A/N: Thanks for the feedback! :) This is the longest chapter yet to those who crave quantity...If you like, please review. …
And now…
Chapter X
The Phantom kept a sharp eye on his surroundings for anything amiss as the wagon rumbled through the congested streets of Paris.
The ragged disguise and his new moniker should be enough to shield them from his enemies during his brief stay, though he did not foresee trouble. He had purposely kept all plans secret, his band of men only having been informed in the hour before he left Brittany.
He looked toward his traveling companion, grateful to note she kept her head low and fully covered. Her knuckles showed white where she gripped the seat in a painful grip, and he wondered as to the latest cause of her upset.
Himself, no doubt, and he frowned in remorse at how brusque he'd been with her during their journey. His nerves were stretched taut with this imminent meeting in the reviled city from which he had remained hidden, and with the constant allure of her presence. Nor had his wretched misery decreased to hear her call him by that name again.
It should not matter. It did not matter.
A small boy ran up to the wagon. "Monsieur, you have baskets for sale?"
The Phantom scowled at the child, who retreated a few intimidated steps. Resolved not to let anything with regard to Mademoiselle Daaé matter to him, the Phantom continued to guide the mule, at last approaching their destination.
"We have arrived," he announced. "Through that door, we will find refuge."
He stepped down from the wagon, tying the reins to a post then strode to Christine's side. When she made no move to descend, he battled his impatience and offered his hand up to her.
The hood jerked, lifting a fraction, and she stared at his outstretched palm before slowly turning to face him. What struck him more than the pale tinge of her skin, the usual rose of her cheeks absent, was the desperate search of his one unconcealed eye with her stricken ones.
"Christine…?"
The gentleness of her name on his tongue made her blink, as if she was coming out of a deep trance, and he watched the anxiety ease from her expression.
"Yes." Her response came quiet as she folded her hand into his.
Once she stood before him, he made to move his hand from hers, surprised when she held to him tightly, desperately. Another glance at her face, and he realized whatever fear had her bound had not fully dissolved. A surge of warmth struck him, an intense affinity. Before she crossed into his life, no one sought him for comfort, no one tried, wanting little to do with the monster.
"You have nothing of which to be frightened. I shall take you to your friends tonight."
She nodded passively, and keeping his hand in hers they moved from strong daylight into a darkened chamber lit by an open hearth, with few sconces of candles mounted against walls of grey stone. He felt her shock by the sudden jump of her arm and the clenching of her hand against his.
Perhaps he should have warned her.
Around a long table, men sat on stools, some of them with buxom women in varied degrees of undress on their laps. A young lad idly strummed the strings of a lute in a far corner. Small loaves of bread and goblets of wine were abundant, and those men not indulging in the repast of a meal were liberally immersed in corporal favors lavishly offered.
The Phantom spotted Eustace in intimate embrace with a plump woman, the back of her copper hair revealing her identity. In the corner, a red-faced Tobias looked trapped as a flaxen-haired wench at least a decade older draped herself against him from the back, her hand smoothing down his tunic. All around the chamber, the rise and lull of conversation was punctuated by the occasional shriek of laughter.
"A brothel," Christine whispered in horrified shock, releasing his hand forcefully. "You brought me to a brothel?"
"'The safest place," the Phantom tersely replied, noting their presence had been spotted.
The redhead untangled herself from Eustace and approached, Eustace doing likewise.
"So, this is the one," she said, eyeing Christine with haughty suspicion. She glared at the Phantom.
"I want no trouble, Le Masque."
"I assure you, Perrette, nor do I. Did Eustace not tell you the new name I have employed?"
"Oui, to be sure he did, Monsieur Fantôme. My man told me many things."
He narrowed his eyes. "All of which I trust you to keep well guarded."
"I never tell a soul what secrets I hear, leastways them that matter." She lifted her chins in affront that he should suggest otherwise though he recognized a flicker of apprehension in her bold gaze, which she then turned on Christine.
"I want no trouble from the likes of you, either, miss. Whatever you be, witch for a devil or spy for the de Chagny troll, it'll come out in the end, as all things must. But you'll not be bringing your dark doings into my establishment."
"My dark doings?" Christine replied incredulously.
Eustace cleared his throat. "Perrette, my love…"
The Phantom silenced his aide with a black scowl, angered that he should spread his foul suspicions regarding Christine to his woman. Eustace dropped his eyes to the floor covered in stale rushes.
"A room for the night, Perrette," the Phantom ordered brusquely. "One secluded from the others. I can pay well."
So saying he casually held up two fingers, flicking them together, where a gold coin magically appeared. Immediate interest lit her eyes.
"As ye will. This way then."
"Eustace, a word. Tobias," he directed, not once glancing his way as he drew up alongside the lad, "unhitch the wagon, and set the mule free. We will speak later."
"Aye, milord." The boy hurriedly darted away from the harlot's roaming hands. A bit put out, she gave Christine a cursory glance and transferred her attention to the Phantom.
"No," he said with finality never breaking stride.
With a pout, the prostitute dropped her hand from his shoulder where she had slipped it as he took the stairs with Christine. At the fifth flight, Perrette led them down a narrow hallway, the muffled sounds coming from within a few of the enclosed chambers leaving no doubt what the thin curtains screened. Perrette took them to the end of the corridor and a room there. The Phantom took swift inventory and noted with approval the nearby doorway that led to a back staircase, a quick method of escape if needed.
He motioned Christine inside the minuscule chamber, lifting his brows at her icy glare as she swept past him, relieved when she did not refuse.
Letting the curtain drop back into place, he handed Perrette another gold coin. "Bring bread, cheese, wine, and be quick about it."
"I'll have one of the girls see to it straightaway, monsieur." She cast an uncertain glance at Eustace before trundling away.
"You should not have told her," the Phantom wasted no time in expressing his disapproval.
"I cannot keep a thing from her. I swear that woman can see clear down to my soul. She knew I was upset the moment I walked through the door." He lowered his voice. "De Chagny's wench will cause nothing but trouble. God's teeth, why did you bring her here? I thought your plan was first to take her to her home."
"Careful, Eustace." The Phantom clenched his jaw. "You will say nothing further about Mademoiselle Daaé. Has our contact left instructions where to meet?"
"He has. At the shop of the paper merchant Thibault, on the Rue de la chaussée Saint-Honoré."
"Near the Seine," he mused.
"Aye. We're to ask for Roget."
"I shall go alone," the Phantom corrected.
"Nay, milord," Eustace argued swiftly. "'Tis far too dangerous!"
"I am able to handle this." He held up his hand to stave off another anxious refusal. "Enough. Do not test my patience and anger me further. I have other work for you."
The Phantom explained what more he wanted, sending his reluctant aide to do his bidding, then pulled the faded red drape aside and entered the chamber.
Christine whirled around. The next moment a bundle of coarse cloth struck him hard in the face. Taken aback, he grabbed the woolen missile before it could fall to the floorboards and stared at the castoff robe she had hurled at him.
"You brought me to a brothel, monsieur?" She repeated her words upon their entrance, outrage replacing her earlier shock. Her eyes sparked flame from the few lamps lit, her hair a tangle of wild curls bouncing around slim shoulders. Streaks of high color painted her cheekbones, replacing the earlier pallor of her features. She was enchanting.
"Why would you do such a wicked thing?" she asked bitterly.
"Keep your voice down, damoiselle," he instructed, "lest someone hear."
"Oh, I do believe they're much too involved in their activities to hear!"
A deeper rose stained her cheeks and she pressed her hands to them in mortification of her hasty words. With a gasp, she spun to present her profile to him, her body trembling with anger.
Throwing the robe sideways to the ground, the Phantom covered the short distance and grabbed her by the shoulders.
"Let me go," she insisted between clenched teeth.
He gave no heed to her vexed directive, instead giving her a little shake to fend off any imminent hysterics. "This is the safest place to wait," he stressed, keeping his voice low. "I would not have brought you otherwise."
"That woman hardly seems like she can be trusted. And she clearly doesn't like you."
"Very few do," he retorted dryly. "I told you once there are few people I trust and those not entirely. That woman, Perrette, is Eustace's wife, and he's one of those few. She will do nothing to cross him."
"His wife," she repeated in shock. "But – I was led to believe their kind never married. Those in that profession."
Her composure had resurfaced through her disbelief, and he released his hold, dropping his hands to his sides.
"Perrette and Eustace were wed before we crossed paths. She took on the position as a madame in this establishment years ago, to survive at a time she presumed her husband was dead. She despises me since it was I who kept him in hiding to trick the authorities into thinking our demise true. We were both wounded, and he nearly did die. Sadly, our ruse as walking ghosts did not last. Someone spotted and recognized us, and our return to mortality was imminent..."
A stir at the curtain admitted Isabel, a short, curvaceous brunette, who carried a trencher of bread and cheese and a bottle of wine, setting both at a crude table that seated one. Noticing she carried a single goblet, he ignored the oversight and waited for her to pour the refreshment.
"Will there be anything else, monsieur?" she asked, drawing close.
He shook his head, waving his fingers in a careless flourish for her to go. Alone again, he handed the goblet to Christine, who frowned at the doorway.
"No, thank you."
"It has been a long journey and you must be parched as well as famished. Take it."
Hesitant, she did, holding the goblet cupped between her hands. "You're so sure you can trust her? The woman, Perette. She behaves as though she's still angry with you."
He knew he should keep his distance, soon she would leave his life for good. Yet the impulse to touch her again was too great, and he lifted his hands to cover hers.
"I swore to you my protection. I would do nothing to jeopardize your life." Lifting one hand, he stroked a finger beneath her chin. "This truly is the best place within the city for us to hide, belle jeune fille. Whatever happens, you will be safe."
Her expression softened at his vow, but when he mentioned the city, a flicker of unease clouded her eyes and her lower lip quivered. Almost without realizing it, he lifted a gentle thumb to trace its rosy fullness. She gasped, the warmth of her soft breath against his skin stirring his senses.
She retreated a step. He scowled, dropping his arm back to his side.
"Pardon, damoiselle, I should have known my touch would be unwanted."
She winced at his harsh words. "No – no, it's…not that."
He peered at her closely. She lowered her gaze to her wine and took a quick sip. He did likewise, drawing a long pull from the bottle.
Outside, in the corridor, a woman's lusty squeal distantly rent the air. Christine's face went crimson, and for the first time, the Phantom regretted bringing her to such a vulgar hideaway. She was a lady of refinement, in manner and speech. She did not belong in such a place.
He should have taken her to her Opera House, as had been the original plan, as he told Eustace last night. But when the time drew near that he must let her go, he found himself fumbling an excuse for delay and could not release her, could not part ways with her. Not yet, fool that he was. There remained time to deliver her before tonight's meeting, as she must surely have come to realize, and he wondered if she now resented him for his weakness that led to such deceit. Would she demand he take her home this minute?
"Tell me, Phantom," she began carefully, sinking to the stool by the table. "Did you notice anything strange about the city?"
"Strange?"
"Different."
"Such as?"
"Changed…?"
At his continued stare, she shook her head as if disgusted with herself. "Never mind. You said the left bank, but I don't think I've ever been to this part of Paris. Perhaps there exists a side of it I never knew." She sounded as if she did not fully believe her words but wished to. "I had no reason to travel any streets except for those near the Opera House, not often anyway, and am sadly oblivious to the lay of the land. Are we near the Seine? Perhaps the Rue Scribe?"
He saw no reason to withhold an answer. "The Seine is south of here, a short walk easily accomplished in a matter of minutes. The Rue Scribe is a street with which I am not familiar."
She nodded distantly, faint lines wrinkling her brow. "I see."
"It means nothing." He suddenly wished to reassure her and see her smile again. "I am familiar only with a small section of Paris. The Rue Scribe is where your Opera House is located?"
"Yes."
"Rest easy, damoiselle. If you know the general area in which to direct me, I will lead you home."
Her smile was tepid at best, but she relaxed and gave a soft nod. When he again suggested she take sustenance, this time she did not refrain from breaking bread with him.
xXx
Hidden away behind a worn curtain within the enclosed chamber, time passed while Christine leisurely supped with Erik as he waited for the appointed hour. She noticed how he pushed the burlap slightly aside to eat and wished he would dispose of the covering altogether. Yet she knew better than to suggest it, wanting to prolong the pleasant atmosphere that had settled between them.
He encouraged her to speak of her life before the Opera House, and she complied, gladly putting aside the host of questions that had increased with her arrival.
She spoke of Sweden and what very little she recalled of time spent there, of the two years she remembered singing on the streets with her beloved Papa, of that last summer at the seaside when his health failed him. Cautiously, she spoke of building sand castles with Raoul, her first true friend. Tears filmed her eyes as she recounted her Papa's painful demise, his deathbed promise to send an angel, and her subsequent arrival as an orphan to the Opera House. Out came her qualms about those who inhabited a world so strange and new to her, and her fears that she would never belong. Tears slowly slipped down her cheeks as, without meaning to, she found herself speaking of meeting her Angel of Music in the abandoned chapel and believing him to be her Papa's promise fulfilled.
"I didn't know at the time he was a man. A man who terrorized the Opera House," she whispered in remembered horror, the soft flicker of lamplight on the shadowed walls a fitting ambience to the story that became her life. "I truly believed he was an angel from heaven, come to bless me with his divine tutelage of music." The admission, once released, gave fount to an outpouring of words, and she found herself giving a concise account of her years as a pupil to her teacher. Admitting both the awe and the fear that were to her an everyday part of normalcy in a life most bizarre.
For the second time that night he came close, crouching down before her, on the bed where she now sat, and drew his fingertips along her jaw, brushing away the moisture that coated her cheeks with her stilted recounting of the terrible fight in the cemetery. There, she almost lost both men who'd come to compose her world: one who forced her into the light she often had been too blinded by deceit to see, the other who led her through a world of darkness into hidden truths she earnestly sought to know.
She looked at that man now. "My Angel taught me so much, about life, about myself. He showed me how to search deep within my soul, through the music, and bring out all of who I was meant to be."
"Yet he deceived you for years. Why would he do that?"
Yes, Erik, why would you do that?
Such questions were futile as well as frustrating, and she searched her mind for a valid reason to give, what she presumed might be true, hoping against hope any of what she said might spark his memory.
"I know only that he had a terrible childhood, tragic really. He was treated like an animal and kept in a cage at a traveling gypsy carnival. So many who knew him refused to see past his flaws and were cruel. They tried to strip him of his humanity, as a child and as a man." She swallowed hard. "He also wore a mask. I think I told you once before…"
His unconcealed eye narrowed and his lips thinned, causing her to hurriedly add, "I – I never knew his name, not until the final hour of the final night we were together. He always went by titles and kept himself hidden, which only heightened the mystery."
"Why do you tell me these things?" He moved away, clearly angry. "No, I know. Your words have made it clear." He turned to her in accusation. "The night we met you mistook me for this man, the deceptive Angel of whom you speak. Is it not so? And now I see the cause. We share similar burdens, these wretched traits." He laughed bitterly. "Was he also deformed, his face cruelly twisted, cast out by family and society? Is that why he wore a mask?"
She could scarcely draw breath.
"Yes."
"Poor Christine, encumbered by monsters, destined twice to cross their paths and become their prey…"
"Not a monster," she mumbled. "And I'm not prey."
He ignored her. "What happened? What happened that final night to separate you from him? From Erik?"
The hateful manner in which he said his name made her gasp, the conversation taking another twist into the flagrantly bizarre. God, how she wanted to tell him, to make him see truth, but fear once again stopped her.
"He – he had become dangerous, mad with hatred and jealousy. He murdered performers within the opera," she whispered, noting his brow sail up at that, but no recognition lit his eye. "I, I was forced to help the gendarmes, to betray him, so as to safeguard the others." The admission tasted bitter in her mouth. "I didn't want to – God, I didn't want to! He was my teacher and my friend. But I couldn't stand by idle and do nothing, couldn't allow anyone else to die…." Her words grew hoarse. "I allowed my fears to best me. Had I not acted so foolishly and made such an ill-thought out choice, taking part in such a wretched plan, perhaps that night would have ended differently."
Perhaps there would have been no end for them at all.
He regarded her solemnly. "It seems, from all you have told me, you had just cause."
His quiet words stirred her heart. He had no knowledge that the apology torn from her soul was directed to him, but she needed to say the difficult words, and this was the closest she may ever come to releasing the weight of her betrayal.
"I only wish I could tell him how very sorry I am. Despite everything, I never wanted to hurt him," she ended sadly. "I pleaded for God to give me courage that night, to show my Angel that he was not alone. I-I kissed him to assure him of my choice. I...I loved him." The first she had admitted it aloud, and she took a deep, tremulous breath before she continued. "But then I abandoned him when the mob was closing in. I can still hear their awful death chants echoing through the caverns."
Something flickered in his unmasked eye, and he grew very still, causing her heart to race.
"Youth or gender makes no difference to a hostile mob. You could have been killed for your involvement with the creature. It is wise you left when he told you to go."
Her pulse raced. She never once mentioned his command for her to leave that night. It pierced her heart to hear him say the words, then engendering hopelessness, but now offering hope.
"I never said he did," she replied softly.
His solemn eyes held hers captive. "I would hope that he would, that he had the decency to let you go after all he had done to you."
"I didn't want to," she all but whispered.
"Then why did you?"
"I was…undone. Barely able to conceive the nightmare that was taking place. When I realized, when the shock began to fade once my escort led me outdoors, he wouldn't allow me to return to him."
Not after she returned the first time and Raoul noticed the absence of the ring on her finger.
He sneered. "The nobleman you spoke of, the one who lives outside of Paris."
"Yes." She told him only that Raoul had a title, not his family name.
"By that time, he said it was too late. That the mob would have finished him off. He had to forcefully carry me to his carriage for fear I would turn back."
Would that she had tried harder to break free!
"And do you still pine for the monster?"
At his demeaning words, hers grew fierce.
"He's not a monster - and if he was, it's only because that is what a superstitious and cruel society made him into!"
Christine sighed deeply, her ire evaporating as quickly as it emerged. Defending Erik to Erik was maddening, foolish, and hopelessly caught in this never-ending web of the absurd, she framed her words to remain true but not leave him with the idea that she could never care for another. If he knew the truth, that her heart was irrevocably bound to his, he wouldn't believe it. Nor did she have the courage to say it, for surely to convince him, she must then tell him why.
"I have deep regrets for what I've done. I always shall. And if he did survive that night, I wish for him nothing but that he would find true and lasting happiness."
He studied the wall. "Do you suspect he survived and is hiding at the Opera House? Is that your primary reason for wanting to go there?"
"I don't need to seek him out. I know he's not there," she stated, her quiet voice ringing with sincerity. "Like I wish for Erik, I too want to find my own happiness and put the tragedies of the past forever behind me."
They stared at one another a breathless moment, the expression in his exposed eye as much a mystery as the man who stood across the room from her. What he might have answered in reply, she never was to discover.
"Milord," Eustace's voice came from the opposite side of the curtain.
Quickly the Phantom left the chamber to join his aide, and Christine slapped the bed near her hip in frustration. Just when they were making progress, something always happened to disturb the peace.
x
With no clock to mark the minutes and no window to see the sun's progress, and not a blessed thing to do to keep herself occupied, Christine replayed the events of past weeks.
She idly stared at the table and the odd little lantern there, a wick from the end spout yielding a steady flame. A genie lamp Meg once called a similar prop found in an old storeroom. Since Erik had brought her to this den of iniquity, Christine had seen torches, firelight, and candles, but found it odd there was not one kerosene lamp in sight.
Perhaps such establishments did not use them and preferred baser methods of lighting, a match to the crude mannerisms of those residing within. She winced at the thought of what her Papa would think to know his daughter took shelter in a brothel, though sometimes, the theatre had been its own house of ill repute.
Christine understood there was no alternative but to stay. Still it did not dispel the prickle of unease that niggled into her mind, already greatly disturbed by their arrival into the city and what she'd briefly seen: Parisians, in simple costume, like peasants. Buildings that seemed taller. Streets no longer wide but narrow and unpaved. But, as she told Erik, she never visited all of the city to know what to expect, and especially the poor sections. Raoul steered clear of them, and the shoppes and boutiques where she spent her well-earned francs were located along the wide boulevard. Erik had seen nothing out of the ordinary, behaving as though all was normal. She must have been imagining things, her eyes playing tricks on her, brought on by the heat of the glaring sun and the weariness from the long journey, all of it creating a false illusion.
A stir at the curtain, and the prominent subject of all her thoughts stepped inside. Once again she was stunned by his changed appearance – shod head to toe in black, his full mask once more in place, with a long black cloak to finish the effect. He reminded her so much of her Phantom, that for a moment she thought he remembered.
He took in her wide eyes and open mouth. "My appointment takes place once night has fallen. I must blend into the shadows and travel by foot," he explained his change of clothing while pouring more wine into the discarded goblet, swirling its contents, and drinking from that.
Earlier, when he indulged from the bottle and allowed her full use of the goblet, even then he had done so with a genteel poise absent in other men. It was a trait that always fascinated her – his fluid grace that thinly veiled an intensity of caged power. To see that power unleashed in full had horrified her, but even then, his every movement had been smooth and supple, as if choreographed for a deadly ballet.
She barely nodded a response, struck anew by his impressive and imposing presence. He was not a large man, his form trim and muscular, not massive. But with his towering height, long limbs, and breadth of shoulder he seemed to swallow the tiny chamber.
"You should get some rest," he said gently then left, as quickly as he had come.
The room regained its dreary presence, appearing duller than before, as if he'd taken with him what little life it contained. With nothing else to do, Christine decided to follow his advice and lay down on the pallet.
But a feat like sleep proved impossible in these surroundings, and Christine soon grimaced at the sound of voices, not as distant as she would prefer.
"Tell me, Anton, are you really one of his men?" a woman purred, her voice loud enough that it sounded as if it came from the cubicle directly across from Christine's.
Clearly Erik's demand for solitude was being ignored.
"You doubt me?"
"'Tis only that you're so young." There came the sound of a wet kiss.
"I must go."
"But we've barely grown acquainted."
"I told you I have precious little time, ma belle. Pierre will be looking for me." The man's words were followed by the quick rustle of material.
"Your friend was well into his cups when last I saw him. Here, let me do that."
"Tonight is important to my Lord de Chagny. I am new to his employ. I cannot fail him by disobeying orders my first week!"
Christine sat up swiftly and stared with horror at the curtain.
"Why did you come then, if only to leave so soon?" the girl said, a pout in her voice.
"My lord gave orders to search this part of the city for the criminals, and that includes the brothel. What are you doing?"
"One last time, Anton, let me show you the many favors I can give."
"Non, I cannot. The trap is set." His voice grew weak. "Tonight marks the capture of the masked villain. I must do my part… Gadzooks, wench, you are evil."
"You truly want me to stop?"
Christine's face burned at his hoarse groan accompanied by the harlot's triumphant laugh and other immodest sounds made, fueling her imagination even as she wished to childishly clap her hands over her ears. No matter that Madame Giry zealously tried to protect young eyes, sometimes turning a dim corner or entering an allegedly empty room had given the innocent young Christine a candid education into private moments between lewd cast and crew members that could never be unseen. Once she grew older, Christine learned to ignore anything stumbled upon, though at times, in her bed, she couldn't help dwell on those brief displays of carnal lust, and more so after meeting her teacher in the flesh.
Dear God - Erik!
She could no longer distinguish the couple's murmured words, nor did she need to. She had heard enough.
Donning the repulsive woolen disguise and wishing for her cloak she assumed to be still in the wagon, she peeked into the corridor, grateful to find it empty. She hastened down the narrow back stairs that led into a large kitchen, also empty.
Not wishing to test her luck in the main room and seek out those who despised her, she hurried past a row of crates to the door that must lead outside, certain he would have conformed to character and slipped out the back.
It would not budge.
"Ye'll find it locked. The madame does not wish to tempt her customers into leaving without paying."
Christine whirled to see the prostitute who earlier tried to entice her Phantom, her arms crossed as she leaned indolently with her shoulder against the wall.
"Erik – Le Masque - the Phantom," she corrected again, recalling his new preference for the name. "Has he left yet?"
"And if he has?"
"Tell Madame Perrette that the Vicomte's men are here. Please," she begged when the girl remained fixed against the wall. "I must try and find the Phantom."
"Her man says you're a witch and a spy."
Christine quelled the insane urge to laugh. So, now she was accused of both.
"If I was, do you think I would issue a warning? Do you think I would care what happens to him?"
The brunette appeared to consider, her haggard countenance softening a degree. She moved to collect an iron key from where it lay hidden behind a loose brick. Slipping it in the lock, she opened the door.
"Isabel! Where is the lusty wench? I am in sore need of her comforts…"
The woman looked over her shoulder in disgust, then back at Christine.
"Three streets down, twice left, once right, then left again. You'll arrive there swifter. And take this." She handed her one of two lit torches in the room.
Christine took it though she doubted her need of it. "Why are you now helping me?" she asked suspiciously.
"Isabel?!"
"I must go."
The door slammed shut in Christine's face. She blinked in shock, but did not remain immobile for long as the need to warn Erik sharpened in her mind. Her foolish capitulation to Raoul's plan with the gendarmes had nearly led to Erik's demise. She must do all she could to ensure this new plan failed! Raoul must have discovered that Erik escaped the mob's retribution and that she was with him, again striving to entrap the Phantom, to murder him and take her back.
If she lost him again, this time it might destroy her.
Whirling around, she looked out over the dark city.
Dark…
Why had the lamplighters not yet attended to their nightly duty?
Her breaths came faster as she walked swiftly onward, into the oppressive blackness, the buildings that towered on either side dim silhouettes barely seen.
Three streets – Isabel said three, and coming to the first intersection, Christine searched the area for a street sign, hoping to find a familiar landmark. From overhearing Erik's meeting with Eustace, she knew where the meeting would be held, the Rue de la chaussée Saint-Honoré, had heard the name before.
She ran to the next intersection, the niggling apprehension of earlier returning, increasing…
No blue metal signs hung posted anywhere.
Nor did any tall iron lampposts flank the streets…streets that were little more than narrow ditches hollowed out in the middle, the awful stench proving that more than water lay within the furrowed earth.
Wild-eyed, she ran to the third street, this time swinging her torch in a wide arc to see better. She found what she was looking for – carved into the stone wall at the edge of a building, where the name of a street should not be.
Breathing heavily from her mad run and a sense of horrified disbelief to recognize the name of the street where she stood, to understand that she was not in an unknown part of the city never visited, she could barely conceive what had happened.
Was this all some sort of wretched nightmare?
Running footsteps had her spin about in alarm, take a few shaky steps backward.
"Milady!"
Tobias's face manifested from the gloom. He raced up to her and caught hold of her wrist. Before she understood his intent, he snatched the torch from her hand and doused it in a large puddle of water.
"What are you doing?" he asked his voice low but frantic. "Are you mad?!"
Christine slowly blinked, his assessment a sure reality.
"Come – we must get you back before he learns you're missing."
His words spurred her to the very real and current danger.
"The Phantom's in trouble. Tonight's a trap! The Vicomte's men are at the brothel - I overheard one of them talking."
Concern lit his eyes, but he shook his head. "He ordered me to watch you and not let you out of my sight. I failed him once with regard to you. I'll not make the same mistake twice!"
"But don't you see?" she urged desperately as he tried to pull her along and she hung back, "if you come with me, you won't be disobeying his orders."
He stood, undecided.
"Dear God – don't you understand? He's in danger! He's walking into a trap! I thought you were one of his few men to care about him." She snatched her arm from his hold. "Either stay or come with me, but I'll not fail him again!"
Whirling away, Christine raced down the next street.
xXx
The Phantom wove between shadows near the moonlit wharf.
His heightened sense of vision allowed him to see better than most in the misty blue-black darkness, the night air pungent with the day's catch, and the everpresent stench of human and animal waste. Moonlight rippled in a wide fringe off the Seine's black waters, and in the distance stretched the wooden bridge he earlier crossed with Christine, now quiet from the bustle of merchants who daily congregated there.
The streets were deserted, the occasional pig or dog trotting past, no sane individual walking its unlit streets or wishing to meet up with the nightwatch. Only the refuse of Paris partook of the darkness that shielded their clandestine acts of perfidy and villainy.
And the Phantom was one of those defiled, his twisted excuse for a face stripping from him any choice to be noble. In deed and in fact.
At last finding the shop of the vendor who sold parchment, he gave three swift raps, waited, then issued two more. The door swung open, and a giant of a man, taller than the Phantom and twice as massive, glared at him through pale eyes ringed in folds of fat.
"I have a meeting with Roget," the Phantom announced.
The surly greeter stood back for him to enter, and the Phantom did so warily, taking swift inventory of his surroundings. The long narrow room held a table with wooden boxes. Slotted pigeonholes contained papers in the wall to the left. Further, a torch high on the wall displayed five large casks stacked in precarious fashion to the right, held in place by a netting of rope. He stopped beside it.
A short squat man stepped forward dressed in fine linen, declaring himself the merchant. His husky aide stood behind him.
"You have the gold, Monsieur Fantôme?"
The Phantom pulled his cloak aside to exhibit the purse tied to his belt.
"You have the black powder?"
The merchant motioned behind him to the darkness.
The Phantom shook his head. "That will not do. I would see a demonstration of its use."
"I can do no such thing. The blast would take out the entire building. You have only to light a thin trail a long distance from the barrel to use it. The destructive force is greater than that of cannon fire."
"I was led to understand I would see the powder in action."
The Phantom spoke, all the while his eyes made a quick study around him. A lifetime of looking over his shoulder and dwelling in shadows attuned him to the nuances of danger and fashioned him into the leader he was. He could sense through behavior when words did not ring true. It was in the shift of the seller's eyes, the tense movement of his aide's arm, the sweat beading a brow, that the Phantom understood the true purpose for this nocturnal meeting.
A flash of metal in the darkness, barely discernible, was all the impetus needed.
Swiftly drawing his sword he cut the main rope holding the barrels. They fell with a horrendous crash and rolled toward the men, successfully impeding their movements. Soldiers appeared out of nowhere – the Phantom counted three – closing in. He cut down the first to reach him and sped for the door, wrenching it open. The giant lumbered behind, and the Phantom spun around and kicked the door inward, hitting the oaf in the face. He grabbed his bulbous nose from which blood poured and let out an enraged howl as the Phantom raced into the street, the two remaining soldiers in swift pursuit. Grimly knowing he had no choice but to engage in a battle to the death, he whirled to face them.
xXx
The faint glow of the moon did little to light the narrow path before Christine, and she almost missed the next turn. She had closed her mind to what made no sense, desperate to reach Erik. Mud squished in her slippers that stuck to the slippery ground, slowing her progress. At least Tobias no longer attempted to detain her, following behind. The trickle of water met her ears, and she realized they must be nearing the Seine.
The boy cried out, followed by a loud thump and a scuffle.
"RUN!" he shouted.
Before Christine could respond, a brutal hand clamped around her arm, yanking her backward, and she fell hard to the ground. Stars flashed before her, her head jarred with the blow. A heavy weight pounced atop her, grabbing handfuls of her woolen robe.
She screamed.
"What's this?" the gruff voice above said, pulling away her hood. Dark eyes leered at her. His fetid breath made her want to retch. "A woman in monk's garb? And comely at that!"
To her horror, she felt both robe and gown wrenched up, his callused hand rough above her bare knee.
"We got what we wanted," another man said, "let's go."
"Not before I have me some sport…" her attacker grunted, dragging up his tunic.
Christine screamed again, a sharp, terrified, piercing wail. He did not seem alarmed by the ruckus she made, too intent on his horrific goal, and she feared all was in vain. Finding her hands suddenly freed as he struggled to loose himself, she painted his face in blood, dragging her nails across bearded skin and digging her thumbs into his eyes.
He howled in pain, falling back, and she took the advantage, pushing him away with all her might. She scrambled to stand, barely aware that Tobias was now fighting the other man with his dagger. Her feet were bare, her slippers gone.
"RUN, MILADY!"
She had no need to be warned twice. Lifting the hem of her skirts to her knees Christine employed every ounce of strength, sobbing with her efforts and paying no heed to the pain that throbbed throughout her entire body.
From out of the sea of darkness ahead, a tall black figure emerged, the grey mist parting to let him pass, his pace determined and ruthless.
With a heartfelt sob, Christine covered the distance between them and hurled herself into the safety of his hard embrace, clutching the edges of his cloak in a death grip. He held her close a short moment then forcefully set her behind him.
In mute horror, she heard the deadly ring of steel as the Phantom withdrew his sword, noting the blood that already streaked it. Any terror for his safety was short-lived. Her attacker had no chance, his wild stab with a dagger coming short of the mark as the Phantom ducked and viciously swung his blade. A long ribbon of black glistened against the fiend's tunic as he dropped to his knees and fell face-down into a puddle of mud.
Turning to Christine, the Phantom barely caught her with one arm as she sank limply to the ground.
xXx
A/N: I know much of this doesn't make sense yet, but I won't keep you in the dark much longer, as I have Christine, and you will understand in time. ;-) ...Those still with me (I know the twists of my mind can get somewhat bizarre) thanks again for reviewing! :)