XVII: Watch it Burn
"Man can do nothing until he has first understood that he must count on no one but himself; that he is alone, abandoned on earth…" –Jean Paul Sartre
"Who promised love should be happiness? Nature may have some other end." –Mark Rutherford
"Monsieur Gerard. I would advise you to be… gentler… with my property."
The voice came from everywhere at once and nowhere in particular, at the same time. Disconcerted for a moment in the partially shadowed hallway, the manager's grip loosed a fraction. Immediately Jaq tore violently away from him, running down the corridor. Gerard cursed and made after her as she darted away,
Jaq kept her gray eyes fixed on the floor, watching where she was going. Unfortunately the long climb from the Phantom's lair had been tiring, and her body refused to respond as she wanted it to. She could hear Gerard's heavy footfalls gaining on her—she wheeled full-speed around a corner and stopped abruptly. A pair of cold, black-gloved hands effectively halted her mid-flight. Automatically her mouth opened to scream, but the grip shifted to muffle the sound.
"What, so sudden a change in temperament?" an amused mellifluous voice said in her ear. A very powerful, very familiar voice. She never felt more afraid—but the steady pressure on her mouth unequivocally informed her that would be a bad idea at this particular moment.
Strong arms pulled her back around the corner, where she saw, with frightened eyes, Gerard charging closer. Something cold—metal—touched a line along her throat. "Caution, caution, good monsieur," Erik said in a cold distinctive voice. Gerard slowed, then stopped entirely. "Better," the voice murmured; she could feel the vibration through his chest where it was pressed up against her back.
"Ah, monsieur, we meet at last," Erik purred with deceptive quiet. "Allow me to introduce myself."
"The Opera Ghost." For some reason there was confusion on Gerard's face, quickly replaced by fear.
Erik managed a graceful inclination of his head without shifting his grip on her. "Yours truly—the Phantom of the Opera."
"But—you're dead!"
"A common misconception," Erik said dryly. "Someone is forever declaring me dead before the fact. As you can see, I am very much alive."
"Not for long," Gerard snarled, anger and pride overcoming common sense, his rapier rasping free of its sheath with a deliberately menacing tone as he stepped forward. He let anger supplant confusion… he had thought that Raian…
"Careful, monsieur, in your steps," Erik said, his voice taking on a deadly calculating edge. "You risk more than you guess." The line of cold, the edge of a blade, pressed against Jaq's neck, lifting her chin.
Erik stared down into her gray eyes wide with fear. "Innocence is such a pretty thing," he said with mock pity, a smile playing about his mouth. A cold, heartless smile that would have made Jaqueline tremble, had the sword not been so close to drawing blood. AS she stared up at him she was surprised to see something foreign to his tone flash through his eyes.
Apparently Gerard noted it as well. A cruel smile crossed his face. "You would not harm her," he said derisively, courage returning, as he walked forward again. "You are far too attached to her. Or, perhaps, someone she reminds you of…?"
Erik's head snapped up, and Gerard dared to laugh. That harsh voice cut off abruptly however when that commanding tone interjected like steel rimmed in ice, "An extravagance of laughter, monsieur, hides trembling." Whatever had for a moment graced those expressive eyes was gone. The anger and gate, sorrow and madness, passion; all of it had fled.
The eyes were empty, and for the first time Jaq rationalized the term he had so often been given, a face like a death's head.
Gerard roared in anger, lunging forward futilely as the Phantom's sword came across, a single smooth motion. For he was "the Phantom" now, the man called Erik buried somewhere within. She was not Christine.
No, she was dead.
With the clang of steel on steel and a shower of sparks, the two swords met and locked at the hilt. Gerard gave a powerful forward surge. Erik fell back, nimbly sidestepping. To his credit Gerard spun on cue, sword coming up in just enough time to deflect a vicious side-swipe. He carefully stepped forward, rapier flashing in a series of test moves. He tried the left, failed; flicked high and right to no avail. The defense was flawless. He shifted positions rapidly, testing this "Phantom" in his responses. Lightning-quick. He circled, watching peripherally as Erik's feet shifted precisely into well-known patterns. The Phantom was not only strong, he also had the advantage of reach over Gerard… and from the way his blade flickered through the air, Erik was a master swordsman.
As am I. He had one chance—there was a knife nestled in his left boot, if he could bring it into play.
Abruptly he found his chance, as one of the Phantom's slashes hesitated an instant too far to the right. Gerard threw himself forward, a vicious sweep and a twist trapping Erik's blade against the wall. Suddenly Gerard was face-to-face with the cold inhuman mask, both weapons incapacitated. His left hand snatched down for the hilt of the dagger… his fingers brushed it…
Something tightened about his neck, choking off air; instinctively his hands rose to clutch futilely at the constricting Punjab Lasso. "You… cheated…" he gasped.
The harmonious voice whispered in his ear, "Good sir, has no one told you? I am the Phantom of the Opera. Since when do I fight fairly?" As his sight dimmed, the last thing Gerard saw was the white half-mask, gleaming eerily in the fading light.
Hours later, when the bodies were discovered, a badly frightened and nervous scene-shifter would hand the note to a shaken Anton…
Monsieur,
Congratulations on your promotion to manager of my opera house. I suggest you begin auditions, as a new lead soprano is needed. Unfortunately, I'm afraid tonight's performance must be cancelled until such a time.
As ever, your humble servant,
O.G.
PS—my salary is due. Send it care of Mme Giry, as always.
