Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters
Title: Infection
Summary: An evil has invaded Paris, and it seems that Christine has caught its attention. What lengths will Erik go to in order to save the world—to save the woman he loves?
Author's Note: Hello and welcome! I am excited to be inspired by one of my favorite/the more under-appreciated musicals: Jekyll and Hyde. Really, it is quite fantastic, as well as the actual novella The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. I expect this fanfiction to be darker and more of a thriller than anything I have done yet.
I like to use names from The Phantom of the Opera, even though they aren't always representative of the character, just so you are all aware. I may also attempt to introduce some French into this story, so I will tell you from the beginning that I do not know French. It will all sadly be taken from Google Translate or some other source material. I will attempt to put the translations at the end of each chapter.
This chapter jumps right into the story. Please don't be put off by it. There will be more explanation to come, as well as a slower pace. This just seemed like a very interesting place to begin. I like reviews, as everyone does, but I also like to receive suggestions and ideas on the story's progression. I do not always know where the story is headed, so input is appreciated. P.S. Rated MA to be safe.
Chapter 1 – La Porte Rouge*
Erik blinked. Then he blinked again. The latter was more for comprehension's sake, but he still didn't know where he was or how he had gotten there. He was outside in a dingy alleyway somewhere. The streets were cold and damp from the rainfall from earlier. Did he remember the storm? Yes, yes he found he did. But as his mind tried to trace the rest of the day, it became blurrier and blurrier.
He recalled pouring over some texts during the morning then resting his head in the early afternoon, and that was it. Exhaustion had come on quickly due to the weather that had persisted since sun up and his lack of nourishment. It had become too much of a habit—not eating all day and mercilessly pushing his body farther and farther in pursuit of an antidote. That seemed to be where his memory stopped. The rest was just darkness and confusion.
Looking upward, he saw the moon peeking shyly out from behind some equally rundown buildings. He couldn't remember seeing the sun set and darkness encompass the city. He must have been out for a good number of hours. That was, if he hadn't been out for days. It was getting harder and harder for him to keep track of time during his lapses.
As his condition grew steadily worse, he became more and more desperate. He would forget to eat at times and forget to sleep at others. It was this unhealthy routine that seemed to make him relapse more often. And that was precisely what he was attempting to fix. It was a vicious cycle that had no foreseeable end.
Erik glanced down at where he knelt, the dim glow from a streetlight at the mouth of the alley aiding the moon in light in which to see by. He was collapsed on the pavement on his knees in just some black slacks and a shirt that was too light to go unaccompanied in the current temperature. This was just a passing observation for him. What really caught his attention were the crimson stains traveling up both arms.
It was easy to identify the source. A motionless body lay face down in front of him with a widening pool of blood beneath it. Erik staggered to his feet, aghast. His hands flew to his mouth just a moment too late to keep a sound of disgust from echoing against the desolate buildings. Despite the shock, he was able to quickly conclude what had happened. If he had needed any more proof, a bloodied knife rested on the cobblestones next to the corpse and his hands were stained red with the man's blood.
His gaze shifted from the body to his hands, which shook as he held them out in front of him, palms up. He had to clean them. He had to remove the stain. As if on cue, he spied a puddle of water nearby. He fell down next to it and vigorously washed the blood from his hands. Then he splashed some water on his face in case any blood had gotten there, as well as a means to rouse his senses. Satisfied enough with the results, he turned his eyes back onto the motionless gentleman.
He swiftly scooped up the white porcelain mask that lay nearby, not wanting that to be consumed by the growing puddle of blood. He attached it to the right side of his face in one fluid motion then swallowed all of his nervous energy and stepped toward the corpse. He leaned over the body, using two fingers to turn the face toward what dim light he had at his disposal. Instantly he recognized Monsieur Lefèvre, a public figure known for his debauchery. He gasped, releasing Lefèvre, whose head rolled back down into the ground before coming to a standstill.
Erik had seen the young man just a day or two before, wandering around the lower income end of town where the brothels were located. That thought aided in putting his location into perspective. He believed that he could be nowhere else other than the backstreets of Paris. After all, where else would a man like Lefèvre go once the sun had successfully set?
"It came from down here," a burly voice interrupted.
Erik woke from his reverie. Two sets of footsteps were approaching ever nearer. Despite being off of the main road, he still wasn't completely hidden from view. The oil lamp on the street offered light in which to witness the crime by. It was pure luck that he hadn't been caught yet. He knew he had to act fast. He wasn't the murderer here, after all.
Having recovered from the initial shock, and thinking very quickly as the time called for, Erik first chose to remove the dead Lefèvre's outer coat. He knew the dark material would aid in hiding him from prying eyes and shelter him from the cold night air. He proceeded with much difficulty and awkwardness, but turned out successful in the end. He punched his arms through the sleeve holes to hide the blood stains on his white blouse. Then he fled the scene.
He stumbled through side streets in a haze of lingering confusion and dread, pulling on the black leather gloves that he had discovered in the pockets of the coat. It was the first time he had awoken to find a dead body in front of him, and it still shook him to his core. He was running out of time. That realization was about as startling as the corpse had been.
A whistle blew in the background. Monsieur Lefèvre had been discovered.
Erik glanced around. He knew that he needed to get off of the street. He found himself in front of a building with a red door and a single candle burning in the front window. It was indication enough for him. The door gave way easily and he ducked within.
Having backed into the establishment to ensure that the door shut noiselessly and securely, he remained staring at it, half expecting it to burst open and for police officers to swarm in and place shackles on his wrists. However, it didn't and they didn't. He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Welcome, monsieur," a voice greeted, overly cheery and fairly intrusive.
Erik nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around. The place being occupied hadn't even been an option. He spied a birdlike woman standing just in front of him in anticipation. He noticed her cringe at the sight of the mask covering half of his face, a reaction he was all too familiar with. He found that it was still better than what the response would be should he choose to leave it off.
"Er," she attempted to recover, "were you looking for some company tonight?"
In all actuality, he hadn't been. At that point, he was really quite interested in just the opposite. But the only other option was to leave, and he certainly couldn't do that at the moment. So instead, he nodded briefly and uncomfortably. This caused a grin to erupt on the older woman's face. She stood aside, ushering him further in.
"Well then come in, please." She allowed him to step ahead of her then corralled him toward one of the moth-eaten armchairs in the center of the room. "May I take your coat, monsieur?"
"No," Erik said bluntly, startling her. "No, thank you." He hugged the pilfered outer coat tightly around his frame. He eased down onto the thin cushion, taking little notice in how uncomfortable it really was.
"Of course, monsieur," the woman agreed. "It has gotten quite chilly out there. It really seeps into ones bones."
The older woman motioned off toward one of the corridors, out of sight of her guest. Immediately, a young woman with wild chocolate curls carried in a tray of tea makings. She knelt next to the armchair, offering up the refreshment. Erik stared at the teacup and pot, as if not knowing what to do with them. Spotting his reluctance, the older woman immediately took charge of the situation, pouring him some of the steaming liquid.
"My name is Madame Giry and I am the mistress of this establishment: La Porte Rouge," she explained. "Please have a cup of tea to warm up by while we discuss your interest."
Erik took the offered cup and saucer and held it in his lap with little interest. He was still attempting to comprehend and come to terms with everything. This time was obviously taking longer than usual because now he had a dead body weighing on his mind and conscience. Therefore, his attention appeared to be lacking as the discussion continued.
Madame Giry lowered herself into a seat across from his, never taking her eyes off of him. She motioned again to the young woman, who hurriedly scurried back down the corridor she had come from. "So what were you looking for, monsieur?"
Erik's gaze shifted onto her, as if noticing she was still present. "What?"
"What is your preference, monsieur? After all, we do aim to please here," she drawled, not deterred.
He waved his hand dismissively, returning to his contemplative state. "It doesn't matter."
Madame Giry nodded, though fully aware that he was no longer paying her any attention. She slowly got to her feet again and followed the young woman's trail into the back corridor. The hallway was blocked off from the main room by a simple tapestry. It led toward the small kitchen area and the mistress's office. She met up with the other female in the said kitchen where she was scrubbing some dishes.
"Christine," she hissed hurriedly, motioning toward the girl to come to her. "Christine, come here."
The young woman with the unruly dark brown hair set aside a plate and stepped toward her mistress's side, not wanting to face the consequences should she arrive slower than preferred. "Yes, Madame Giry?"
Madame Giry put an arm around Christine's shoulders, drawing her near and slowly taking her back up the hallway. The gesture was supposed to be caring and nurturing, but it was swiftly seen for what it really was: a means to get what the mistress wanted.
"Christine, I need a great favor of you, my dear," Madame Giry cooed to her. "There is a gentleman out here-"
Christine halted, causing her mistress to stop as well. But they were already at the tapestry dividing the two areas. "You mean that man with the strange mask out there?" she clarified, none too forgivingly.
"Obviously," Madame Giry scoffed. "How many other men do you see in our parlor? He needs a girl for the night."
Christine shook her head. "I can't, Madame. You know that."
"I know what the Victome de Chagny said. He certainly paid enough to keep you out of the company of other callers. But there is nobody else available, and this gentleman is already looking disinterested," she pleaded.
Christine peered out through a small opening at the masked man quietly sitting in the parlor. "He scares me," she admitted. "He is very odd. It is uncomfortable."
"Don't let the mask put you off, my dear," Madame Giry tried to soothe. She had always been bad at it, even with her own daughter. "Look at the outer coat he is wearing. It is of obvious good quality. He has money and lots of it. Have him put it to good use, eh?"
"Raoul will find out," Christine insisted.
Madame Giry shook her head gently. "No, he won't," she assured with a wicked smile. "Now go. That's an order."
Christine swallowed, not agreeing or liking this decision. Still, with her little fists balled at her sides, she marched into the parlor and up to the gentleman. She offered a hand to him. "Come with me," she whispered softly, alluringly.
Erik's dark eyes immediately shifted onto her, entranced. Her eyes shone with defiance and insistence, which caught him off guard. In an instant, the only thought he held was regarding this creature before him. All he could do was obey. He slipped his gloved hand into hers, placing the cup and saucer in his other on a passing table, and allowed her to lead him up the squeaky wooden staircase.
Her quarters resided on the third floor—the top floor. Her bed chamber was much more decorated than Erik would have envisioned. There was a coat rack immediately next to the door, despite these pieces of clothing being taken upon entering the brothel. Across from the entrance was a chaise lounge followed by a wooden table with two corresponding chairs. A wardrobe had a door hanging by one hinge. The bed was certainly large enough for two, but it was little more than a mattress on a frame. His eyes involuntarily lingered on it.
Having lit some candles, Christine turned back around toward him. He appeared awkward and unsure. She caught his eyes focused solely on the bed, not seeing anything else. She noticed the concern and anticipation lingering there, and she thought that perhaps she had misjudged him.
"Please come in and make yourself comfortable," she interrupted, occupying herself with opening the balcony doors to shed some natural moonlight.
He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Right."
Erik stepped into the room, trying to be as non-intrusive as possible. He took a seat on the edge of the lounge, which appeared to be in better condition than some of the other pieces of furniture. He held the outer coat tightly about him, obviously uncomfortable. Even the silence was killing him.
"This place is a little more…cozy than I would have thought," he stated, making small talk. He hated small talk. His dark eyes glanced about at the furnishings before stopping upon her.
With the pale moonlight backing her, Christine appeared to have a glow around her. The way she held open the two ramshackle doors made her seem like a queen within this rundown palace. Or perhaps a prisoner seemed more appropriate. The sight caused Erik's heart to beat just a little faster. He wasn't used to female company.
Christine scoffed, moving away from the window. Her blue, pinstriped dress sashayed with her hips. "I've been rather lucky, I suppose," she admitted. She wouldn't tell him the real reason why her room was better furnished in comparison to the others. One of their first lessons had been to not discuss other business or men with customers.
She sat down softly on the seat next to him. She was trying to get herself used to him, so her eyes studied his face as much as possible. She had lost her timidity long ago. Besides, sometimes they liked her to be dominating. Carefully, for she didn't know how he would react, she stretched out a hand and placed it gently on his shoulder.
"This is the part where you tell me what you want, monsieur," she said innocently.
"What I want?" he breathed.
He looked her frame up and down. She was really a tiny thing, possibly due to her living conditions. But, it seemed that any weight would have suited her fine. She began to close the gap between them, her movements like an alley cat careful not to startle a cornered mouse. Erik inhaled sharply and jumped to his feet, out of reach of her. He attempted to play it off as if he needed to stretch his legs.
"I don't think you'd be able to supply what I really want, mademoiselle," he answered truthfully, somewhat sadly.
Erik stopped in front of the window, peeking out at the street below. Her room faced the front of the establishment, so he was able to make out several constables still snaking through the nearby alleyways in what he assumed was an attempt at nabbing the murderer. He quickly turned away, pretending to appear nonchalant and disinterested.
Christine didn't quite know how to respond. Usually the men that called knew exactly what they wanted. They were in and out, so to speak. They never lingered like the gentleman before her. They never possessed so much mystery. She was intrigued.
"Perhaps you underestimate me, monsieur," Christine retorted, standing up. "Most men come here for a quick distraction. If you're looking for something more, though…something of love…"
Erik scoffed. "Love? Where would someone like me ever be able to find such a gift?"
She came up silently behind him and touched his shoulder again. He turned to face her. "Lucky for you," she drawled, "this is a place where even someone like you can find love."
He stared into her eyes, truly believing her words. But there was no sincerity in her gaze. He swiftly moved beyond her. "I would much prefer to talk," he insisted instead.
Christine released a puff of air that ended in a sigh. She put her hands on her hips, rather frustrated. "And what would you like to talk about, monsieur? I am afraid that I do not have much experience just conversing with callers."
"How about singing instead then?"
"Excuse me?" she questioned, surprised.
Erik lowered himself back onto the divan. "You asked me what I wanted. Sing for me."
She swallowed, self-conscious. "I-"
"Please."
Christine prepared herself, feeling rather out of place. But, as Madame Giry had stated many times before, the customer was always right. The girls catered to them without question. That was the type of establishment La Porte Rouge was.
Erik had insisted upon the young woman singing as a means to keep her occupied, so that he might be able to contemplate the deed that had occurred earlier that evening and, accordingly, his plan of action henceforth. However, as Christine sang on, her voice became stronger and more vibrant. It had started off shaky and insecure, easily ignored, but not any longer.
He listened. He was carried with her song. Oddly enough, it nearly corresponded with what he felt. It spoke to him that way. She sang of being in the clutches of a menacing force, freedom, and ultimately a new life on the horizon. It was during this song that he saw the most sincerity from her that he had seen all night. It was compelling.
By the end of the song, his full attention was on her and there was the glint of a tear in his eye. Not knowing what else to do, since he continued to stare at her several minutes afterward, Christine curtsied as she knew the proper ladies to do. She stood awkwardly, awaiting his approval.
"I hope that was what you had intended, monsieur," she whispered, but it simply sounded intrusive.
Erik stood. "I must go," he informed bluntly.
Christine stared at him in confusion. "O-Of course."
She stepped quickly toward the bedroom door and held it open for him. Without looking back, Erik stepped hurriedly out and disappeared down the rickety staircase. She was left staring after him for a moment longer before closing the door for the night.
Christine was left in a bigger state of confusion than when she had first met the mysterious gentleman. Staring down at the street from the balcony above, she watched his figure mingle with the shadows and disappear into the darkness. She wondered if their encounter had actually taken place and if she would ever see him again.
*La Porte Rouge = The Red Door