A/N Thanks again to the reviewers!
Officially reached 1,000 views!
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Chapter Seven
Business
Erik stared in awe at the angel that lay on the floor.
Her silken brown curls had fanned out on the ground and framed her face perfectly. Her skin almost glowed, as if it was radiating pure goodness and light. Her pale pink lips were slightly parted, her breath coming in and out in small quick breaths. She was slim and graceful; the perfect body type of a ballerina, the perfect body type of any aspiring young artist. Dressed in a simple white gown, she was the very image of purity and innocence.
And that is exactly why I can't touch her.
She doesn't deserve to be touched by such evil, her innocence destroyed in a fleeting instant by my lack of thought, and the contact with my devil's hands would surely burn her flesh. I debated over what to do for quite some time... long enough for her breathing to become quicker and shallower, as the poison worked its way through her body, but I didn't notice. I was too distracted by my own foolish problems to notice her much more severe and life threatening one.
How to move her? If I couldn't touch her myself, surely if I wrapped her in my cloak and carried her, she might not contact me and remain unspoiled and perfect? No... that was too close. She still might be harmed by the burning fires that consumed my soul. Maybe a stretcher that I could drag her along by? Yes... then I would be as far away as possible, maybe not far enough to retain perfection, I would need a mirror to reflect my evil back upon myself for that... Perfection slipped farther and farther away the longer I waited, my very aura might even be harming her! Oh, why hadn't I thought of this before! I had to leave, to think of a plan before returning; so as to spend as little time as possible with her, but one last glance couldn't hurt...
The only thing that saved her was ironically the very thing that had put her in this place. The small, single pinprick of blood on her upper arm and the bloodstained tip of the needle drew my attention to the much worse problem at hand.
The toxin was surely working its way almost completely through her system by now; I cursed myself for allowing such misfortune to befall her. Trying to save her from myself... when in reality I was only harming her more by waiting; I was the reason that foul Persian poison was in her bloodstream.
The shock of the situation did not wear off gradually: it fell off all at once in a single sweep of emotion. Poison, Persian poison, one of the strange and terrible concoctions I had made when I had been under the thumb of the shah. Poison that caused the strangest and hardest to identify symptoms, that would take place gradually over time... ensuring the most painful death possible for the victim; the poison would course through their bloodstream and settle in the organs to slowly eat away at all bodily functions and control...
There was still time, there had to be time left.
I fell to the floor, pulling her body close to mine. I put my lips on her arm, right over the puncture mark and sucked as hard as I could, to pull the venom straight out of her bloodstream.
It began to leave her blood almost instantly; it had only been in there less than two minutes. Its foul taste pervaded my mouth, made me cringe at such an awful thing having been in my angel's body. I turned and spit: the poison and blood leaving my mouth before I returned to suck poison again.
Eventually, her blood lost the sickening flavor of the toxin and I leaned back, relieved that the worst of the effects had likely been avoided. The blood from her pinprick had turned into a flowing river; it needed to be stopped. I leaned across her body and collected the sling that rested on her stomach, and wrapped it tightly around her arm to prevent any more of her precious blood to spill.
Leaning back on my haunches, I took a second to breathe before deciding on my next course of action; feeling began to flow back into my body now that the adrenaline driven craze to safe my angel had faded off.
That's when the pain hit: a gnawing sensation right above my ankle. My left hand snapped to my side, straight to the catgut lasso that permanently resided at my side; my right hand flew down to protect my ankle from the object mauling it.
My attack was rewarded with an enraged yowl and I finally realized what my body had been numb to during Christine's plight: her obese furry puffball of a cat had been loyally defending his mistress's body by attacking my leg, and he hadn't been entirely unsuccessful. While my leg was still intact, the bottom my pants leg was not, rather, it had been torn into little strips of confetti and with each movement revealed a series of claw and bite marks covered my already scarred and deformed body.
Sighing in aggravation, I picked the creature up by the scruff of his neck -much to his protest- and placed him gently upon Christine's body, at which time he promptly sat upon her face and began to sniff frantically at her eyes and forehead. Trying to be as careful as possible, I picked up her shivering body and held her close to my chest in an attempt to give her some of the extra heat that my rapidly pounding heart created.
She moaned slightly and leaned closer into my body, causing her creature to slide downwards and scramble back up –using my body as a climbing post. Could it be? Even though she was unconscious… my very presence didn't repel her? Maybe she could at least tolerate me, despite having learned the true monstrosity that the back of the mirror held.
If this was to be my only chance, if there even was a chance, I would take it. I would move mountains for this girl, and even though I would never earn her love, I would become as close to human as anyone had ever allowed me to become. I could change, and the warmth that seared from my heart to all parts of my body –more powerful of a love than music had ever given to me- proved that I could and would become an altogether different person just for a kind word from her.
With a new goal in mind, I righted her body and slipped through the narrow passages, returning to the dungeon of my mind. The darkness no longer had any effect on my eyes, and I walked through the corridors with perfect ease.
As the duo plus cat moved away, the flickering light of the lantern that had been callously left behind went out with a gust of wind from the stage.
-
"No, no, no!" Monsieur Reyer's bellows echoed from wall to wall, causing all movement to cease on and off the stage in anticipation of the rising fight. Stagehands leaned around the wooden sets, ballerinas twirled with their heads constantly pointed in the direction of the choir, and the costume workers' heads appeared between the racks of dresses.
"It iz purfect! Zer iz nothing wrong with adding a leetle flair to a boring song!"
"Carlotta… this is a classical MASTERPIECE not a 'LEETLE BORING SONG' if I EVER hear you insult such a powerful piece of art, I should care to remind you of what you define as art: a screeching incomprehensible mess!"
La Carlotta's gasped in outrage, her hand placed delicately over her heart, almost as if the insult had carved a hole in her pride. Monsieur Reyer began to storm away, but had scarcely taken a few steps before a howling mass of lace and makeup launched itself upon his back.
Several cheers went up as Reyer arched his back, breaking Carlotta's feeble grip and throwing her off his back. He proceeded to brush off his shoulders in a gesture of offense –as though her grip had gotten his clothes dirty. Picking herself off the ground, Carlotta stumbled and whipped the fan she had been using in her act out of her puffy sleeves and brandished it like a knife before charging Monsieur Reyer with her lance extended. Easily spinning aside, Monsieur Reyer nimbly dodged the enraged attack of the wild boar, grabbing the side of her fan as she swept by. Wrenching the lethal weapon from her grasp, he cracked the fan right along its spine and discarded the broken pieces over the edge and into the seating area.
Seething with fury, La Carlotta looked ready to explode in a fiery inferno of accent and nails. However, this visible aggravation was not enough to satiate Reyer's anger at the awful practice and attack of the day. "You might as well have replaced your voice with a frog's croak! What use is singing when it sounds more like the mating calls of primitive animals?"
Evidently, this insult had gone too far for Carlotta and her temper finally broke, resulting in a tidal wave of tears of gargantuan proportions. "I quit! Never again will I sing in such a foul place, with leetle rats like you scampering about and taking leetle nibbles of my fame to feed your intolerable craving for cheese!"
Monsieur Reyer froze up in shocked confusion. He did not care one iota about the possible departure of Carlotta, rather, he encouraged it and had been trying to speed up the process for years; his true confusion lay in the extended metaphor that he was a mouse, thus making him want to eat rare and expensive cheese.
"Do I look like I care? The choir girls that haven't even had official practice on the solos could sing them better than you right now!"
Picking up her skirts, Carlotta began to bustle off towards her dressing room, but a collision with two trembling figures broke her path. Springing to their feet, Monsieurs Andre and Firmin swung their weapons wildly, one barely missing a nearby statue, and the other whacking a backdrop, causing a large rip to appear nearly from side to side.
Regaining their senses, the two stopped their ferocious swirling and gaped in wonder at the new damage they had caused their precious opera house.
"Vat were you theenking you idiot! You could hav kilt me!" Carlotta ferociously slapped the short squat manager upside the head.
"But… but… but... we thought you were the ghost! Coming back to get us! We've been creeping about all day, hiding from this beast! We armed ourselves in case it came back, look!" Both of the managers brandished their makeshift weapon collection of pots and pans. "See?"
"Oh, shut up about your stoopid problems! Zer iz no ghost! Zer never was! I have REAL problems, zis lunatic has called my bootiful voice: a scratching inprehensible nest! I vil not stand it anymore, I am leaving tonight, and one of your precious choir girls can take over and fail at the Prima Donna role for all I care."
Firmin paled. "Mademoiselle… you can't be serious! The performance is only a week off, and the entire theater has already been sold out, we can't afford to cancel the performance because you fail to fulfill your contract! You legally must!"
"And I morally vil not! I vil not perform for you stoopid opera!" Moving away from the two panicking managers, Carlotta continued on her journey away from the man who had so damaged her ego.
Running and pleading behind the pompous diva, Monsieur Firmin failed to make any headway besides simply being dismissed with a small flick of her wrist. Staying behind, Andre leaned against the wall and groaned into his hands. Yet another problem that needed to be solved… and it was likely that there were only two people who could find them a new diva in a week: the only rational helper an already angry aristocrat, and the other a mere legend...
Gesturing to the group of male dancers -who had up to this point been holding their sides in a fit of laughter- Andre ordered, "One of you! Find Monsieur de Chagny, and be quick about it! Bring him a bottle of wine too, so maybe he won't be quite so angry about the intrusion..."
The group mumbled their assent, and a blonde haired and muscular dancer took off to find the vicomte.
Making his way out of the opera house, the man shuddered inside his coat against the chilly city wind. He passed bustling aristocrats being pulled in carriages, narrowly avoided horses, and whirled past the ordinary civilians in the city. Walking towards the aristocratic section of town, he felt a tug on his jacket, and looked down to see a boy who couldn't be more than five trying to gain his attention.
The child was filthy, clad in little more than rags and with nothing on his feet or hands besides some bloody bandages. The little boy sneezed forcefully, and shivered from the cold with chattering teeth while stammering out pleas for help; "Please mister... I have a little sister, couldn't you please... give us some money for some blankets... or maybe a little bit of food?"
The dancer looked down with pity on the child, and toward his destination farther on, but his decision had already been made. "Of course I will little boy... where is your maman?"
"I... don't have... a maman... only... a little sisterrr..." The boy's words came out in gasps against the chilly air, as his shuddering increased and he looked almost to the point of passing out. He pointed towards a small nook where two buildings met; a small pile of torn and disgusting blankets covered the patch of ground, and a young girl little more than three gazed blankly out from under one of the tarps.
He scooped the little boy up, careful not to hurt him, and walked over to the place the boy had pointed. He set the boy down while pulling a large parcel of crackers out of his pocket, offering them to the starving children. Their eyes widened; the food set before them seemed a feast. "This is... wonderful. Thank you Monsieur... what... is your name?" The boy's stammering decreased as a warm and thick jacket fell on his shoulders.
The man shivered momentarily from the cold before responding; "My name is George. I'm a dancer at the Paris Opera House... and I want to help you. No child should be forced to live like this, I won't let you go on like this. So, I have a little errand to run, and then I'll be right back to bring you two back to my home. Alright?"
The two children nodded, their faces too stuffed with crackers to answer. George pulled himself up, and waving a quick farewell, hastened his pace to the de Chagny mansion.
The mansion, with its large stone gargoyles and tall marble pillars came into George's view; he was stunned, as always, by the opulence that the upper class indulged in while the lower class starved and shivered on the streets like the two little children he had found. If this was the outside, he was sure the inside was even more extravagant.
The smooth granite steps shone below his feet as he ascended all the way to the massive oaken doors. In the center of the door was a brass knocker, carved so splendidly that it carried the exact image of the Parisian skyline. Inhaling deeply, he lifted his hand to the knocker and rapped sharply.
Within seconds, a servant flung open the door, bowing deeply while beginning numerous announcements. "Oh Vicomte de Chagny, it is a pleasure for you to return so soon, I expected you to be gone for another hour or so! We shall have the cooks prepare your lunch right away, follow me!"
"Err… I'm not the Vicomte… but I am looking for him! Do you happen to know where I might find him?"
For the first time, the butler looked up. His expression of humble servitude quickly slipped into a disapproving frown, and his eyes narrowed as he glared at the simple dancer. "Oh… a commoner. Don't you know better than to use the front door? Use the servants' entrance for Christ's sake! Get in. Now. Before anyone sees what happened."
The elderly butler reached out the door and swiftly pulled George into the manor by the sleeve of his shirt. Shutting the door behind him, he turned and had halfway started into a shout before seeing the astonished maids staring at the pair, having stopped their cleaning duties in their shock, as if they had never seen a "mere peasant" enter through those doors before.
The man pulled George away, but not before he got a good long look at the palace he had been pulled into. Yes, palace. There were no words with less expensive connotation that could be applied to this place. Decorations adorned every wall, from gargantuan hand woven tapestries covering wall to wall to varying status symbols of shields and swords and portraits of the whole family and each individual member, all life size in proportions. Vases full of fragrant flowers that must have come from all different countries perfumed the air, and glittering chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while beautiful stained glass windows adorned a smaller section on the left side of the room whose open doors revealed a small chapel with statues of saints galore.
However, none of these mere decorations could compare to the actual furniture. Chairs and sofas abounded, covered in velvet, or leather, and adorned with layers of thick and fleecy blankets. An assortment of musical instruments -that appeared as if they had never been touched- rested in one corner of the house, residing next to a bookshelf full of gold and blue bound books whose spines had never been cracked. Ash trays and cigar cases littered the fine side tables handsomely draped with cloths bearing the de Chagny crest, accompanied by several half finished glasses of brandy. Elegant carpets layered each floor and plush curtains blocked almost all of the light.
George's eyes soaked in everything he saw, despite the protests of his body as he was forcibly dragged up the stairs. Kings! They lived like kings! And Comte wasn't even one of the highest nobility titles in the land… No wonder there had been so many revolts, the sheer amount of money that had been invested in the single grand room downstairs could have provided for adequate shelter, furniture, and food for almost all the downtrodden that lived in Paris for a whole year!
His initial shock began to turn into rage. What need did this vicomte need to be angry, and need to be soothed, and gifted a bottle of wine, all in return for helping keep his own business investment afloat? The frivolity and privilege these people were offered… he himself had starved for many days before finally being accepted into the opera house.
His rebellious thoughts were cut short by the realization that he had stopped moving. Twisting his head, George saw the elderly old butler wheezing and clutching his chest from the exertion it had taken to drag a full grown man up the stairs at breakneck speed. The old man coughed,
and pointed to a small room off the side of the twisting staircase.
"You.. go… there *wheeze*… wait… I'll come… go…" The man's wheezes progressed, and unable to stand the sight of the old man is such pain; George swept him into his arms, just as he had the young boy several minutes before. Pushing open the door with his shoulder, he was again temporarily stunned by the sheer wealth a single room could display. The room had only a few scattered chairs and tables who were presumably used for business meetings, but it was big enough to fit a majority of the opera stage in it. The servant pointed towards an adjoining door, and George slipped in there and found, to his relief, a large bed. Resting the old man on the bed, he waited for the old man's breathing to return to normal before proceeding on.
"The managers of the Paris Opera House sent me to request the help of the Vicomte de Chagny due to a matter pertaining to the need to acquire a new Prima Donna for the upcoming performance."
"Bah! You don't need to use that kind of language here, no one can hear you. I'm sorry about treating you so poorly before… societal norms say I can't allow you to come in that entrance, as it's specifically for the nobles' use. I have nothing against you, and I want to thank you for being so kind as to carry me, you're obviously a good soul. I just can't lose my job… who'll hire a scraggly old man like me? Here at least I have tenure and I'll have people to care for
me when I get too senile to work. What's your name?"
"George. And yours?"
"Alexander, but most people just call me Xander. Where's your coat?"
"I gave it to a young boy who was freezing with his sister on the side of the road. He has more use for it than me."
"You truly are a good soul… so, opera business? He'll be here in maybe an hour, along with His Idiocy, the Comte de Chagny. You may as well wait here, and I'll call you down when he comes." Xander swung his legs over the side of the bed, and paused a few seconds before fully regaining his balance.
"Eh… nice wine you have. I'm sure he won't notice if it goes missing… I'll just say I brought it to the cellars." With eyes twinkling, Xander marched off proudly with his new prize.
George chuckled as the old man left, and settled himself in one of the overstuffed armchairs with a disgusting cat pattern printed on it. He had a whole hour to wait? That was more than sufficient time for a pleasant and well deserved nap…
Xander practically skipped up the doors from the wine cellar; he had swindled the man who ran the wine cellar into letting him have practically all the wine, with only a small bit paid as tribute for hiding it for him… In a quite merry mood, he went about his usual household duties of managing and micromanaging, and waiting by the main door in case there was a knock…
And a knock there was. About thirty minutes after the fiasco with George, there were several loud and angry pounds on the door. Rushing to make himself presentable and smooth any wrinkles out of his attire, Xander regally opened the door and bowed deeply while reiterating his prior message to the dancer. "Oh Vicomte de Chagny, it is a pleasure for you to return so soon, I expected you to be gone for another hour-"
"I have important business matters to attend to. Don't disturb us until you have had some sandwiches made up, and then bring them up to us as quickly as possible and leave us alone after that." Raoul's harsh words stung Xander as he recoiled in surprise before he had gotten a good look at Raoul's guests; however, he had enough time to note uneasily that Philippe wasn't there...
Skittering off to the kitchen, he hastily ordered the maids to work before returning to peer around the corner at the guests. Oh… them. So that's why he was so rude… Shaking his head in disgust, Xander returned to the kitchen to see about those sandwiches.
Within ten minutes, the sandwiches had been fixed and set on a platter that Xander hurriedly brought up the stairs, pausing only momentarily to ponder which room they had gone into. The door he had left open when leaving George had now become tightly shut. Eyes widening, Xander heard the dangerous voices echoing underneath the door.
Shoving all the napkins on the tray into the sides of his shirt, Xander knocked hesitantly on the door, and instantly all talk stopped.
"Come in."
Xander opened the door nervously, and sprinted to the table Raoul was sitting at with his colleagues and set the tray on the table. Bowing, he waited for the inevitable big-mouth on Raoul's right hand side to criticize.
"No napkins… what, do you expect us to eat like pigs? Fetch us some napkins you old shit!" The broad and evidently strength over brain cells man's devilish little pig eyes squinted and gleamed as he gloated over his newfound victim. From the past times he had encountered the man, Xander had long since come to realize that he was a cruel aristocrat that enjoyed nothing more than harassing the helpless.
Xander smacked his forehead. "Oh, I forgot them in the other room when preparing for your arrival, sir! Let me go get them now. Xander shot to the adjoining door, and was greeted by George's trembling figure sitting petrified in the armchair.
Pulling the napkins out from under his shirt, he frantically straightened them, while placing a finger to his lips and pointing under the bed, where he would be hidden from view by the frilly bedspread that overhung the edges.
George nodded his understanding, and ducked under the bed making scarcely more than a ruffle of fabric as he moved.
Inhaling deeply to suppress a shudder, Xander returned the other room with the flattened napkins and placed them delicately on the table, receiving a sign of dismissal from Raoul and another cruel insult from the pig-man.
"'Bout time ugly."
Completely immune by this point to the jeering insults, Xander bowed deeply, and held his head high as he walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Once outside, Xander moved his feet past the frame of the door so as to avoid casting a shadow, and pressed his ear against the polished wood in an effort to hear the conversation, but the wood muffled it all and he could discern nary a word, exactly as the business meeting was designed to be.
However, there was no wood door blocking George's hearing.
Trembling under the bed, George's mind was once again subjected to the horrific conversation of the men in the other room.
"You know Raoul… I've been thinking a lot about our current business enterprise… you owe me a lot of money."
"Yes, I know sir, but I'm going to pay it all back. The de Chagnys are men of their word. I've already paid back the majority of the gambling debts from the last year."
"Yes… from the last year. And who knows what will come up this year? That brother of yours… I just can't bring myself to turn him away when he comes to my club crying…"
Raoul's tone changed sharply. "You're sick, you know that? You come demanding money to compensate my brother's debts…make it all sound like you're doing me a big favor… but you're really purposefully dragging him into those clubs so that you can get him to spend more money! You probably rig it permanently against him, because you know he'll keep playing!"
"Hm… Raoul, such harsh accusations for one so young. Need I cash in all of your debts right now? Wreck the opera house? Seize all your goods? Raffle off your mansion to compensate for the debts you've gained over the years? Now, I think we can come to an understanding here…"
Raoul's face paled at the words. Everything? He couldn't bear to lose that. "I'm sorry sir… I was out of line, I swear it won't happen again, the opera season is starting soon so I'll get you your money then, and I'll keep Philippe from the clubs, and I'll get your money, and pay off all of the debts, and atone for my sins…"
"Oh Raoul, you make it sound so simple. The laws of society dictate that a mere vicomte cannot control a comte… and that's why I refused to let you drag Philippe home. The shame that would come onto your family from the breaking of such old and sacred rules, and the legal troubles… tut tut, that just wouldn't do, now would it? You're not going to stop Philippe from doing anything… and I'll know if you did. Now, you are going to bring me more money. You are going to double your current monthly payments. I expect to see the first part of my money by the end of next month."
By this point, Raoul's face had become paler and paler. "T… t… twice as much? How am I supposed to do that? I have trouble enough as it is paying for half of that… I can't. I won't. It's not possible to do that."
"I'm afraid that you must. As you know, we have some ah, unpleasant information about the things you've had to do to obtain even that money. You know, mysterious disappearances, deaths, missing…"
"ALL RIGHT I GET THE POINT." Raoul exploded from his chair, seething in anger. "I'll get your money, and I know I had to kill some people to get what I did in the past. You and I both know Buquet wasn't the first… and he wasn't the last. I'll get your money."
The chairs rustled in the other room as the creditor sat back in his chair lazily. "Oh, I'm sure you will. I'll just finish smoking my cigar, and my friends and I will be on my way…"
Several long and tense minutes passed. Nervous footsteps echoed into George's hiding spot as Raoul paced from one side of the room to the other. Finally, the thickly accented stranger and his "friends" rose from their chairs and began to head towards the door.
"Oh Raoul, and remember… there are two assets of the Opera House you really haven't tapped yet… One you know, but the other, you will find out in time… Sweet dreams, Raoul, maybe you'll even have the pleasure of seeing Joseph Buquet again…"
The pacing stopped. With an aggravated battle cry, Raoul sprinted across the room, only to run headfirst into the door the men had slammed shut. Recoiling back, he fell to the floor.
The door opened once more, and soft, quiet footsteps passed over the body of Raoul and stopped right outside the entryway to the next room.
Then, he entered. Step by step, he made his way closer to the bed George hid under, each sound becoming more and more pronounced the closer he came.
He whipped the bed cover over to reveal George's shocked and terrified face.
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These two things are actually important.
A/N Issue #1 So, my summary sucks right now. I'm awful at writing summaries, so I would really appreciate it if someone could suggest an interest grabbing one that captures the idea of Wicked, where the only reason the witch is made evil is so that the wizard can save face, even though he was the awful guy the whole time. So, Raoul does the same thing to Erik, and that's what creates ALW's musical/Leroux. If someone could please leave a review with that, or PM me, I would be so happy I'll do a back flip.
Issue #2 Length: This chapter is about twice as long as some of my other ones... is it better longer, or shorter? It took forever to write even though I was feeling super inspired and what not, so longer chapters would likely mean slower updates.
Thanks again to all of my amazing reviewers. You guys really are the reasons it doesn't take me two hours to write a hundred words.
I commend you,
~Partyin'Penguins
ALSO, I am aware Erik was first person for a while... I just felt it was the best way to describe his thoughts. It's possible that it'll be switched somehow back to 3rd person.
