPod and preceded to fill the morning with mundane activities one does everyday. She didn't have work until 4:30, but she had agreed to meet up with her friend, Morgan, for a late lunch on the strip near campus. Trying to push away thoughts of her puzzling dream, Art curled her hair and threw on a tea-length black dress with a hot pink petticoat just peaking out from the hem. After applying black and silver eye-makeup, she slipped on her black flats and left her apartment, pausing only to grab her silver bag.
"I thought you and Shaun would go so well together!" Morgan exclaimed, disappointedly.
Artemisia could only stare blankly at her friend.
Seriously, she thought, twirling the straw in her chocolate milkshake, when have I ever expressed interest in self-serving little toadies like Shaun…
"He's just…a little girly, don't you think?" Art began, choosing her words carefully, "he talks a mile a minute, a trait I have only ever found in airhead girls."
Morgan sighed, exasperatedly. As she ran her fingers through her chin length ebony hair, it was obvious to Artemisia that Morgan was tired of having this conversation.
"You're too picky, Art. If you rule out every guy with a lizard tongue or a low IQ or an explosive, violent temper, of course you're gonna be lonely!"
"Don't you quote Futurama at me, missy!" Art said, with a grin, "Love's Labours Lost In Space, season 1, episode 4."
"Naturally," Morgan quipped, "that doesn't help with your guy problem, though. Why don't we go out after work! Beth is having that party, you know."
Artemisia groaned, as she had been looking forward to returning to her apartment after work and watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail for the millionth time. Alas, once an idea was in Morgan's head, one was hard-pressed to change her mind.
"Fine, but I'm not going to bother changing out of this," Art said, gesturing to her dress.
"You look great," Morgan said absently, rifling through her bag for her phone, "better if you were wearing heels, but…"
Their sandwiches arrived before Art could begin a tirade against heels. As Artemisia bit into her Philly Cheese steak, satisfying a craving she had had since Wednesday, her thoughts wandered yet again to her dream. Deciding it was best to keep silent, she plastered a smile on her face and went back to enjoying her lunch.
Artemisia and Morgan caught the bus outside Johnny Rocket's to the Bavarian Grill across town, the small German restaurant where they both worked the weekend night shift. Morgan, a longtime waitress at the establishment, had secured Artemisia a hostess job during the summer once classes had ended. It was easy work and definitely nice to receive an extra $70 each week in addition to the pay she got at her museum job. Even so, her paychecks rarely yielded the opportunity for shopping, a vice she was unfortunately fond of.
The early evening passed in a haze of faces and names, half-empty water glasses and classical music no one appreciated anymore. Occasionally Morgan would pop by her hostess stand, to quickly exchange meaningless gossip about the staff or softly giggle about that awful dress the lady at table 6 was wearing. Art listened half-heartedly, her mind replaying the dream over and over.
Why is this bugging me so much? She thought crossly, as she beamed a false smile at an old couple that had just entered the restaurant, I can't get it out of my head that I know who I was in that dream…
Ten o'clock slowly rolled around and Art found herself leaving Bavarian Grill with Morgan, who had insisted that she be cut from work for the rest of the evening.
"Art and I are going to a party," she had announced loudly to the rest of the staff and by association the entire restaurant, "she desperately needs a guy!"
Gritting her teeth at the memory and the hopeful look the owner gave her, Artemisia prayed that the party would suck and Morgan would want to leave early. After a dull bus ride through the darkened city of Tucson, the two girls made the trek back to the small section of the city solely devoted to overly expensive student housing fondly dubbed, "The Fort". After a quick detour to Meg's place to change out of her boring waitress uniform into a silver tank top and jeans, they were ready.
Beth's tiny house was surprisingly packed that night, considering that parties starting at 9:30 usually didn't hit a high point until around midnight. Already partygoers were strewn out around the front lawn and porch, drinking, laughing, and generally making a cacophony of sound. Artemisia smiled as she recognized another friend and waved.
"Hey Morgan! Art! How are you two?"
Artemisia internally groaned as Steven, always the drunkest guy at the party greeted them. The last time she had seen him was at this very house for the end of the semester party, passed out in a lawn chair with crude drawings all over his face in permanent marker. She was glad to see it had come off.
"Hey Steven, we're just coming from work…" Morgan said, as Artemisia slipped away to find a drink.
Entering the blue house, Artemisia found that the couch in the living room had been pushed aside to clear a space for a dance floor. Only a few giggling girls were dancing to the questionable 80's music and Art felt way too sober to join them. Continuing to the kitchen in the back of the house, she found a repurposed fish tank about half full of the infamous, red "hunch punch". Feeling like she wanted to make the best of the evening, she poured herself a cup.
"Hey Artemisia! I love your dress!"
Turning around, Art found the hostess of the party, Beth, beaming at her. Beth was a short, perky redhead who loved beautiful clothes as much as Artemisia did. While Morgan preferred jeans and t-shirts, Beth and Artemisia appreciated the lost art of dressing like a lady. Tonight Beth was wearing a gorgeous black and white bandage dress and Artemisia once again lamented the fact that the two could never borrow each other's clothes. Artemisia was about 5' 9" whereas Beth barely reached 5'0" without the aid of heels.
"Oh thanks, I just got off of work with Morgan and I didn't feel like changing, I love your dress too!" Artemisia said, "looks like you're gearing up for one hell of a party!"
"Yeah, I'm glad everyone's into it," Beth said, looking around at her chattering guests, "Shaun should be stopping by, but I'm sure you knew that! See you around!"
Tossing back her drink, Artemisia grimaced and considered leaving before anyone else realized she was there. As if she could read her thoughts, Morgan appeared beside Artemisia and challenged her to a round of jello shots. Soon, both girls were laughing at the dumbest comment, and for the first time that day, Artemisia was able to forget about her dream.
A few hours later, Artemisia found herself in a conversation she could barely hear over the din with a guy whose name she couldn't remember.
"So what's are you studying?" what's-his-name asked, confidently.
Ugh, what a generic question, she thought, taking a sip from her 3rd cup of punch.
"I'm working on my Master's degree in Art History," she said, unenthusiastically, "what about you?"
"Wait," he said, looking as if he were concentrating really hard, "so your name is Artemisia…and you're studying Art History! Dude, did you do that on purpose?"
Not bothering to hide her grimace, Artemisia gave the customary, smart-ass reply when someone made this connection.
"Yeah, before I was born my mom went to a psychic who told her that I was going to be an Art History major and that she should name me Artemisia," she said, sarcastically.
"Really? Dude, I wish my mom had visited that psychic!" he said, slopping hunch punch all over his shirt.
"Right…" Artemisia said, as he turned away to find a towel. Spying Morgan in a corner chatting away happily with a guy she vaguely recognized, Art left the kitchen for a change of scenery.
She was happy to find that the dance floor had become quite a bit more active and while she normally couldn't stand rap or hip/hop, the energizing rhythm of the music was irresistible. Allowing herself to be drawn into the crowd of dancers, Artemisia quickly lost herself and forgot about those surrounding her.
In her mind, she ceased to be Artemisia the boring academic and became instead a favored dancer in the court of a sultan; flowing, gilded silks clinging to the curves of her undulating body, perfumed by the seductive scent of jasmine, beautiful and graceful, yet dangerous.
Artemisia was reminded once again of her dream, of the curious young man searching for a safe haven in a city of thieves. She wondered if he ever found what he was looking for.
What am I saying? She thought, spinning around, it was only a dream!
It was then that Artemisia looked up and noticed the couple that had just entered the house.
Shaun…and a blonde girl she knew from somewhere.
Regretting the decision to snap out of her reverie, she quickly turned as Shaun made eye contact. It became apparent that Shaun intended to make her as jealous as possible, considering how dedicated he was to hanging all over the blonde he had brought with him.
Of course, Artemisia thought, as Shaun made a show of grabbing the blonde's ass during a particularly raunchy song, that girl who was making eyes at him last night at that club! I bet he went to scam on her after I slammed the door in his face.
Grinning broadly at Shaun, to his anger and confusion, Artemisia narrowly avoided being groped by Steven, who was well on his way to another black-out, and went back to the kitchen to find Morgan.
Surrounded by a group of admires, Artemisia was forcibly reminded of Scarlett O'Hara in Gone with the Wind. While she was happy her friend was getting attention, mainly because Morgan would be less likely to concern herself with Artemisia's "guy trouble", she was slightly jealous of Morgan's ability to casually chat with a group of people about any old thing. Artemisia was dreadful at small talk, even with a little liquid courage, and found that it often prevented her from getting to know people.
"Hey Artem…Arteh…Art! Geeze it's hard to say your name when I'm drunk!" Morgan said, to the amusement of her fan club, "Let me introduce you to these charming gentlemen! This is Art, my awesome friend, and she's going to school for Art History!"
"Woah, cool, did you choose your major because of your name?"
Artemisia closed her eyes and shook her head.
"Yeah, I think I'm going to go, Morgan," she said, backing out of the kitchen, "I'll see you later-"
"Don't go!" Morgan exclaimed, making everyone around her jump, "the night is young and so are we!"
"Three a.m. is hardly early in the evening," Artemisia said, tossing her empty cup away, "I take it you're not stupid enough to get raped and murdered once I leave so call me tomorrow, ok?"
"Alright," Morgan pouted, sticking her tongue out, "you're such a spoil sport! You really should have someone walk you home-"
"I'll do it, Art and I have a few things to discuss, anyway."
Recognizing the voice, Artemisia groaned and turned to find Shaun giving her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"That's a great idea!" Morgan said, interrupting before Artemisia could protest and pushing her forward, "see you tomorrow, Art!"
Biting back a verbal lashing, Artemisia wordlessly followed Shaun outside. Guests were beginning to pair up at that point, either with those they had come with or met at the party. Artemisia wondered how Shaun's blonde friend was managing without him.
"What about your date?" Artemisia questioned, spotting the blonde in question, "won't she be utterly lost without your illustrious presence?"
Shaun snorted in derision as the blonde glared daggers at Artemisia from a corner of the porch. Wearing a blue and turquoise sequined mini skirt with a black tank top, she garnered several appreciative stares from the male percentage of the party.
"Hell if I care," he said, pretending not to see his date, "she's just some easy lay I picked up last night. I was actually hoping to get rid of her at this party."
Fuck you, Artemisia thought angrily, looking back to see the blonde surrounded by a hungry looking pack of guys, even if she is a skank and allowed herself to be picked up by you, she's still a human being.
Pushing past a group of stumbling girls in heels, she quickened her pace in an attempt to lose Shaun. He was right on her tail, however, and continued to follow as she crossed the street and turned left.
"I'd think you'd be more appreciative, Artie," Shaun said, calling after her, "most guys wouldn't walk home a girl who ditched him like yesterday's trash."
He's trying to goad you, Artemisia told herself, gritting her teeth, just walk home and maybe he'll get mugged on the way back to the party…
"Morgan begged me to ask you out you know," Shaun said harshly, stomping along behind her, "she said you were in love with me but way too shy to do anything about it."
Morgan…, Artemisia thought dangerously, he better be lying about that…
"Sure, you're pretty hot," he said, contemplatively, "but you're so weird that it's off putting to a lot of guys. I thought I was doing you a favor."
"Yeah, right!" Artemisia said, breaking her silence, "'I'm not sure what Morgan told you but I only said yes because I was bored and I felt sorry for you. I'm sorry I wounded your pride but you're just going to have to get over it!"
Shaun's angry red flush was obvious even in the paltry light of a street lamp outside Artemisia's apartment building. Turning around to dig her keys out of her bag, she sighed as a wave of guilt washed over her.
Damn it, why can't I enjoy being a bitch once in a while? she thought angrily, fiddling with her keys.
"Look Shaun," Artemisia began, turning around, "I'm sorry it ended how it did but I think we can agree that you were only after one thing. Why don't you go back to the party and try to get to know your date before you pawn her off on the next guy?"
Without waiting for a reply, Artemisia strode over to the main door of her building, unlocked it, and slipped inside.
3:15 a.m.
"Talk about déjà-vu," Artemisia muttered as she glanced over at the microwave clock, gleaming brightly in the dark kitchen.
Slightly tipsy from the punch she had consumed, Artemisia stumbled back to her bedroom. Delayed only by the necessity to remove her makeup and dress, she eagerly slipped between the deliciously cool sheets. Too tired and drunk to consider the possibility of dreams, Artemisia instantly fell asleep.
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