Author's Note:

This fic is considerably shorter than my last, and takes us back to the first meeting between Erik and Madame Giry as told in Chapter 11 of Beyond the Green Baize Door. This first part is expanded from that chapter using the bones of the original.

Enjoy! :)

THE HAND OF FATE

PART ONE

With hindsight, it had not been perhaps the wisest idea to leave Meg alone in their lodgings to run back to the theatre for the bag she left behind, Antoinette thought. Even though the rent money was important and the landlord would take any excuse to evict them, disliking theatrical people intensely, was it really worth this? She might never see her little girl again, and even if she was allowed to survive the horror that was coming nothing would ever be the same. It would be impossible to stay in Paris, to continue with her job, knowing what had happened, what had been done to her. Antoinette Giry was no weak woman, no coward, but even she trembled with fear as a groping hand inched ever further up her thigh, a hot, sweaty body whose rank smell filled her nostrils and made her want to vomit pushing her up against the bricks in the alley that ran alongside the magnificent new facade of the Opera Populaire. In front of the theatre, in the Place de l'Opera, the lamps were being extinguished as the last of the patrons made their way home from the cafes and bars which lined the nearby streets, but here in the dark, in the shadows, danger lurked, and she had blindly walked straight into it.

"Don't struggle, cherie, and this will all be over soon enough," a rough voice slurred in her ear, that hand moving once again, pushing her skirts aside with growing impatience. Behind her captor his two companions, doubtless waiting their own turn, sniggered. "Who knows... if you please me enough there might be something in it for you..."

Antoinette twisted her face away as his wet lips tried to make contact with hers, his unkempt, untrimmed beard scratching her cheek. "Just take the money and go," she told him, summoning up her best stern tone, the one she used on unruly ballerinas who refused to buckle down and practise. "I have nothing more!"

"You think we just want money, darling?" He laughed, licking her neck, and she shuddered, her hands reflexively curling into fists, nails biting into her palms as she felt the rasp of his tongue on her skin and his wine-sodden breath in her ear. "Perhaps we'll take the cash and anything else we fancy." His wandering hand gripped her thigh, fingers digging into her flesh, and he grinned, his stained, uneven teeth horribly bright in the gloom. "What d'you think, lads? I say we have a little fun!"

His friends laughed again. "She's got some fire in her, Joseph," one called as Antoinette struggled futilely once more. "Don't ride her too hard and leave nothing for us!"

A moan escaped Antoinette as she thought of little Meg, alone in their room with only Madame Reinard next door listening out for her. The poor child had already lost her father and she was barely six years old; who would explain to her that her Maman was never coming home? She had been so stupid to leave her daughter, even if she had believed it to be for just a few minutes; her folly was about to cost her dear. She steeled herself for what was to come...

...and was quite suddenly aware that there was another presence in the alley, one which had appeared silently and unnoticed by any of them until that moment. A dark figure, barely more than a shadow shrouded in a thick cloak and a hat whose wide brim was tilted over his face, loomed up from the mist. It seemed to have materialised there by magic; despite her position, her breath loud and her heart hammering in her ears, Antoinette knew she had heard no footsteps approaching. Hope stirred in her breast once more.

"I suggest you leave this woman be and crawl back under whatever filthy stone from whence you came," a voice, low and melodious and as sharp as a rapier, hissed, improbably sounding as though it were near Antoinette's own ears even though its owner stood six feet away. "If you refuse I may decide to take matters into my own hands, and you would not want that, I promise you."

Slowly, the two thugs standing behind the man who had first attacked her turned to face the newcomer. One of them smiled. "What we got 'ere, then? Don't look like no gendarme to me," he declared.

"Whoever he is, he won't be bothering us," the ringleader, Joseph, declared, adding with a leer, "I'm sure you two can convince him he's not wanted; I'm rather busy here." As if to make clear his intent he pushed his body up against Antoinette's. She tried to recoil, but there was nowhere to go, the wall hard against her back. With his free hand he was fumbling with the buttons on his trousers, his breath quick and heavy.

His companions nodded, and with an unspoken agreement they began to advance on the shadow. Before they reached him, however, the moon took the opportunity to emerge from behind one of the lowering clouds, stopping the men in their tracks. One of them stared, mouth open, while the other exclaimed,

"For the love of God, look at 'is face! What the hell is that?"

Despite her predicament Antoinette could not help but look as well, and was startled to see that the stranger had lifted his head, allowing them to see beneath his hat, and with a thrill of horror she realised he seemed to have no face to speak of: one half lay in deep shadow while the other gleamed white in the moonlight as though made entirely of bone. The man chuckled, a sound which made a shiver race down her spine. "I advise you, messieurs, it would be a grave mistake to take me on," he said. "Leave now while you still have the chance and while you still have breath in your lungs."

There was confusion as the two thugs looked at each other and then at the repellent creature who still held Antoinette. He glanced over his shoulder at the stranger, who stood quite still with the mist curling about his cloak; Antoinette found herself reminded of a great cat, waiting to pounce. "Just get rid of him," he ordered impatiently, swearing under his breath as the buttons refused to free themselves. "What are yer, a pair of women?"

"But - " one of them began, only to be interrupted by a sneer.

"It's two against one – he don't stand a chance. Get him out of here and dump him in the river. The body'll never be found."

Until low tide, Antoinette thought, but his words seemed to reassure his companions. Once more, they advanced on the stranger and she heard the sound of knives being drawn; the blades flashed silver in the moonlight and she held her breath as the dark man remained perfectly still until they were no more than two feet from him. Outnumbered and apparently unarmed, his position appeared to be hopeless and the roughs knew it, sharing a triumphant grin between them. Confident of their own superiority they advanced, the one in the lead lifting his knife in preparation to strike, but then, faster than Antoinette's eyes could follow, there was a sharp crack in the cold air and a length of thin cord snaked from the shadow's hand, wrapping around the throat of the nearest of his assailants. A blade clattered to the floor; there was a horrible choking sound and an even more dreadful snap, and the stranger pushed away the limp form of one attacker and turned his attention to the other before the body of his first victim had even hit the ground.

The man, terrified by the fate of his companion, tried to run, but the dark figure was too quick for him, the noose flying into the air with a hiss and finding its target with unerring accuracy. In mere seconds, he had been dispatched in the same practised manner. Antoinette stared, in equal parts disgusted and astonished by what she had just witnessed. Her rescuer stepped over the bodies of the two roughs and approached the last, who still stood with his body pressed up against hers, pinning her to the wall in a revoltingly intimate position. There was now no mistaking his intention, his desire obvious, and it seemed he still intended to follow it through despite the deaths of his friends.

"Release the lady, Monsieur." The stranger's voice was as smooth as silk, though it had a dangerous edge. "Immediately, unless you wish to share the fate of your associates."

"I don't think that'll be happening," Joseph said, at last letting go of Antoinette to reach inside his tattered jacket. She took the opportunity to wrench herself away, clutching her throat and trying not to gag, reeling from the smell of alcohol and body odour, her head spinning. Her legs felt as though they were made of jelly but she managed to stumble a few feet back towards the theatre. "And d'you know why? 'Cause I ain't as stupid as them!" He whirled around, his speed taking the stranger by surprise, and struck out with a practised left hook. There was the dull crack of bone hitting bone and a grunt from the man who had been hit; the next moment there was another sound, impossibly like that of china shattering upon the floor.

A terrible pause hung in the air before an almost inhuman roar of fury came from the stranger and he straightened, drawing himself to an impressive full height from which he loomed over Antoinette's attacker, his cloak whirling around his shoulders like the wings of some great bird of prey. He reached out with long, thin fingers and grasped the man by the collar, pulling him close. As the moon appeared once more, Joseph looked full into the stranger's face and froze. "God in Heaven," the man whispered, one hand automatically, instinctively moving to cross himself.

"Oh, no, Monsieur. God deserted me years ago," the stranger said softly. "It seems He has done the same for you."

"What... what are you?"

Antoinette caught the flash of teeth in the dim light and realised the stranger was smiling. "For you, the Angel of Death," he replied, and moved his fingers to the man's throat. Joseph gurgled, eyes wide and bulging. "I do dislike killing with the bare hands; so very messy. Unfortunately the Punjab lasso is rather awkward at such close quarters so for you, my dear sir, I am willing to make an exception."

Joseph's arms flailed as his air supply was gradually cut off; as he moved the light gleamed from the blade he had concealed in one hand and Antoinette cried out a warning but it was too late. With a shout of pain her rescuer crumpled, involuntarily releasing the other man, who took to his heels without looking back. For several seconds she stood as though frozen before reason returned and she hurried to his side, trying to ignore the cooling bodies of the more unfortunate of her attackers.

"Where... where are you hurt?" she asked, fingers searching instinctively through his layers of clothing. He tried to bat her hands away but he was already weakening; he sagged to his knees and Antoinette found herself grasping his arm, struggling to keep him from sliding onto the dirty floor of the alley. His hat had fallen in the scuffle and she could see his face at last, or at least his profile: gaunt but distinguished, with deep-set eyes and a prominent nose... and then he turned, and she was immediately transported back several years to a fairground outside Paris and to a darkened tent proclaiming Miracles of Nature and Human Oddities, to a cage in which a man stood playing the most beautiful music on a violin, a man with the face of a rotting corpse...

"Jules, we have to leave, now!"

"Oh, come on, Annie, just a few minutes. I want to see what everyone has been talking about," her fiancé protested as she tugged on his arm, trying to drag him from the tent. "The posters outside claim this man is the new da Vinci; a genius!"

"I don't care if he is, Jules, I won't stay here. It's too horrible; how can anyone think it right to keep another human being like that?" Despite her earlier promise to herself that she would not look, Antoinette could not help but stare in abject horror at the emaciated figure behind the bars. He was tall, but so thin it seemed he had never been given a square meal in his life; his shoulders hunched as though he was resigned to his fate, that his obvious captivity and ill-treatment had crushed whatever spirit he might once have had. Dirty clothes hung from his gaunt frame in rags; the only thing around him that seemed worth more than a few centimes was the violin he held almost reverently between his long white fingers.

Jules Giry sighed. "You're reading far too much into this," he told her. "Everyone know these freaks display themselves like this for money; I expect when everyone's gone he settles down for the night in a cosy caravan with a glass of cognac."

"I don't think so," she whispered; through the ragged shirt he wore she caught a glimpse in the lamplight of welts and scabs across the man's back and knew that, whatever anyone else thought, he was not in the cage of his own free will. The stout padlock on the door attested to that. She pushed Jules desperately, wanting to be somewhere, anywhere else so that she did not have to be a participant in this appalling spectacle as the gypsy running the sideshow began an announcement.

"Mesdames et Messieurs," he declared with obvious relish, "Feast your eyes on the terrible curse that has been visited upon this man, a man with the voice of an angel and the face of the Devil, a man who is so learned he claims to put the professors at the Sorbonne to shame, and who has such amazing talent at his disposal he once designed a maze of mirrors for the Shah of Persia! Come inside, if you dare, and behold the dreadful marvel of nature that is the Living Corpse!"

Turning to the cage behind him he reached through the bars and, with a flourish, tore away the filthy hessian sack that covered the prisoner's head, revealing not one face but two: as though someone had drawn a dividing line from forehead to chin, the man's features seemed almost to have been bisected, one side pale and drawn but might possibly have been handsome had their owner been in better condition. The other, however... Antoinette released her hold on Jules, clapping one hand over her mouth to stifle the cry that welled in her throat. The right side of the Living Corpse's face certainly merited the name; even years later she did not think she had ever seen anyone but the decomposing bodies left lying in the streets during the Commune look that way. Veins, muscles, blood vessels all seemed to be free to the air, twisted and warped across a cheek which appeared to have no definition, collapsing in on itself; bloated purple lips flared out towards the distortion, at one point almost meeting the nose that had apparently failed to develop on one side. She could barely see his eyes, so deeply sunk were they and hidden by the shadows; his head moved, and quite suddenly they caught the light and she caught her breath as he looked straight at her. Antoinette felt tears start in her own eyes for she had never seen another creature wear such an expression of sorrow and hopelessness.

The gypsy shoved his captive's shoulder, cursing at him in a guttural language as his hand dropped towards the whip that hung from his belt. Antoinette thought she might be sick, but slowly, reluctantly, the Living Corpse lifted the violin, tucking it beneath his chin and closing his eyes as he touched the bow to the strings. The mutterings and catcalls that ran around the canvas walls of the tent died away, those who had paid their coin to see this freak of nature spellbound by the heavenly music he produced, so sad and sweet, his long fingers flying over the neck of the violin like those of a virtuoso. Only the gypsy appeared to be displeased as the mournful lament continued; walking to the door of the cage he unlocked it and entered, cuffing the Living Corpse around the head and startling him so much that his no doubt precious instrument would have fallen into the dirty straw had it not been for the deformed man's quick reflexes. Even from her position ten feet away Antoinette could see the spittle in the air as the gypsy swore, raining down more blows upon his prisoner.

"Sing, damn you!" the gypsy yelled. "Sing!"

Antoinette closed her eyes, unable to watch any more. She felt a tug on her hand as Jules turned her away.

"Come on," he said quietly. "I think we've seen enough."

Antoinette's hand flew to her mouth and she must have gasped for her rescuer lifted his head despite the pain and obviously encroaching unconsciousness. His eyes, one blue, one dark met hers and a distressed howl escaped his lips as he obviously recognised the shock there. He instinctively covered the disfigured side of his face with his bloodied fingers but he was too slow; she had seen well enough, despite the dim light. "My mask," he whispered, fumbling around on the filthy floor with his other hand while Antoinette tried to support him. "Where is it? Where is it?"

She recalled the sound of breaking china, and beyond him could make out the gleam of something white amongst the mud and straw. "I think it is broken." He tried to pull away from her but she held on tight. "Please, let me help you! Let me get you to a doctor - "

He shook his head violently. "No. No doctors. It is only a scrape along the ribs."

"It looks worse than that to me, Monsieur. If nothing else, let me help you home. Where do you live?"

"Live?" He blinked at her in confusion, the blood loss beginning to take its effect upon his senses.

"Yes. Where is your home? Is it far away?"

It seemed to take forever for the question to register, but when it did he struggled to get to his feet. Antoinette slid her arm across his shoulders, assisting him to stand; he wobbled slightly, but managed to remain upright, one hand still pressed against the right side of his face. "Rue Scribe," he said faintly, and she nodded, almost as an afterthought grabbing his hat from where it resided in the gutter as they awkwardly moved off. A few minutes later, however, she was staring around her in confusion; there were no residential buildings on this street, merely business premises and the smaller, but no less grand side entrance to the Opera. Her new acquaintance stumbled towards the sweeping staircase, and she wondered suddenly if he worked in the theatre; she was sure she would remember if she had seen him before but there were jobs that could be done within such a huge building without attracting attention to oneself.

"Monsieur, there is no one at the Opera now but the night watchmen; they will not let you inside without a valid reason," she told him. "Do you live above one of the shops? I will do my best to help you up the stairs."

He shook his head again, his hand moving from his face to his waistcoat, where he managed despite his trembling fingers to find a key that hung on his watch-chain. Freeing it with some difficulty he glanced up at her, remembering slightly belatedly to cover his deformity again. "Your assistance is appreciated, Madame, but I believe I can manage from here," he said and his voice was so calm and firm that she almost believed him. Almost, but not quite, as when he tried to pull away from her he nearly slipped on the cobbles and only her quick reaction saved him from a nasty fall.

"I don't want to leave you, Monsieur; you are in no condition to look after yourself."

"I will be perfectly fine; I have had plenty of practise at taking care of myself." Was there a trace of bitterness in his tone or had she imagined it?

"That may be so, but I would not forgive myself if anything happened to you. At least allow me to clean and wrap that wound for you," Antoinette insisted. "You saved me from the worst fate that can befall a woman, and probably my life, too; I am in your debt, Monsieur."

"You owe me nothing, Madame, I assure you. But..." He hesitated, his mismatched gaze moving between her face and the key in his hand. "I have never allowed anyone into my home. I do not... trust easily."

An image of the gypsy fair and the cage flashed through her mind's eye; she was certain now that this man and the Living Corpse were one and the same. "I can understand that," she said softly, and the eye she could see clearly widened in surprise. "But I will promise you one thing: you may trust me."

He looked at her for a long time, as though torn between believing her and protecting himself. Antoinette was sure that however he had managed to escape from his captors it would not have been easy; perhaps he was still hiding from them now. Eventually he sighed and nodded, before his gaze suddenly became quite fierce and he said, "Very well, Madame. But I will warn you: as you have seen I am a ruthless man and I will not tolerate betrayal. You must swear on that which you hold most dear that you will never reveal what I am about to show you to a living soul."

For a moment Antoinette wondered if she was indeed doing the right thing, before she pushed her doubts aside; she was in too deep now to back out. She thought of the bodies of the two street roughs lying cold in the alley behind them; if she left him would he follow and see that she met the same fate? Looking down and meeting his strange eyes, seeing how his breath had quickened and his hands shook as the effects of his injury took hold, she knew that she could not walk away now; something deep in her gut was telling her that this man needed her, that they had met tonight for a reason. Madame Reinard would keep an eye on Meg for a little while longer. "I swear it," she told him, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips.

"Well, then," he said, almost conversationally, as he struggled to stand up straight once more. "I was once a magician, Madame; let us see if I still retain the power to surprise..."