Chapter 12 – The Masquerade
A/N: Hiya peoples! Sorry it took me so dang long to update. I really have no excuse, other than that I've been studying REALLY hard for a science test. So...don't kill me. (Peace sign)
OH! That reminds me! Of two things, actually. Number 1 - the story is coming to an end. Probably one or two more chapters after this, then it'll be over. :'( As for the second thing...I got Susan Kay's Phantom at the bookstore yesterday! WOOT! Apparently it's out of print or something...I dunno...the point is, I HAVE IT. It's mine. And I'm already one-quarter of the way through. (Hugs book protectively)
Okay...enough of that. DISCLAIMER: I own very little, if not nothing. It's all Leroux's. And Webber's. Except for the things that are mine. :D Moving on! The story.
What was she doing on a beach? She didn't know. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. But she did know that just before landing on the beach, she'd hit the water…
Water. A boat. That was it. Her hand reached up to touch the wound on her head. It was an old wound, but she had hit it on the bottom of the boat when she fell in the water, and it had reopened. She wiped the blood away with her sleeve.
She'd always hated that color. Red. The color of blood. The color of the wounds her father inflicted on her whenever he beat her. Red red red red red red…father. Her father. Tall, darkly handsome. What he did for a living…married rich women. Killed them. Lived on their inheritance. Scum. The lowest scum of the earth.
Where was he?
Other memories gnawed at the back of her mind, but she pushed them away. This was important. She tried to focus her thoughts on her father. What did she remember about him? It seemed like such a long time…a long time since she'd seen him last…
"Don't approach! You filthy thing, I don't want you close, do you hear me?"
That was right. He'd pushed her…she'd hit her head. But that had been at the Paris Opera House, in Box 5.
Why was she on a beach?
"Well, I see you've bothered to wake up. Rather rude of you to make me wait for you, don't you think?"
She looked up, and there he was. Handsome as always, yet undeniably evil. Dark. Cruel. Heartless. She knew better than to speak. She watched him without making a sound. He grinned. His teeth glittered in the cold light. His smile was terrifying. This was his true smile. Yet she felt no fear.
"You know, you look like a rat." He grinned. "A drowned rat. A drowned albino rat." He stepped forward and rested a hand on her head, as if in a caress. Then, suddenly, his hand fisted and he jerked her to her feet by her hair.
"You're a freak, you know that? You're a filthy little freak. You belong in a circus."
"Father, I -"
His hand struck her cheek. She didn't turn away, didn't bring a hand up to touch the red mark flaming on her pale skin.
"How could you?!" he screamed. "You ran away, you left, you disappeared! I thought you were dead! And then you turned up again with that – that – that masked man! I missed you," he said, his voice suddenly lowering to a near-unintelligible murmur. "I wanted you to come back. I wanted to get you back. But you always…somehow…that man…I couldn't get near you." His face twisted in a snarl. "That night in Paris, I had you! I had you in my arms, and he…" He broke off, emitting strangled sobs. Then he spoke again, and this time his voice was flat, even, dangerous.
"He made you pretty," he said. "You don't deserve to be pretty. But you were pretty." He turned suddenly, his teeth gleaming as he grinned, a maniacal glint in his eye. "You can't be pretty. You must be punished."
Her eyes widened as she saw what he held. A half-scream, half-wail tore from her throat – a horrible sound to hear, a sound that would have instilled pity in any heart but his. Lunging forward, he seized her by the hair and raised the whip.
Outside, dark clouds rolled closer, and a crash of thunder drowned out her first scream.
OoOoOoOoO
Erik didn't know what to do. Now that he was at the beach, all he did was stand on the sand, staring off across the ocean as the storm clouds rolled overhead. Thunder crashed nearby, but he didn't move.
"Winter…" he murmured. Then, again. "WINTER!"
Her name faded away into the distance, without even so much as one echo to mock his grief as he fell to the sand, silent sobs wracking his body as he mourned the loss of the one thing that had given him the will to live when he thought he had nothing left to live for.
He stayed that way for hours, even after the rain began to fall. Drenched to the bone, cold, exhausted from crying, he finally fell asleep on the beach. And that was how Mademoiselle Swann found him when the storm had passed: lying prone on the sand, apparently either unconscious or lightning-struck.
Emitting a short scream, she ran towards him and fell to her knees by his side. As she reached out to touch him, a hand shot out and grabbed one of her wrists. Erik's eyes flew open, blazing dangerously in the dim light of the morning.
"Don't."
She shuddered. "But, M. Erik…I thought you were dead…"
He sat up and stared out across the ocean. "No. I will not die. I have a reason to live, you know. Until I know for certain that she's dead…"
By this time, Marie had learned that Winter had fallen overboard, so she knew what Erik was talking about. She was dying to ask him questions about his last comment before leaving the inn - the statement about the "Phantom's wrath' - but she knew that now was not the time. As she watched him sitting there, gazing out across the waves, a thought came to her. Carefully, hesitantly, she reached out her hand again.
"I know…of a place…" she began cautiously. He looked at her, his eyes imploring her to continue. "It's a cave, not far from here, that has an entrance that opens onto a beach." She laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "Many people have washed up there…some too late, but the majority…"
Erik was already on his feet and assisting her to hers. "Show me this place."
As soon as he caught sight of the cave, he ran ahead and burst through the entrance, his heart swelling with hope. He entered a large area with a sandy floor, which opened out onto a large hole in the rock with a view of a small bay that let out into the sea. At first, he was devastated to find no one, but then he saw it. A blue ribbon, lying on the sand. Darting over, he snatched it up and inspected it.
"It's Winter's," he breathed. "She's been -" He broke off when his eyes fell upon the sand that the ribbon had been lying on.
It was stained, with a dark russet substance that he recognized only too well. Blood.
Swiftly, his mind put two and two together. At the same moment Marie entered the cave, he turned to her, the ribbon wrapped around his wrist.
"It's him. He's found her."
"Who's he?" Marie asked. Erik shook his head.
"I don't know. A man…he's been appearing a lot lately. Following us. He was the same man on the boat, I'm sure of it. He's connected to Winter in some way…and he's found her." His gaze darted from the ribbon to the stained sand and back to her. "Paris."
"…I beg your pardon?"
"Paris. He's got to be in Paris. That's where he was most of the time before. He must have followed us here. I have to go back."
Marie stared at him. "Monsieur Erik, don't you think you might be jumping to conclusions?"
He fixed his most intimidating glare on her. "Winter is out there with someone who intends her harm. I am going to find him, and I am going to hurt him as badly in every way as he has hurt her. Now, let's return to the inn."
OoOoOoOoO
The daroga was, to say the least, somewhat surprised when Darius entered his study at 2 o'clock the following afternoon and announced a visitor. Wondering who it could be, he stood up and ordered Darius to bring the man in. Darius did so.
"Erik! What on earth – why are you here? I thought you were on vacation! Where's Winter?" Then the daroga noticed how horribly thin and weak Erik looked. "Great Scott, man, what's got into you? What's wrong?"
Erik stood with one hand on the doorframe. "Daroga. He's got her. He's got her and there's nothing I can do. I can't find her…I need your help." He stepped forward and opened his hand. "Do you recognize this?"
The daroga moved closer and looked down at the object balancing on the Phantom's palm. "No. But I do know that it's a seal ring, fairly expensive by the looks of it." As he reached out to take it, Erik swayed dangerously, and the daroga looked at him in alarm.
"Are you alright?"
Erik smiled. "Traveled all last night and half the day to get here, daroga. No food, no drink, no sleep…not that that's abnormal for me. I'll be fine." And as the daroga took the ring, Erik fell to the floor in a faint.
OoOoOoOoO
She sat across from her father in the carriage. His chin rested on his chest, and he was apparently asleep. She watched him for a time before turning her head and staring out of the window at the passing scenery. Since there was nothing else to do, she reached back into her mind and tried to pull out the distant memories that had somehow become at least partially suppressed – most likely by her sudden recovery from her amnesia, along with her fear of her father. She frowned as she worked on extracting the memories. One of them was a song – a song that she had sung, one evening, at a place called The Tom-Cat Inn. With a fearful glance at her father, she opened her mouth and began to sing quietly.
"Dancing bears, painted wings,
Things I almost remember,
And a song someone sings
Once upon a December." An image began to form in her mind: a tall, thin man, wrapped in a black cloak, wearing…a mask?
"Someone holds me safe and warm,
Horses prance through a silver storm,
Figures dancing gracefully
Across my memo -"
She broke off as her father lunged forward and struck her a violent blow across the face that sent her sprawling onto her seat. "DON'T SING THAT!" he roared. "You do not speak unless I give you permission, and under no conditions do you sing. Is that understood?!"
She said nothing, only nodded, tears slipping soundlessly out from under her closed eyes and falling down her cheeks as she laid across the seat. Finally, she slipped away from the outside world and into a land of dreams, where no one wanted to hurt her and one man kept her safe from all harm…a masked man, with a beautiful voice and a dark past…
An indeterminable amount of time later, she was shaken roughly awake by her father. Sitting up, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and realized faintly that they had arrived at their townhouse.
"Hurry up and come on," her father snapped. "You need to get cleaned up. Mademoiselle Henrietta Moreaux is expecting me shortly, and your current state simply won't do."
Once inside, she was taken upstairs by servants who then stripped her and put her in a bath. They showed no mercy as they scrubbed her wounded back, but she knew better than to cry out. She bit her lip until it bled, trying not to cry.
When that was done, they got her out of the bathtub and put her in a cream-colored robe. Then, she sat in front of a mirror without moving as they combed out her long, mercury-colored hair and did it up in a loose braid. Then she heard them open scissors and cut it off. She showed no emotion as they laid the braid of hair on the table in front of her.
They then started to tidy the rest of her hair up, clipping and snipping at it. As she watched them in the mirror, they rubbed brown dye into her hair, then combed pomade into it and brushed it back so that she looked like a boy. Then they took her and dressed her in male clothing: polished black boots, long black pants, and a white poet's shirt, laced up the front. She stared at herself in the mirror, not recognizing the person before her. She looked completely different. A dark-haired young boy, with blue eyes that looked completely empty.
The door opened, and she didn't need to turn around to know who it was. She ventured a question. "Father, why did you have the servants do this to me?"
"Because," he responded curtly, "there is a man who may be searching for you, and if you are disguised thus, he will not be able to find you." His image appeared behind hers in the mirror. "Hmm. You're much better-looking as a boy. I think that I shall keep you this way after we return from our visit from Mlle. Henrietta's." His hand rested on her head for a moment, then clenched into a fist and jerked upwards, bringing some of her hair with it. "And while we're there, don't you dare pull any of your freakish little tricks, you hear? No changing your voice. No talking to anybody, unless they ask you a question. And above all, do not sing!"
He released her hair and grabbed her hand. "Come. We're expected."
OoOoOoOoO
Mademoiselle Henrietta had a surprise. Ever since having met M. Audric's young son, whose name she had, oddly enough, never learned, she had wanted to do something to cheer the boy up. He had seemed so sad and quiet – Audric had said that it was because he got teased because of his girlish appearance. After much thought and planning, the young and immensely rich woman had come up with the idea of holding a masquerade ball at the Paris Opera House – oddly enough, the place where she and Audric had first met.
She let out a quiet, dreamy sigh as her carriage drove along towards the Opera House. She wondered if Audric was also thinking of that fateful night when he had come to visit her in her box.
Suddenly, the carriage came to a halt, and a few moments later, her door was opened and the driver poked his head inside.
"We've arrived, milady," he said politely. "Can I help you down?"
She was about to consent, when the driver was gently pushed out of the way and Audric himself appeared in his place. "I think I would find more joy in the action," he said languidly, then addressing Henrietta: "If I may, Mlle. Moreaux?"
"Of course," she said primly, and allowed him to assist her from the carriage. Once she was standing on the ground, she observed his costume.
"Oh, Audric, you look stunning! What are you dressed as, a highwayman?"
"You've hit it on the nose," he chuckled, drawing a black silk mask from one of the pockets of his coat and slipping it over his head. "And now, if you will allow me to kidnap you and demand the first dance of the evening…?"
She giggled like a little girl. "Of course! But where is your son?" she inquired. Audric rolled his eyes good-naturedly.
"Ah, that little scoundrel, always wandering off somewhere. Hoy, you!" he called. "Over here, now!"
The young boy came walking up to them, and Henrietta gasped and placed her gloved fingers delicately to her lips.
"Oh, my! Aren't you just adorable!" she cooed. Winter, still masquerading as a boy, managed a faint smile. "You must have the cutest costume at the masquerade ball!"
She was dressed as a kitten. The dye had been removed from her hair so that it returned to its natural color – everyone there who had seen her prior to that evening would probably assume it was a wig – and a stiff band with fake white kitten ears rested on top of her head. She was wearing a white shirt, pants, shoes, and gloves, and a white belt with a kitten tail on the back, along with a white cat mask, completed the picture.
"Mlle. Moreaux has paid you a compliment. Now, be a good little kitten and meow for her." Audric's tone was joking, but she knew he meant every word of it. She turned her gaze on Henrietta and let out a quiet "meow".
"Oh, you're just so adorable! Come along, I want to show you to everyone." Hooking her arm through Audric's, Henrietta walked away, chatting happily with the man while Winter trailed after them.
She didn't remember that someone had used to call her Winter, of course; as far as she knew, she had no name. She knew there was something buried deep in her mind, something underneath all the memories of pain and fear, but every time she tried to reach it, her father found out and stopped her, so she had left off trying. Anyway, even if she did have a name once upon a time, she didn't seem to have one now. Her father called her everything from "brat" to "you little monster", and nowadays "boy" and "child", but she had yet to hear an actual name directed at her issue forth from his lips.
They had arrived in the main ballroom. It was enormously huge and grand, with lots of sparkling chandeliers, gently glowing candles, and people! So many people! She stood and stared at them in awe until her father ordered her to take a seat, so she meandered off in search of one.
She ended up going up a set of stairs and moving onto a balcony that overlooked the main ballroom. Leaning against the railing, she looked down at all the people and felt safe – safe from everyone so far below her. That was probably why she had always liked heights, she reflected thoughtfully; a great deal of people disliked them, her father included, so she always felt safer and somehow protected when she was up high. It also proved to her – in her mind at least – that no matter what, she would never be like her father. While her father was a manipulating rat who stayed on the ground and attacked innocent, helpless things and people – like Mademoiselle Moreaux, for instance – she went up to high places and stayed there, like a bird. She paused, frowned – no, not like a bird. More like a snowflake, because no matter how high up she started the day, she always had to come back down to earth, where she became one of many, ignored by the world around her.
As she sighed heavily, she suddenly became aware that someone was behind her. Turning quickly, she found herself staring up at a tall, foreign man without a mask or costume. She stared at him. He stared back. Then, finally, he spoke.
"…Winter?"
She blinked. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid you must have the wrong person," she said. "I'm not -"
"No, it is you," he interrupted. "I recognize your voice. Don't tell me you don't remember."
"I don't know who you are!" she exclaimed. "I'm not this 'Winter' person. Now I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to talk to strangers. If you'll excuse me..." She tried to move past him, but he stepped in her path and, reaching out, gripped her shoulder, forcing her to stay still.
"Your name is Winter," he said slowly and steadily. "We have a mutual friend, you and I, a friend named Erik. He's tall, thin, and wears a black mask."
The image of the tall masked man flickered across her mind. "I remember his appearance, a little," she said uncertainly.
"Then that means you do remember – somewhere, deep inside. Please, try to remember, Winter!"
"My name isn't Winter!"
"It's the name Erik gave you," the man insisted with a quiet sense of desperation in his voice, his expression, his entire manner. "Look, whatever that man you came here with told you – whatever he's done to you – it doesn't matter. You've got to remember. I'm not going to take you away against your will, but please, please remember!"
"Remember what?" she said, her voice rising as she became near hysterical. "What do you want me to remember?"
"Oh, no," he said, suddenly becoming distressed, "I'm frightening you, aren't I?" Releasing her abruptly, the man stepped back and knelt down so that he was roughly at her height. "Look at me, Winter. You know me. I am the daroga. You came over to my flat with Erik and helped my servant Darius make dinner. You got a bloody nose in the kitchen, remember?"
Involuntarily, she closed her eyes and dug deep into her mind. An image flickered across her mind – a large puddle of blood on the floor. Her hands – bloody. A masked man – the masked man – pinning another man against the wall.
"You were there," she said softly. "And he – the masked man – he was angry…because I was hurt."
The daroga nodded. "Yes, you were hurt. You ran away, remember? Out into the street."
She did remember. Now other memories started coming: her making a cake with the masked man. Having lunch on the roof of somewhere with the masked man. The masked man – no mask now – sitting on the floor crying. She realized with a jolt that she was crying too, tears running down her face behind her mask. Then she realized with another jolt that she remembered it all – everything.
The daroga knelt in front of her, watching her intently like a hawk. "Winter?" he asked tentatively, then gasped as she flung herself at him and buried her face in his shirt.
"Daroga! I want to go home!" she sobbed. "I want Erik! I WANT ERIK!"
"Hush, it's going to be fine," he said, stroking her hair. "It's going to be fine. That's what I'm here for. Erik sent me here to look for you. He's at my flat, he came down with a cold so he couldn't come, but I'm here and I'm going to -"
"Hey, you! Step away from him!"
The daroga's gaze snapped to the staircase. Audric was running up it towards them, taking the steps two at a time, rage blazing on every feature of his face. Pushing Winter away, the Persian stood up and placed the girl behind him.
"No. She's not going with you," he said steadily. "She's afraid of you. Get away."
"I think you'll find," Audric snarled, "that that little brat is going with me!" And as the daroga reached into his coat to draw his pistol, the man dashed forward and slammed a fist into his face. Then he grabbed Winter by the hair and dragged her off down the stairs, the little girl screaming and fighting the entire way.
On the ballroom floor, Mademoiselle Henrietta came rushing up to him. "Audric, what's the matter? Why is your son screaming? Did he do something wrong? Is he injured?"
"Mademoiselle," Audric said in a harsh, grating voice, "I suggest you come with me and do exactly as I tell you. And you, brat!" He shook Winter violently. "Stop your screeching, or I will shoot her. Understand?"
Winter did, and shut up immediately. Shocked, Henrietta stared at Audric and suddenly realized that he was pointing a small pistol at her head.
"You're insane!" she gasped. He grinned.
"I prefer to think of it as 'incredibly intelligent', mademoiselle. It's much less insulting to me that way, don't you think?"
As they went through the enormous double-doored entrance of the Opera House, some people in the ballroom started towards them, but all Audric had to do was cock the pistol and they fell back again. The madman, the girl, and the grown woman walked down to the sidewalk and got into Henrietta's carriage unchallenged.
Up on the balcony, the daroga had not been knocked unconscious – he was only dazed. Now he finally drew himself together and ran down the stairs. Racing across the ballroom floor, he burst out of the open doors and into the cool night air just in time to hear Audric order the carriage driver to go to 321 Dubois Street. Realizing that he would never catch up with them on foot, the daroga looked after the carriage for a moment, then spurred himself into action. Leaping into a cab, he ordered the driver to the same address that he had overheard Audric give, and they were off.
OoOoOoOoO
Erik was taking a catnap in the daroga's library when Darius came in and shook him awake. The Phantom snapped awake and ran a hand through his hair.
"What is it?" he asked, coughing lightly. The servant bowed shortly before responding,
"You have a visitor, sire, waiting in the foyer."
Erik frowned. "Send him in."
"She's a female, sire."
He stared at Darius for a moment before dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "Send her in, then."
Darius bowed and left the room. Moments later, the study door opened. Erik, who had gotten up and been inspecting the contents of one of the daroga's bookshelves, turned around – and stared at the woman who was standing in the doorway.
"Hello, Erik," said Christine, twisting her gloves nervously in her hands. "Um…I've been looking for you."
"Have you." His tone was flat. She winced.
"Yes…Erik, I've been thinking ever since our last encounter, and, well…I thought you were dead," she finished weakly. His eyes narrowed behind his mask.
"Did you."
"Yes, I did, and…oh, Erik, don't make this any harder than it needs to be!" she cried impatiently. "I came back because I thought you were dead and I wanted to give you a proper burial. Instead, I found you alive and well, and living with a young girl!"
Erik walked over to the desk and ran one finger along the smooth surface. "Your point?" he inquired, bringing the finger up to his face and inspecting it for dust.
"You know my point," Christine responded hotly. "You are not a suitable mentor – or guardian – for a young girl."
A wry smile twisted his lips. "You used to think differently."
"Erik, don't!" she cried. "Look, you can't keep her. You know you can't."
Erik's head snapped up, his eyes blazing gold in the room's dim light. "No, I'm afraid I'm ignorant of that fact. Kindly explain to me, Christine, why I cannot continue to live with a girl whom I adore."
Christine shook her head. "You adored me, too," she said softly. "Please, Erik, I beg of you. Let her come live with me and Raoul – she will be brought up as though she were our own -"
"You speak of her as though she was a favorite pet of mine," Erik broke in scornfully. "I cannot 'keep' her, you say? As though she were a dog or a cat whom I am forced to keep a leash on for fear that she might escape?"
"You did the same to me -"
"What I did to you, Viscomtess -" he spat the title out, his distaste obvious in his tone of voice – "is in the past. What I did to you is ancient history. You made your choice. You left and married the viscomte. I bear you no ill will for that. I gave you my consent, with all my heart." His voice became softer as he went on. "But now you come to me – track me down – and demand that I give up the greatestjoy in my life, the little girl who gave me the will to continue living." His eyes met hers. "That, madame, I cannot do."
"You can," she said, her voice pleading. "You must. Please, Erik, think of the child! You cannot possibly desire for her to grow up five stories underground, without an education, without friends!"
"That choice is for Winter to make," he said gently. "I may even move aboveground, in order for her to have all of those things. But you, madame, have no say in the matter."
"Erik," she tried again. He regarded her with a stern gaze.
"Christine," he said, and did not fail to notice that her name coming from his lips made her wince ever-so-slightly. "I not only cannot give Winter up to you. I will not. And once I find her, you will never, ever take her away from me." His voice sunk to a barely audible whisper. "If you do, it will be only over my dead body." A smile flashed across what was visible of his features. "And remember, Viscomtess, the dead have a way of coming back to life. Especially if they were already ghosts to begin with."
Christine had paled considerably during the latter part of his speech, and now she spoke one last time. "Erik. Please. If you truly love the child, you will allow her to be properly raised by a loving foster family -"
This time, it was not Erik who cut her off, but rather Darius, who came running full tilt into the room and skidded to a halt between the two of them.
"Erik, sir! There is a cabby outside, he bears a message from the daroga!"
"What is it?" Erik asked sharply.
"It is urgent that you come at once to 321 Dubois Street. He has found Winter, but he has reason to believe that her life as well as that of a young noblewoman are in grave danger."
Almost before the servant was done speaking, Erik was out the door of the study and on his way to the foyer, where he donned his cloak, gloves, and hat and had the door half open when, suddenly, Christine grabbed his cloak from behind.
"Erik, wait! Come with me in my carriage, it will be faster."
He glanced at her. "Very well, but this changes nothing." And he darted to her elaborate carriage which was waiting in the street, dismissing the cab with a wave of his hand. Christine climbed in beside him, gave the address to the driver, and they were off.
The carriage had barely stopped in front of the townhouse before Erik was out and running up the steps. Ringing the doorbell, he waited impatiently until the door was opened by the butler, a tall middle-aged man with a brown mustache.
"Hello, sir, can I -"
"I need to speak to the owner of this residence. Immediately."
Despite the fact that Erik's voice and manner were decidedly threatening, the butler stood his ground. "I'm afraid M. Audric is occupied at the moment. In fact, he informed me quite explicitly that he did not desire to be disturbed at any time during the day."
"I don't give a hoot what he told you, I will see him."
Behind Erik, Christine touched his sleeve. "Erik, come with me. She can't be in any immediate danger, we'll come back la -"
Just then, a commotion inside the house drew Erik's attention. Yelling issued from the top of the staircase, there was the sound of a gun being fired, and then a young boy in a white kitten costume – minus his mask – came racing down the stairs and paused on the landing, staring at the people in the doorway. Then he screamed,
"ERIK!"
Erik stared at him. "Winter?!"
Winter, for it was she, started down the rest of the staircase, but just then Audric came vaulting down the steps and grabbed her by the hair. Forgetting propriety and protocol, Erik sprang forward with an angry snarl, knocking the butler aside as he rushed up the stairs towards the man. Audric saw him coming and drew a pistol from inside his coat.
"NO!" Winter screamed as the bullet discharged. Erik whirled aside at the last moment, but it was too late. The deadly projectile ripped through his cloak and shirt and slammed into his left shoulder, burning with indescribable agony in his flesh. Despite the pain, he ignored it, discarding his cloak with a snarl and heading after Audric, who had picked up Winter and was fleeing up the stairs
At the top of the staircase, Christine, who had been following Erik, stopped and let out a scream. The daroga was lying unconscious on the floor, the leg of his pants soaked in blood and his head resting in Mlle. Henrietta's lap. The young lady looked up at the viscomtess, tears streaming from her eyes.
"Go after them!" she cried. "That man – that man – he's insane, he's mad, he has to be stopped! He wants to – oh, the poor child!" she wailed. "Someone's got to STOP him!"
"Why, what is it? What is he going to do?" Christine demanded. With considerable effort, Henrietta drew herself together and said in a broken voice,
"It is too horrible for me to repeat. All I can say is that someone must stop him very soon or – or that poor child will not live through the day. Now go!" she cried. "I'll take care of this man."
With one last look at the wounded daroga, Christine nodded and fled down the hall in the same direction Erik had gone, Mlle. Henrietta's sobs ringing through the corridor after her.
A3: Yaaay! Cliffie cliffie cliffie! Now you all have to leave reviews or you'll NEVER find out what happens next! (Maniacal laugh)
Erik: …I can't believe you had me get SHOT.
A3: Oh, get over it. You're not as perfect as you'd like to believe.
Erik: (Turns on her) I AM THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA! I AM THE ANGEL OF MUSIC! I! AM! ERIK! And I do NOT - I repeat, I do NOT - get HIT by STRAY BULLETS!
A3: Erik...it wasn't a stray bullet. It was aimed at you.
Erik: Regardless, it shouldn't have happened! Now -- go write the next chapter! And something had better be done about that bullet in my shoulder!
A3: Hey, the daroga got shot too! Aren't you the LEAST bit worried about him
Erik: He's a character from the book, and as such, he is unimportant to me because I am the ALW movie Phantom.
A3: SO? What are you saying? That you're SUPERIOR because you're from a MOVIE and he's an ORIGINAL book character?
Erik: ...Well, I have more phangirls, don't I?
A3: Your ego frightens me, some days.
Erik: It's not my EGO. I just don't get out much.
A3: Riiiiiight. Well, anyway. (Turns to readers) Please -
Erik: Nar...may I please say it? This IS one of the last chapters...and I haven't gotten to do it yet...
A3: You have, too! At the end of one of the earlier chapters! I think!
Erik: You mean the one when you were having a tantrum and I had to reply to reviews for you?
A3: (Twitch) ...Never mind. Just say it.
Erik: Very well. (Turns to readers) Please review!