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Chapter 48

Erik

I'd never in my life been to the masquerade ball. I'd seen it from afar, purchased a costume should the urge ever strike me to go, but I'd never actually attended.

Not until today.

I was the Red Death, wearing a white-skull mask and red robes down to my ankles. Beside me, Christine was the Raven, a full black mask to complement mine, a large black feathered hat, and a close-fitting ebony dress that would have made Madame Giry proud. At any other event, we would have drawn stares; but at this costumed party of extravagance, we were just another two anonymous guests.

Though we'd agreed to act as pretend to be lovers at this event - an act she'd suggested, and one for which my words had stumbled when I'd agreed - it still made me start in delighted surprise when I noticed how close she stood, or when I found her hand in the crook of my elbow. She held her hand there now as we stood over the balcony at the top of the staircase of the theatre's mighty foyer, looking down at the dancers moving gracefully to the music.

"Do you see him?" Christine asked softly.

"No, I don't." For all we knew, Buquet was not even here. But alcohol was being served, and plenty of it. It was unlike the man to pass on free libations. Besides, I doubted he'd be easy to find - not if he was disguised with the rest of the partygoers.

"Perhaps a change of perspective will help," she suggested, looking up at me. "We could go downstairs."

I looked down at the ground floor. "We'd look odd just standing among the dancers."

"Then we should dance."

I whipped my gaze to her, finding her eyes still on me. There was a soft sort of intrigue, curiosity, in her expression as I said lowly, "I beg your pardon?"

"We should dance. My father taught me ballroom dance before he..." Her throat bobbed and she asked, "Do you know how?"

I did. I had learned quickly from watching these affairs before, noting the way the gentlemen moved. Though I'd observed it, taken it in, I had not once given to the idea that I'd one day partake.

"I...do know how," I said, "and although dancing with you would be lovely, my dear, I am uncertain that this is the time-"

"Perhaps by mingling among the dancers, we will spot Buquet."

"I think he would be harder to find. Unless you're under the assumption that he found a willing dance partner, then I don't-"

"I'd like to dance with you," she finally blurted. "I'm..." She bit her lip. "We can forget Buquet for ten minutes, I think. I doubt he will go anywhere in that time, if he's even here. And if he's not here, or if he is but leaves, then we can find another way, another time, to trap him - tomorrow, even. But I've never danced with someone I fancy, and it would be nice. Just for a few minutes."

The world tilted and spun. I stared at her, my vision narrowing on her masked face. "You fancy me?"

Her lips parted and she blinked several times, as though she herself was surprised by her words as well. I imagined that her face was quite red. She quickly turned away; she seemed not to know what to do with her hands. At first, she attempted to brush some hair out of her face (but found that she'd pinned her hair up beneath the hat) and at last decided to put her hands on the balcony bannister. Her grip was tight and steadying on the polished wood and metal.

"And," she whispered shakily, loud enough for me to hear but soft enough that no one else could, "so what if I do? I'm not asking for you to fancy me. I'm not some...silly little thing that will die if her feelings aren't reciprocated..." Christine trailed off, eyes showing nothing but shame and shock.

"Christine," I said, and my voice - normally silk in my throat - had become husky. "I do..." Love you. "I do fancy you."

She turned slowly to me, hands still on the bannister. She watched me with wide eyes, waiting for more.

I held out a quivering gloved hand. "We can dance. Come, my dear, let's join the party." Ten minutes. Ten minutes of disbelieving, dreamlike bliss, and then we'd think about Buquet.

She took my hand. I led her down the stairs.

Christine.

Christine was romantically interested in me.

I wanted to slap myself awake. Surely this was in my sleeping mind. But I knew that even if I did return to consciousness, I'd regret it. I'd want to fall back into this moment - a moment I thought I would never see.

We made our way into the music, into the moving throng. We placed our hands on each other accordingly, and I saw with no small satisfaction that the hint of a grin was touching her lips.

She and I waited for an adequate place in the music, and then we dived in to the dance.

For ten minutes, I wasn't the Phantom - I was Erik. A man with a heartbeat. That heartbeat soared in tempo, much faster than the surrounding music. But my heart itself - that metronome paced the dance perfectly. She was here, in my arms; and if her words were to be believed (and, despite her previous lies, I did believe them) she was falling in love with me.

A month ago, I'd resigned myself to loneliness.

And now...this.

Ten minutes passed; I could tell by the passage of musical notes. Ten turned to fifteen. Fifteen to twenty. I certainly didn't want to stop, and she gave no indication of the desire to do so, either.

But our reason for coming appeared on the staircase, holding a near-empty glass of champagne. Buquet was mask-less; perhaps he'd only recently removed it, and this was why I'd found him now. He chatted merrily with two of his crew, and appeared to be the drunkest of the three.

We were at the edge of the crowd, so it wasn't terribly difficult to pull her to the edge of the grand room. She tripped a bit, and was about to make a noise of protestation, when I turned her toward the staircase and pointed - very briefly, not so long for anyone to notice. She quickly shut her mouth.

Christine and I watched as the two stagehands left him and walked down. Buquet remained standing, sipping at his bubbling drink.

She whirled to me, eyes sparkling. "Are you ready?"

"Are you?" She'd come up with the plan, and I'd agreed to it, but it didn't make me feel any easier. I knew I'd be right behind, ready to strike should anything go wrong. But still.

"Very ready." Her back straightened. "Where will you be?"

"Out of sight, but close."

She nodded. "All right." She took a deep breath and again asked, "Are you ready?"

"Ready."

And we put the plan in motion.

I watched as she turned from me and sauntered over to Buquet, up the steps, until she was right in front of him. With any luck, he was too drunk to recognize her with the mask and hat - but we'd taken no chances. In a hidden pocket in her dress was a slip of paper that read 'Follow me to the dressing rooms?'

I saw her pose seductively before him - and promptly did my best to ignore the flare of fiery jealousy - and pull out that paper. He looked at her intensely, hungrily, before reading that slip. And when he did, his hunger turned to something more ravenous.

I nearly reached for the switchblade in my own pocket.

He gave her a lupine grin and nodded slowly, then followed her as she led him up the stairs and toward the theatre's backstage. I waited five long seconds, then ascended as well. I felt in my pocket, ensuring that I had everything I needed - indeed, next to the switchblade was a small, thin rope, a pinky's diameter in thickness and about the length of an arm, coiled up.

Stay out of sight and stay out of earshot. Should I be caught by Buquet's senses before the time was right, who knew what may happen.

So I kept several paces behind. He was sufficiently enraptured and inebriated that he didn't turn around to look for anyone who might be following. Still, to be safe, I stayed to the shadows (when there were any) and behind corners and furnishings. She didn't say a word as she led him - she didn't have to. Her eyes said it all. And I knew of her disgust for him.

None of it was shown in her body language.

A very good actress. Perhaps she'd chosen the wrong stage role.

She took him at last to the empty hallway full of dressing rooms, stopped him in the middle of the hall, and smiled coyly at him. She put her hands on her shoulders, leaned in...

And I was behind him, yanking his hands behind his back. I took the rope from my pocket while my long fingers were wrapped around his wrists, and then tied his hands together. Christine pulled from her own pocket another item, a long kerchief. She deftly tied the fabric around his head to cover his eyes.

This all happened in the span of five seconds - far shorter than it took Buquet to recognize what was happening in his drunken state.

But he did recognize it, said gruffly, "What the hell?", struggled a bit, and was about to open his mouth to yell -

My knife was at his throat. "Say another word," I whispered, voice dripping venom; I heard him swallow. "And I will slit your neck wide open."

His breathing increased, but he nodded. This, it seemed, sobered him quite rapidly.

He gasped when Christine and I spun him around several times to disorient him, and then we made him walk. Like a good captive, he came willingly - as willingly as one could with their hands tied, blindfolded, and a knife pressed tight against their windpipe. We took him up and down the hall a few times, spinning him around when we made it to the wall or corner to make him think we were travelling through the theatre.

We at last stopped at the dressing room and went inside. Christine, who'd been checking every few seconds to see that the kerchief hadn't come loose, knocked on the mirror. Jules answered, opening it for us to enter. He'd agreed to assist us - he as much as anyone wanted the real killer caught.

We stepped through. Jules closed the mirror door, looking nervous as all creation. But despite his pursed lips and white face, he merely nodded to me as we passed.

And the four of us descended.