IV. Glance behind
The soft lapping of the small waves against the stone steps was the only sound audible. Climbing down them lightly, until the water washed over the tips of his boots, the Phantom gave the boat towed nearby a short glance. Yes, everything was as he had left it. Good. He bent to retrieve a bundle from below the bench, then waded out a few paces into the shallow water, until he reached the place where there was a niche in the wall, just high enough to remain untouched by the water. It concealed no secret entrance or any of the like; in fact, it seemed to have no purpose at all, but it was useful enough for now. He stepped up onto the higher ground, leaning against the uneven stone wall so that he was hidden from view except for someone standing right opposite him, and closed his eyes. For a moment he concentrated just on his own calm, steady breathing, then, when he felt he was ready, carefully reached out into the darkness with his mind, slowly extending curious tendrils –
He withdrew almost immediately, wincing against the rough wall. There was… something… out there. Not a human mind, certainly, but something else, something that was alive in some sense, and then again not…
Suddenly he felt watched, as if a hundred pairs of eyes were boring into the back of his head, and automatically he turned around, only to stare at the stone wall. Frowning, he reached out once more, though even more carefully than before. He could not go mad yet. Not yet.
Yes, there it was. No, he corrected himself, there they were. They were everywhere, an intricately woven web of threads, of pulsating threads of darkness. The image appeared in his head unbidden, and words had always come to him easily, so he was naming them at first touch already, knowing he had found the right name. The threads of darkness. They were everywhere, infesting this place, this familiar darkness that was his own.
He snarled at the crisscrossing spiderweb wordlessly, feeling anger flood him with radiant life. Lionel was not the only one who had something to answer for… His fingers almost twitched in appreciation as his mind provided him with a wide variety of things he could do to the one responsible for this. Hatred flared in him, making his blood boil. He had restrained himself with that insolent young fool earlier on, had forced himself into an icy calm, biting back all his rage and pain and hiding behind a façade of quiet disdain, but now the wall he had erected around himself was crumbling, splintering inwards into millions of shards which stabbed at him and ripped all the fresh wounds open once more. He had to clench his teeth hard not to howl it all out into the darkness, this cruel darkness which was not even his own anymore. There was nothing left to him. Nothing.
How he wished for everything to be over, for death to come swiftly upon him and cast him down into his cold, lonely grave, where his solitude would last until eternity was over, until the world was fading away in the mists of time…
But first things first. Now it was time to deal with Lionel; the rest could wait. He would kill the intruders, kill them all, and then that impertinent boy, and those fools who now ran his Opera House, and Carlotta, and… Everyone. He would destroy everyone in his reach. And then, when the world around him lay in smoking ruins, he would savour it all and capture it in a Requiem of his own before he himself died. But not yet. Death lay beyond the horizon still. As long as he had not finished what he had come for, he would still have to endure the pain.
Reaching out once more, but this time ignoring the threads best as he could, he searched for any traces of life, any minds out there. Rats there were, like dim pinpricks in the darkness, hardly enough to enter his awareness at all, but apart from them, there was nothing else. He was quite alone.
Alone… Always alone…
Good. It made things easier. Shrugging off his cloak, he bundled it up and placed it between his feet, alongside the bundle he had retrieved from the boat. From the latter he took, after a moment's searching, the same black mask he had worn when he had appeared on stage in the production of Don Juan, forcing down the memories which inevitably came, and exchanged it for the white one. When he had, after completing his preparations, gone up once more to take his leave – and, as he admitted to himself, to draw courage from Christine's presence – he had worn cloak and white mask for show, because those two were the things he was famous for, apart from a sling of rope. For what he was planning to do now, they would only be in the way. The same held true for the sabre. Had Lionel been expecting him here, where he had left the boat, he would have used the weapon to run the intruder through straight away, but as Lionel did not seem to be anywhere close, he would have to creep up on him, as he had tried during the night, and a weapon as large as a sabre would only be in the way. So he undid the corresponding belt, too, hastily wrapping it about the weapon's sheath, then picked up the rest of his things and, after a last careful search for any signs of life nearby, he stepped back down into the flooded corridor.
The eyes were still there, right behind him, but when he turned, there was nothing except darkness and emptiness.
The water was only knee-high here, but very cold, as it always was, especially during the winter. There had been times when part of the flooded chambers and corridors had been covered by a layer of ice as well. During the warm season, wading through the cold water could be quite refreshing, but when winter came, he always used the boat if he could help it. This time, however, it was not possible. If anyone of the intruders came upon the boat still towed where he had left it, they would believe that he had not returned yet, which was exactly what he wanted them to believe. Moreover, it would be difficult to creep up on somebody with perfect night sight when using a boat.
He moved silently, but swiftly, every now and again stopping to feel around him for other minds, and again and again turning to glance behind, although he knew that there was nobody there. Soon the water grew deeper, almost reaching his waist. It chilled him, but he forced the sensation out of his awareness, focusing on what lay ahead. Hatred roared inside him, shooting up sparks like an angry furnace, so much stronger than the cold. It gave him strength, made him go on even if all he truly wanted was curl up and close his eyes, never to open them again.
There. Someone was there ahead, coming into his mental feelers' range.
The hunt had begun.
Along the wall ran a ridge, and further up there were cavities let into it at regular intervals. Once they might have been used as storerooms, but now they were just as empty and forgotten as the rest of the sub-basements. Pulling himself up and using the ridge as a foothold, the Phantom deposited the things he did not need in one of those cavities. As he had more or less expected, his quarry had chosen one of the completely lightless regions to lurk, so he would have to follow the strategy he had made up in the first place. Leaping back down, yet not before snatching out a length of strong rope from the folds of his discarded cloak, he made his way more swiftly, but feeling ahead more regularly than before, as well as glancing behind more frequently, knotting the rope into a noose automatically, without paying much attention to it. Storms of wrath were raging in his head unleashed, but at their very centre, he was calm, and deep in concentration. Now he had picked up the trail, he would not lose it again. Not this time.
Never again.
The water grew deeper as he entered a tunnel mouth forking off to his left, due to the few steps leading down into it. Soaked up to his chest, the Phantom muttered a curse. One more thing that sneaking creature would have to answer for! He advanced more carefully now, while he tried to chase away the biting cold by the memory of Christine's warm body against his. He could feel her presence, too, so close and strong, but he dared not reach out to her because he knew it would only distract him now. He would have her again when he was done here, once more before he died, and gnaw her pretty neck once more…
Without warning, the hated green eyes appeared ahead, glowing like a pair of twin candle flames in the darkness. Cursing his own folly for allowing the thought of Christine to distract him nonetheless, the Phantom dived towards the tunnel wall. None too early, for something large and heavy splashed into the water where he had just been, gurgling past him on its way to the bottom. A piece of rock, he assumed, yet he did not give it much thought. Resurfacing, he immediately employed a simple old trick. "You missed", he stated jeeringly, projecting his voice about three feet to his left, where Lionel's missile had struck. Simple, but extremely irritating. Yet he did not wait for his enemy to throw another rock at the same spot, but instead dived again, keeping close to the wall. He had been able to make out what he had wanted to know, which was Lionel's exact position, and this was all he needed. The intruder might see perfectly in the darkness, and he might even know his way around here, which spoke of a perfect sense of orientation, but there was one thing he certainly did not realize: That broad barrier he was squatting on, seemingly putting a dead end to the flooded corridor, in fact contained a low opening in its middle, which led through a tunnel of about six feet's length to the other side.
Diving towards the obstacle, the Phantom felt his features shift into an expression of grim satisfaction. This was going to be easy. Much too easy. But, oh, the cruel joy of it…
He reached the low passage, memorized its exact location, then allowed himself to break the surface again for a mouthful of air, air that felt strangely warm in comparison to the water, which fountained up around him, slapping against the barrier. The eyes were directly above him now. "Come down and get me", he taunted his rival, and he saw Lionel's shape, outlined in the darkness, jerk out of its crouching position, as if about to pounce –
Without waiting any longer, he dived again, letting himself sink down to the bottom. However good Lionel's eyes might be, however clearly he might see in the complete night down here, there was no way he could perceive a black-clad shape covered by five feet's depth of dark water. Careful not to disturb the water too much even then, even when the eagerness to kill was making him tremble with anticipation, he pulled himself along the corridor floor, through the opening and out into the chamber at the other side.
If he had not known from his earlier experiences that his target was not too intelligent, he would have assumed that the existence of this underwater passage would be only logical to any other, even if he had no idea of its existence. Why else would there be a chamber behind the barrier otherwise? There was no way out of it except the narrow shaft leading up from a niche in the opposite wall, and this was difficult to spot, even with perfect night sight. Maybe Lionel would start wondering eventually, but until he did, the Phantom would have had time enough to catch him by surprise. Just a few seconds would do, and that loathsome intruder would certainly grant him those.
The Phantom snorted inwardly. This Lionel was even more stupid than Raoul de Chagny, and that one was practically an imbecile!
As he resurfaced once more, he tried to keep it as noiseless as possible, hoping the cover he had created by disturbing the water at the other side so hard was still sufficient. He could make out Lionel's outlines on the barrier above him, standing upright now, with his back turned to him, undoubtedly staring at the place where he had last seen his supposed victim. The fool! However, the Phantom did not doubt that he was listening for any other sound in concentration, and he tried to be as silent as possible while easing one of the daggers in its sheath, then readying the noose to throw. "Can't you find me?" he mocked him, projecting his voice to the spot Lionel was supposedly still staring at, and the other man visibly tensed, leaning slightly forward…
Now or never. Pulling himself up onto the barrier forcefully, the Phantom threw the noose, despite at the same time climbing the partition to the corridor outside aiming precisely. The coil of rope descended towards his quarry's head, ready to settle around his neck –
Lionel's hand shot up and snatched the rope out of the air, brushing it aside, then he turned around even as the Phantom was swiftly scrambling to his feet, snarling throatily.
Whipping the dagger from its sheath, the Phantom ducked under a clawing hand, then threw himself against his enemy hard, slamming him into the wall, grabbing Lionel's wrist as he tried to lash out at him once more, feeling Lionel's fingers clasp around his own wrist in turn to hold the dagger away from him. He was carried by his own hatred now, swept along on a violent flood, and at the same time all his wrath was screaming inside him, screaming for blood and death and destruction. Bringing up his knee, he made it collide with the other's body hard, causing him to bend into a peculiar half-crouch, hissing and spitting like an animal as he did so. They struggled viciously, each trying to free his hands. Throwing his head sideward, Lionel snapped at the Phantom, his teeth clicking audibly together as the Phantom withdrew at the very last moment, loosening his grasp on Lionel's clawing right hand. His enemy broke free, but at the same time their gazes interlocked, and at once Lionel's mind lay bare to the Phantom. It was a simple mind, the Phantom noticed as he took control, his own will drowning the other's easily as it swept through his head, turning Lionel's assault into a weak, useless sweep at his leather vest, a mind very uncomplicated in its thought pattern, just like an animal's. This one was easy to control, and he would not be able to break free on his own.
Releasing his grip on his captive, the Phantom allowed himself a triumphant grin. Almost done. Almost. "Move", he commanded.
Lionel climbed down into the cold water obediently. He had to have come the same way, the Phantom reasoned, yet his clothes had been dry until he had forced him back into the water. That left only one possible answer: Lionel had waited here for some time, waited on the ground, in the shadows of his own choice for him to come. He had had a clear advantage this way, but it had gained him nothing. Nobody, nobody in the world could stand against the Phantom of the Opera!
Pushing his captive ahead roughly towards the niche, then through the short shaft leading upwards, the Phantom felt something close to satisfaction through all the storms of rage and hate. They would learn that coming here had been a mistake! First Lionel, then the one who had spread those thread-nets through the dark corridors, then the whole rest of them. They were all going to pay.
Again he felt them, all the invisible eyes staring at him from the shadows behind, but this time he did not turn. Nothing, nothing in the world was going to spoil this small private victory.
Lionel flinched as he emerged into the chamber above. Dim as it was, with sparse grey light coming through a large grille sat in the floor, it still seemed bright compared to the utter darkness whence they had come. Ushering him into a corner mercilessly, the Phantom now had the chance to regard him more closely for the first time. The man's shimmering eyes were set into hard, even though somewhat lined features. His dark hair was an untidy tangle of short curls, his chin and cheeks as well as his upper lip covered in rough stubble, at least a week old. Those shadows in his face were flecks of dirt under closer surveillance; it seemed that his excursions down here had been his first bath in some time, as well as the first washing of his ragged clothes. He smelled like it, too. The Phantom wrinkled his nose. After dealing with that one, he would clean himself thoroughly. When he went to die, he would go proud and upright, and unsullied by lowly creatures.
But back to business. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, careful not to break the eye contact to exert the fullest control possible.
Lionel responded without hesitation, his glowing eyes oddly unfocused. "I came with the Master." His voice sounded husky, as if his vocal cords were seldom used.
"Who is this Master?"
"He –" Lionel broke off, his mouth working soundlessly, as the Phantom suddenly felt the web of invisible threads around him pulse and throb, then constrict – and then there was something else inside Lionel's head, fighting for control, something that had not been there before. His captive shuddered, his eyes bulging and roving, his hands clawing around him. Very slowly, the Phantom felt how he was forced backwards, out of Lionel's head. Already those animal eyes were sliding into focus again, and Lionel's mouth became a snarling maw as he threw his head aside and once more snapped at him –
Instinctively the Phantom raised up the dagger he was still carrying in his hand and plunged it into Lionel's side, burying it deeply in the man's flesh. The clawing became aimless thrashing. Again the Phantom stabbed, this time ramming the blade straight into his opponent's chest, feeling something warm spill over his hand, then stepped back from him. With a howl Lionel threw back his head, thrashing still as he slid down along the wall to the ground, the life draining out of him like a stream of liquid light, leaving his mind dark and empty. Curled up on the ground, he twitched a few times convulsively, then lay still at last. The sensation of the threads pulsing dwindled away, out of the Phantom's awareness.
Taking a deep, calming breath, he knelt down beside the fallen man, trying to make his racing pulse slow down. There was no need for caution now; Lionel clearly was dead, beyond recall. After all, he had experience enough with that. Enough men had died with him standing over them, watching their death throes, in his early times with horrid fascination, which had later on turned into dark, deep enjoyment of a mystery he did not wholly understand, not even after all those years he had spent studying it, but which nonetheless gave him a most satisfying feeling of power, and of at least a little bit of retaliation for all he had gone through.
However, it had not been a truly conscious kill this time, not like it usually was. He had acted on instinct, defending himself. This was not the way it should be. Not the way he had wanted it to be. Anger flared up in him anew. Not a proper way to take revenge!
It was then that something caught his eyes. Lifting up one of the fallen man's hands, he now saw that each fingernail had a thin, delicate tip like a cat's claw. And taking those eyes into consideration… This one was not entirely human.
Steadying his breathing, he considered the possibility that he was indeed not the only one who was different. Did Lionel bear some kind of outward markings, like he did, or did he only stand out by his eyes and claws and his sharpened senses? One of those others lurking down here, Adhemar, obviously had a disfigured face, too, while the one calling himself Aeternus had a deformed hand, and both had those markings distinguishing them, just like him, on their right side. Was there any thing this Lionel…?
His right side. Of course. Twice that creature had tried to bite him, each time throwing his head and turning it, turning it so that he faced him with his right side.
Prying Lionel's jaws open carefully, the Phantom saw the answer. While the teeth on the left were absolutely normal, those on the right rose from their sockets like scattered icicles, sharp and thin, the flesh darkened around them as if rotting.
Letting Lionel's head fall back, the Phantom considered it. Adhemar, Aeternus, Lionel, and himself. Each bore some kind of marking, of disfigurement, on his right side. It could not be coincidence. There was something they had in common, something they shared.
Their own flesh and blood, this Adhemar had called him.
The Lost Ones. Who were they? Who was he?
What was he?
The chill was stronger than ever, making him shiver, and he doubted it was from the cold alone.
And the eyes were still there, teasing him, taunting him, making him want to glance behind.
Enough of that. Gathering himself up, he pushed Lionel's lifeless body back into the corner with his foot, then hauled up the large grille with some effort. Time to change into dry clothes. He would go and retrieve his things now, after he had washed the blood off him and his weapon.
The threads of darkness were still there, mocking him, eluding him, laughing at his helpless ignorance.
