A/N: I own nothing of this. (stares at writing and tries not to cry) Alas, even the sentences belong to… wait. Those are mine. Not the Phantom, though…
As for that: he will continue to be called 'the Phantom' or 'the Opera Ghost' et al until such time as he decides to give Raian + companions a name. So get used to it ;-) Also, I apologize in advance for the violence of this chapter (here, hence the rating… to be safe) but I promise, I have a reason.
Of further note; I have more written, but this stubborn computer will not let me upload… curse dial-up! I'll fix it as soon as I can.
Martian Aries: thanks for reading… funny, I didn't find the second meaning of "tattoo" until recently, but it conjures up the perfect image…
Chapter II: Tally
They used to call him the Devil's Child.
The rapier snapped out like lightning, arcing with blinding swiftness across and through. He pivoted, left foot forward as he twisted past the first, slamming his right side up, the rapier a deadly extension of his arm. A flick of the left wrist and the Punjab lasso snaked out with practiced ease; a single smooth jerk ended a third life before they were even aware of him.
Angel of Death. The five of them hesitated a moment—they knew the stories—then charged. There were five of them, they figured, and he was only one. He yanked the garroted body across and one stumbled, tripping the other two.
The rapier rose again skillfully to another, and his fist closed over the throat of a second, systematically crushing the life from him, eyes locked in pitiless embrace. The last two charged and he hurled the man at them, sword slicing through a third. He didn't bother to retrieve the blade, simply leapt at the final two. One had a knife. He twisted sideways at the last instant to avoid the slashing blade. His gloved fingers locked around the man's wrist and snapped it sideways—he screamed as his wrist was broken. A moment later his own knife tore his throat out.
Cloak whirling like liquid night, the Phantom turned to the last of them, to finish what they had begun. The ruffian had one good view of his face; stern and hard as steel, twin green eyes flaming with unbridled anger. The white half-mask gave it away.
The thug stumbled back, perhaps trying to scream, but all that came out was a gasp as the lasso latched over his neck. A gasp, then a sickening crunch as his neck broke.
Without second pause the Phantom unhooked it, stowing it carefully away, and detoured long enough to yank his rapier free, wiping it clean, without a flicker of regret. He had lost whatever restraint he had when she had left. What was life, after all? He would gladly have taken his own, except… he paused in sliding the blade home, glanced at the strewn corpses. Nine.
He distinctly remembered only killing eight.
Eyes narrowing, he carefully bent and turned over the ninth body. Bruised, beaten, bleeding, a broken arm and twisted ankle, but very much alive. For the first time since she left, he hesitated, hand hovering over the hilt of the rapier. The man would thank him for death if he could. His fingers reached for the hilt.
"And if he has to kill a thousand men, the Phantom of the Opera will kill, and kill again..."
"Will you never let me be free? Sing no more and keep the grave in peace!" he hissed at her unseen shade, yet the fires in his eyes slowly faded. He lifted the unconscious, broken body in his arms, careful not to jostle it too harshly, and paused for one last searching glance about the now-silent opera house.
With careful steps he turned for the darkness of the labyrinth below. The man in his arms did not stir, and the Phantom looked down on him with a cold pitiless gaze. "Have you ears to hear and mind to understand, you would know you would best pray not to awaken," he said, knowing the words wasted.
