Disclaimer: I really still have to do these? Alright… I don't own anything, except Leah (yay!).
A/N: Hmmm… Thankyou for your reviews, as always, and please review!
Chapter 10
Two men burst through the doors of a local tavern, shattering the peace within.
Fear and horror was clearly plastered all over their faces, both of their bodies shook, but even though it was freezing outside the walls of the pub, not from the cold.
The interior of the tavern was a quiet warm haven, very empty if one considered the time of morning.
Mahogany tables and chairs were strewn about the room hap-hazardly, and most seats were uninhabited. It smelt of cooked bacon and cigar smoke inside, a stark contrast to the fresh if slightly cutting wind outdoors.
There was a pair of exotic sailors sitting at a central table, one of them chatting to a pretty blonde barmaid, an old man sitting quietly at the bar, and a young woman eating her breakfast ravenously in a booth by a window.
The fire flickered violently in the hearth as the wind from outside blasted through the still-open door, and the Maid rushed quickly over to shield it, her skirts swishing loudly in the silence.
The Bartender whirled around, expecting to see robbers or the Police, but his breath caught when he saw the dishevelled and obviously terrified grown men.
"My God! What has happened to you men?" He asked breathlessly.
The Architect collapsed into a seat and clutched his chest, while the Builder sat down beside him, his shaking hands making the sign of the cross.
The bartender brought them both steaming mugs of something, and the Builder took a long draught, his eyes unfocused.
"Renyer and I were both at the old Paris Opera, on a commission from the Prime Minister…" The Architect gasped between mouthfuls.
At this the young woman raised her head a little, and stared intently at the two men. She picked up her fallen knife and fork, and began to slowly eat again.
"I know you!" The Bartender said, a light seeming to come on behind his eyes, "You're the Prime Minister's Architect! And you're…" he trailed off, looking at the Builder.
"He… He's the Builder for the project," The Architect choked around another mouthful of the steaming concoction. The old man at the bar finally turned in his seat and looked at the new intruders, nodding as he too recognised them.
The Builder's shivers were finally subsiding, and his colour was returning, he clutched his mug tight, and was mumbling, "Never again, never again…"
"We, we saw a ghost! At the Opera!" The Architect exclaimed, earning scoffs from the sailors, and the barmaid now perched on the handsome sailor's lap giggled. "I swear to the Lord above that we did!"
"You really believe you saw a ghost?" The old man asked, "Did he wear a mask and dress in black formal ware?"
The Architect looked incredulously at the old man, "He? He? This apparition was as feminine as a length of the finest lace!" He exclaimed. "She gazed at me with her empty, wanton eyes and tried to coax us back to the land of the dead with her!" He finished with a flourish.
The barmaid gasped softly and buried herself into the sailor's chest, much to the man's delight.
The old man at the bar nodded and seemed to ponder this, and he shifted slightly in his seat. He sighed and raised a sceptical eyebrow.
"You do not believe my words Monsieur?" The Architect asked with his eyes wild and his clothes looking even more tousled in the warm glow of the fire in the grate. "Why don't I drag you down to that wretched site and leave you to the ghost herself?" At the mention of the ghost, the Builder, Reyner, who was staring into his mug, looked into the flickering fire, fear still present in his eyes.
"How… What else did she do?" The Bartender prompted, interrupting the unconvinced musings of the old man. He leaned forward, all of his attention on the pair.
"She wore a provocative shift that flowed with her black magic, and she moaned like a dying banshee! And… And…" He stopped, thinking, "She dropped something…"
Reyner moaned quietly, and whispered the Architect's name, "L'Enfer…" as he pulled out the yellowed envelope, seemingly just realising he still had it.
The Architect looked at the envelope like it was a contagious disease, but took it from the whitened hand.
"Yes, this is what she dropped…" L'Enfer said slowly.
Every head in the room craned to see this small piece of parchment.
"Well, open it," The Bartender said in a tense voice, seemingly the only person in the room still able to speak.
The Architect looked at the red flowing handwriting on the envelope. It was addressed to 'Monsieur L'Architect'.
He turned it over slowly in his hands, and stared at the leering red skull for a moment before breaking the seal in disgust.
He pulled out one sheet of yellowed parchment filled with the same graceful handwriting that the letter was addressed with.
"Read it," The Bartender said, his voice barley audible in the hush.
The Architect gulped, and read:
"'Dear Monsieur L'Architect,
Fondest Greetings to you all, a few instructions just before construction starts:
The Opera Ghost still walks these halls, and still haunts these stones. Really, he is a peaceful creature, and if left alone, is willing to live a harmonious life with those above. Yet you wish to destroy what remains of his Opera, even when he has done nothing to you. The Ghost finds this exceedingly offensive.
You wish to build a new Opera, and gut out the cellars, even though they remain in-tact, and are a danger to no one who wishes the Opera Ghost no harm.
He agrees with building a new Opera House, the streets of dear old Paris have been without the ring of Concertos and the squawk of sopranos for too long. But why not leave the cellars? The Ghost strongly advises that you do.
If these requests are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur…
I remain, Gentlemen, your obedient Servant,
O.G.'"
For a few moments, silence reigned in the cosy tavern, and all that could be heard was the creak of the sign outside above the door, and the wind in the shutters.
The Architect looked up, his eyes even wider than before. "The… The ghost survived the fire," He gulped nervously.
"Or the Ghost's ghost did," whispered the Bartender.
Reyner drained his mug, swallowed slowly, and uttered his first intelligible sentence since entering the tavern. "The Opera Ghost is back."
All in the tavern nodded solemnly, for who could doubt the scared men and the calm yet strangely menacing note?
Through all this, a silent figure in a dark hooded cape had sat in a corner, nursing a beer, listening intently.
At last he sighed and removed his hood.