Chapter 11
Discovery
At the edge of Paris was a seedy area. On a street in that area was a seedy casino. And in that seedy casino, was one Phillippe de Chagny.
The cards were flipped over onto the table. Several groans went up, and one fist came down.
"I'm sick of this! I'm sick of losing! I'm leaving," De Chagny growled with such ferocity that his neighbors jumped in fright. He shoved himself up off the table and turned, prepared to flee the establishment that had so cursed him with rotten luck.
On his way out, a man stepped in his way. Tall and well built, his presence emanated strength and authority. "Now, just a moment please, Comte de Chagny; I'm sure waiting here just a FEW more seconds will turn out unprecedented awards... you don't even have to play..." The bodyguard glanced nervously at a black paned window to his right.
"I SAID MAKE THAT MAN WIN! NOW!"
"Y-y-yes, s-sir..." A young man fumbled over papers and various switches, whacking a large white one down.
A small light behind a table to the left flickered on, then off. The dealer froze then swiftly dropped a card down his sleeve before dealing another hand. Each player picked up their card; their facial expressions varied across the table, but one obviously stuck out.
"I win! I WIN! A million francs! Look at my luck!" The winner was practically jumping with glee. "I'll never have to work again! Never! Oh, life is treating me well..." Scooping up his ticket, the man hurried off to claim his money.
Phillippe's eyes nearly burst out of his head.
The chair groaned with his weight, but Phillippe barely noticed, his eyes too focused on the cards the dealer held while a greedy look crossing his face. He had to win. He would win. He was lucky, and God shone his good grace upon him. After so many losses, there was NO way that he could possibly lose. One couldn't lose that many times.
"I want to play. I want to play NOW."
With a smirk, the casino guard behind him turned and nodded his head towards the shaded window.
A circle of cigar smoke puffed from the man's mouth as he lied back and watched the money roll in. He was slightly rounded (evidently from rich food) and had tanned skin with black hair. His beard and mustache were trimmed neatly; his clothing was opulent; his eyes held a disdain for virtually everything he saw: nothing was good enough for him.
It was clear he had never worked a day in his life.
Rolling out of his plush chair, he straightened up and walked to the window, leaning against it with his eyes fixed on one blond haired blue eyed aristocrat.
At that table, the final cards were turned up, and an infuriated expression contorted the man's face.
More money down the drain...
"Oh Phillippe, when will you ever learn?" The owner's soft mumblings could only be heard by himself. "I hope I'm right. That I haven't gone through all this trouble with you and your scum for nothing... That would really be a waste. Of my time, that is." He chuckled quietly.
Stroking his beard with one hand, he reveled in the pain and misery he had created. Phillippe sat there, utterly addicted, without a thought in the world for his family or the pain he caused them. Just greed, a desire to win, a need to win.
Only a man like me could create such a thing. I, who have perfected my control of those surrounding me. They need me, but I certainly don't need them. Oh, the joys of being a wealthy casino owner.
He glanced around to the other tables. Those men, too, were addicted. Rendered helpless. Of course, they were nowhere near as important to his plans, but a little extra money never hurt... He laughed again. Not like this petty cash could compare to his own fortunes.
Someone knocked at the door.
"Let him in." One of his workers scrambled to the knob. Settling himself back down on his chair, he prepared for his news.
As his visitor entered, he pulled off the black wrap that had been obscuring the majority of his face. His clothes were black, designed to blend into dark alleys and corners where he could go unnoticed.
"Master, I have news. I was at the jail earlier today, just as you ordered. Your source was right, they did capture one of his men, and-"
"Which one was it?"
"It was the one that blended in with the servants to gain access."
"Eh, he's expendable. Continue."
The spy gulped. "Um... well, the Vicomte was there. He tried to get the file on the thief out, but the detective came back and became suspicious. De Chagny blew it off, and then was asked to help with the questioning of the prisoner." He chuckled darkly. "Oh, you should have seen that old idiot's face when de Chagny walked in. Almost fainted. Anyways, after he and the inspector walked in, the prisoner spewed a lot of rubbish about never revealing his secrets. The inspector figured he couldn't get anything else out of him, and left with the Vicomte, before threatening him a little. Vicomte de Chagny became enraged, and threatened him right back, causing the detective to back off. The thief is still a prisoner though. That's all, Master."
Giving a small nod, the rotund man dismissed his henchman with a wave of his hand, before turning back to face the card table.
Well, this is certainly a puzzle. What to do with this man...
There were several paths that could be taken, but deciding which one to select would be extraordinarily difficult. What to make of all those unpredictable variables that factored in?
The first option was quite simple: kill the prisoner.
He loved simplicity. And nothing solved a problem faster than murder.
It would prevent the thief from talking, even on accident, and thus possibly blowing their cover. Raoul might be grateful; the man's life probably didn't mean much to him. However, he could also become upset. It was also a loss of possible deals. Murders generally caused suspicion too... It might turn the detectives onto their track. Unless of course, he was poisoned so the signs of murder weren't obvious, and it was unlikely that the detectives would spend hours on end attempting to find his killer.
The second option required no work: leaving him in prison.
It would stand as an example to those who became sloppy. He could also be broken out later, if he didn't talk, to show the rewards of remaining loyal. It would also leave no connections to him. Then again, if he did talk, it was possible the trail could be traced from Raoul to him... Not that the authorities could challenge him. And if they did, it's not like he would pay attention. He owned an illegal casino for crying out loud! He didn't care about laws!
Option three: Break him out, and return him to Raoul to entrench him further in debt.
Bringing more debt to the de Chagny's? Always a wonderful pastime. Raoul could be grateful for the return of the thief expert. Breaking him out would also prevent any information from slipping through the prisoner's lips. Likely untraceable, but that could also be a drawback. But...he was stupid enough to be caught once, so it could happen again.
Ugh, why does everything have to be so hard to decide?
The third course was probably wisest. On the other hand, it resulted in a lot of happy endings.
He hated happy endings.
Groaning, he rubbed his fingers on the bridge of his nose, trying to rid himself of his aching headache. Snapping his fingers, he barked, "Get me a drink! Now!" Someone scurried off to fetch his alcohol.
With drink now in hand, the casino owner turned back to the tables, where Phillippe again looked ready to leave. Not willing to wait for his incompetent workers, the owner flipped the light switch on and off, and yet another card slipped out of the dealer's sleeve.
More raucous screams of delight filled the air as Phillippe's neighbor jumped up, celebrating his victory. As he had earlier in the evening, Phillippe again committed to the game, despite the staggering amount of debt he had managed to build up.
A smile pulled the corners of the owner's lips up.
"Master? Can I ask you about that man? The more I know, the more relevant information I can find out about him and his brother." His spy had taken a brazen step forward from the back of the room where he had been waiting.
The owner's eyes narrowed as he turned around. "Yes?"
The spy shuffled his feet nervously, staring at the floor the entire time. "Master... Why do you need him so much that you've stopped him from leaving so many times?"
The atmosphere of the room shifted drastically.
Rising from his chair, his eyes narrowing, his fists clenching, the response to his worker's question was obvious. This was forbidden territory.
Through clenched teeth, he spit, "I don't NEED anybody. NOBODY. Other people need ME. Do I make myself clear? Get out lowly slave, return to your post! And don't come back until you have several detailed plans as to breaking the prisoner out. Now GET OUT. OUT!"
Bumbling out of the room, he mumbled half formed apologies in his haste. All other servants shrank back, fearing their master's wrath.
The owner simply stood next to his seat, too angry to relax; his glare again focused on Phillippe.
HA! Like I NEED the de Chagny's. Like I need to deal with Raoul. Like I need Phillippe here gambling. Like I need the problems the thieves create. Like I need the Opera House...
His face mashed into a snarl of rage, and the glass in his hand shattered, the thousands of pieces tinkling as they hit the floor.
Erik looked down at the shattered lantern on the floor; some of the glass pieces still tinkling as they fell back to the earth from when he had thrown it in rage.
Congratulations Erik, are you happy now? Lost your only source of light. Well, seeing isn't exactly a problem, but seeing well enough to notice any clues as to where she went is a different matter. I'm an idiot.
Erik sunk to his knees, groaning in black despair into his hands.
I'm never going to find her. I've lost my only chance...
No. Can't think that way. Clear my mind, go back, and start over again. I had to have missed something. Then you'll find her quickly and she'll be safe and sound. Ha... what's the likelihood of that! She was probably so terrified of you she ran away and doesn't want to be found...
Shoving himself off the ground, Erik trotted back to his lair, his shoulders drooping in dejection.
By the time the corridors began to change from deadly traps to deadlier traps, Erik's thoughts had taken a new direction. He was the only one that knew where all of these traps were. Not even the daroga or Madame Giry could find ALL of them, and they had known him for years. Christine had only known him as a man for a short time, it was entirely possible that she had fallen into one of his traps and was lying injured or dead. Her recent encounter with a poison dart had already made it quite obvious that she had a penchant for discovering the deadliest traps.
Erik's breath caught in his throat. He began to run.
Faster, Erik, faster. Oh Christine... where are you? Faster! The sooner I get back the sooner I can start again.
Finally reaching his lair, Erik slowed to a jog as he moved in circles within the main entrance, as the pain took him. Christine had left... but he still had her cat. She loved that cat. She had to come back for the cat, didn't she?
Running to the music room where he had trapped Sir Marque, Erik lifted up the box and dragged out the fat kitty. Yowling in protest, Sir Marque attempted to scratch Erik's face, but a Phantom's arms can hold a cat quite far away.
His sharp claws scratched Erik's arm, leaving a sign of his hate. Not only did Christine's cat hate him... but if she had run away, she certainly hated him too. She might not come back, even for her cat.
Sir Marque was all that was left. Erik sobbed.
Why would she want to stay with Erik, when she could have so much better? Erik, again rejected because she saw his face when she hit him with that oar. Erik deserves to be rejected for being so hideous. Who could love a face like this?
Lifting the cat to his face, Erik pressed his soft fur to his face as the little nose he had left began to leak. Sir Marque yowled as his fur became wet with tears and snot.
Holding the cat back again, Erik wiped his nose with his hand, as a new plan came to mind. Could cats track? Could he find Christine? He needed to find her scent first...
The couch! She sat on the couch!
Pressing Sir Marque's face to the couch, Erik rubbed the cat back and forth across the fabric, hoping to have Sir Marque pick up Christine's scent.
It didn't quite work out that way.
Now that his arch nemesis had freed him from his cage, Sir Marque was again free to begin his ravaging attacks on Erik's pants; leaping through the air, the cat landed nimbly on the ground before his biting and clawing began. Yowls of cat rage and curses of human pain echoed throughout the room.
In the bathroom, a different scene was unfolding.
Christine's eyes shot open. Erik was back! As she was still trapped by the mysterious force that held her body and voice hostage, he was the only one that could help her. Trying to move again, she realized that while some motor ability had come back to her hands and part of her legs, she still could not move the majority of her body. Opening her mouth, Christine let out a hoarse croak, barely more than a whisper.
How is he going to notice me if I still can't talk, or make much noise?
Panic began to set in, and she frantically began moving whatever she could; she attempted to spit out the word 'help', but had a slurred mumble come out instead. Again she tried, sloshing water, and continuing her slurred speech.
Hearing the fight outside, she knew it was useless. The pair was simply too loud.
Sir Marque evidently HATED Erik (for reasons Christine couldn't fathom), and there was little anyone could do to halt a devil-cat attack. Sir Marque would fixate on Erik, just as he had fixated on Meg once or twice, and attack until beaten back or victory was his. Or... until someone offered him food.
That was always one strategy to distract a ravenous cat.
Christine had a special noise she made whenever she had a treat for Sir Marque, or any food in general. As he was frequently lurking somewhere nearby, it became necessary to call him whenever it was time to eat. A simple snap usually did the trick.
But could she do it now? Christine steeled herself, and pressed her fingers together, willing the sound to come.
Snap. A few seconds pause. Snap.
Outside, a grey head shot up, eyes zeroing in on the bathroom door.
Food.
Fleeing his adversary, Sir Marque launched himself at the door, biting and clawing the wood, gnawing the corner that he could barely reach. Erik stumbled backwards in surprise, wondering how on earth that cat became so unpredictable.
The box Sir Marque had previously been trapped in still sat in the music room; creeping backwards, Erik extended his hand, searching for his cat-catcher. In one swift movement, Erik grabbed the box and threw it towards Sir Marque, where it landed perfectly atop him. Sprinting back towards the feline, Erik threw his weight upon the box, preventing the escape of his foe.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Several soft noises drew Erik's attention. Was someone still in the bathroom? Was it Christine?
"Christine?" Erik knocked the door lightly. "Are you in there?"
Snapsnap. Snapsnap. Snapsnapsnap.
There had been a definite increase in speed as he called her name. Jiggling the door knob, Erik found it locked.
"Heshmusp." Christine's word stuck in her tongue, unwilling to leave properly pronounced.
"Christine! Christine, why won't you open the door?" His frantic voice no longer concealed the fret he felt over her disappearance. "Christine!"
"Hahslup." Louder, though still unrecognizable, her tone implied the help she needed.
A shoulder slammed against the bathroom door, knocking the wood solidly off the hinges, and Erik stumbled into the room. Christine whacked her hand against the side of the tub.
For half a second, Erik's eyes widened as he took in the scene before him. Averting his gaze, he began sputtering half formed apologies before another garbled cry from Christine alerted him to her distress. Kneeling next to the tub, he held her face in his hands as he searched for any signs of injury.
Finding none, he came to the only conclusion he could.
"The poison... oh no... oh no oh no..."
Reaching around for a towel, Erik tried to hand it to Christine. However, people with little motor function can rarely prevent towels from falling into bathtubs. As the first was now sopping wet, Erik found another one, setting it down next to him as he pulled her body out of the tub. Still murmuring his half-formed apologies, his eyes stayed pointedly fixed on the ceiling as he ran the towel over her to get rid of most of the moisture.
"Eriuhk." Erik looked down, his gaze fixing on her face. A smile tugged the corner of Christine's lips upwards.
"I'm so sorry." His words were barely a murmur, but sometimes it is the quietest words that speak loudest. Christine's hand twitched and moved several inches onto his leg.
Scooping her up, Erik pulled Christine back towards the couch, and after setting her down grabbed a nearby blanket to cocoon her in. After swathing her in layers, his hands rested on her neck, touching her throat and turning her head left and right, looking for any sign of damage. Only the resilient red prick mark remained.
"Christine... I'm worried about your health. I managed to remove most of the poison when I first found you, but it was a very potent mixture... I fear that this lack of motion is entirely due to the poison, and not just one of your fainting spells.
"Vuhoiceuh"
"What?"
"Voice-uh"
"Your voice? Yes, it does appear to be coming back. We have to get moving though, so I can bring you to a friend of mine to make sure there's no permanent body damage..."
"Voice. Sulhing. Sing."
"You want me to sing you a song?" Erik's eyes widened a pinch. Of all the things she could ask for right now, when she was in such a dire state...
"No. Mah voice. Can ay sing stuhll?" Her eyes held a desperate plea.
The realization hit him. She was concerned about the future of her singing career when she could be so hurt! Maybe it was the poison addling her brain... he hadn't even considered that type of damage up until this point. He needed to get her moving right away, but to where? Who would help someone in such a suspicious situation, where one has "accidentally" gotten a hearty dose of poison, and is accompanied by a masked man? No respectable doctor would. There was nowhere they could turn.
Except... possibly an old friend with lots of experience in Persian poison would help them. A Persian police chief saw quite a bit of that action a few years ago... and he could help heal Christine. Was he an excellent doctor? Yes. A highly respected doctor by French standards? No. But he still owed one opera ghost a favor...
Crossing to the bookshelf nearby, Erik hunted for the book where the hastily scrawled address was written. Throwing the book on a nearby table he flipped open his book to the correct page, before realizing he still hadn't answered Christine's question. There was no sure way to know if her voice would return or not, but preventing stress was more important than the truth at this point.
"Christine, I'm sure your voice will recover wonderfully, and you'll be singing on the stage in just a few days, with Carlotta glaring jealously from the chorus. What worries me most is your body, there could be serious dam- uh, I just want to make sure everything goes perfectly. Nothing to worry about. Just get you checked out by a doctor I know. Can you move at all?"
Her leg moved weakly in response. It wasn't enough.
Pulling her body up into his arms, Erik set off for the gondola on the lake. He set her gently in the boat. Christine rested against the side while he shoved the craft off, making hasty movements. Each moment spent on the water felt like an eternity.
The edge of the boat gave a soft clunk when it hit the other end. Again, Erik leaned down to scoop up Christine before going on their way, headed to the exit near the small stable he kept his horse Cesar in.
His legs pumped faster and faster with each passing second. Paying little attention to his surroundings, Erik rounded the corner too quickly, and his stop was almost a second too late.
A trapdoor fell open mere inches in front of them. The bottom was not visible, the only thing that could be heard was a small plunking noise and a guttural growl.
Fear evident in his eyes, Erik scooted around the edge and up through the exit to the street. He had been so close to losing her.
Once safely in the stable, Erik made his way to Cesar's stall and pulled it open, grabbing a few carrots from the feed bucket as an offering. Cesar nuzzled his hand, and poked his head against Christine's blanket swathed body. Erik saddled the horse and plopped Christine on top before leaping up himself to steady her.
Cesar's long legs moved them out of the stable in seconds and into the dark night, illuminated only by the full bright moon. The wind howling in the trees seemed to be calling to him, sending lost messages. He looked down at the girl he was supporting; she smiled, her white teeth glowing in the darkness. The small red prick on her neck brought back the memory of what he had done, of the tortures he had devised to protect himself from those he always knew would come to take their revenge one day.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry." The incident with the trapdoor was still entrenched firmly in the front of his mind. All of those traps, they had to go. No one could ever get hurt down there again.
He would never pose a threat to Christine again.
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A/N: As promised, here is the second half of the monster chapter. If nobody figured out before, there actually IS a plot to this story! I'm sorry, I meant to upload this a day or two ago, but life happened and killed my internet access for extended periods of time. I've already filed a complaint with life's secretary, so no worries. Thanks to my reviewers!
Review please?
