I. Sculpted Angels
The eyes were still there, all around him, watching his every move. As were the threads, pulsing and vibrating, seemingly constricting around him as he made his way through the dark vaults of the Opera House. He did his best to ignore all of them for now. The time would come when he would deal with them, but for now… there had indeed been a change of plans. Still wrath was giving him wings, but there was something else, too: Those intruders might yet prove to be of use to him. If not, he could always kill them later on, but if he found they were… There were several half-formed ideas in his mind, and he was undecided as yet, but maybe in just a few more minutes' time he would be able to make his decision. And then, may God have mercy on the world, for the Phantom would not.
The girl was heading away, he could feel the awareness of her fading. Good. This was none of her business. She was not her mother. And it was none of her mother's business either, to be exact. What he was doing now was his own concern, his concern alone.
Maybe there would not be a Requiem after all.
And it had nothing to do with Christine, as well – except that this was over for good now. She had betrayed and rejected him, choosing some brainless fop over him, and he would not beg her to come back. He did not want to see her again. It was over, and he would never beg. Never! Never! No more tormenting himself, no more letting the grief bring him down. No woman, no woman in the world he would allow to have him suffer just because she chose to throw his own heart at his feet, and himself he would not allow to become a pathetic wretch craving for the affection of a woman who was not even worth it.
Furiously kicking a small piece of jagged rock out of his way, he strode down the dark corridor. What did he need a woman's love for, anyway? It would only make him soft and weak. All he truly needed was the occasional girl to satisfy his physical desire, and he would find a way of having them, as many as he wanted.
He was a fool not to have taken advantage of Claire Giry when he had had the chance! But no, he had been a stupid little boy, and he had been too decent to make her have him, even later on, after her husband's death, when it would have been so easy to take her. Decent! He snorted angrily. What a pathetic sentiment!
But he might yet have her daughter for a night or two. The girl looked nice enough, and was rather well built, too. And she was interested in a closer acquaintance, if he was any judge. Well, maybe not as close as that, but it would be easy enough to get her to do what he wanted. She was far too trusting, anyway. Maybe she would even come to appreciate it.
In this case, he would rip off his mask once he was done with her, just to hear her scream.
There was a voice somewhere at the back of his mind, telling him that he had better be grateful that there was someone not feeling repulsed by his touch, but right now he did not want to feel grateful. If he just hated everyone, pretending that everyone hated him as well, things were so much easier.
But still, the girl had managed to bring up in him something he had deemed long buried. She was so very much like Claire had once been, so long ago, back in those happy days when his only concern still had been getting something to eat and finding a good place to listen to the evening's performance. All those times they had laughed together, he and Claire, all those times they had spent being childish and extremely foolish…
No. He would not permit himself to relive those memories if it meant that someone was getting too close to him. Claire had been a friend, and apparently she still was, but her girl was just a stranger. A stranger invading his privacy.
Very well, if she wanted to be near him, this was what she would get. He would have her as he wanted her, and maybe she could offer him at least some satisfaction, if he thought of Christine hard enough while having her.
It did not feel exactly right towards her mother… but he would consider it the price of letting Claire see his weakness.
Foolishness. Claire knew about all his weaknesses.
But still, there was no reason to go flaunting them before her, and even feel relieved for doing so. It was utterly disgraceful, and it was never going to happen again.
His fists clenched by his sides. This shame alone should have earned him death.
Death. It was a thought always returning to him, a desire to be done with it all, just like an offer of sanctuary. It was tempting, but on the other hand… he did not need a sanctuary. He could cope on his own, and he was too proud to admit defeat.
And all the same, the serene beauty of the thought of sleep, sleep for all of eternity… No more memories, no more pain…
No. Not yet. There was still something he had to do, although he was suddenly not that sure anymore what exactly. And he deserved the pain. He deserved to suffer. He deserved to burn in Hell for having claimed a place in paradise.
A fallen angel, and far from Heaven.
Only that he had never been an angel in the beginning, despite what Christine had believed. He had lied to her, and she had every right to treat him as she did, to make him suffer.
And then again, she had not! Who did she think she was, tormenting him like that? After all he had done for her? She was but what he had made of her, his creature, nothing more! She was his, his alone!
He really should not have kept his temper in check with that impertinent little slimeball earlier on. He should have kicked him down the stairs and up again at the very least. No, he should have –
At once he froze and shrunk against the rough tunnel wall. There was something wrong, very wrong indeed. He had been following his awareness of a stranger all the time, and for some time he had been getting closer, but now… The distance between them had stopped changing.
Forcefully shoving his fury to the darker recesses of his mind, he waited, making no move. Still the distance stayed the same. After some time he took a few strides ahead, then halted once more, once more feeling out for the stranger's position. Again the distance had not altered.
A trap. Just as he had thought.
Once more he had to force down his anger, but this time at the intruders. Did they really take him for such a fool?
Or maybe they were just very confident he would come. He only wondered what gave them such confidence.
Those threads. They were pulsing again, gently but clearly enough, creeping into every corner. But around him, they seemed to leave a patch of open space, as if reluctant to touch him… or as if somebody down there in the darkness did not want to reveal himself yet.
But if he continued the way he was heading, this somebody would have to turn up eventually.
Determinedly pulling his cloak around himself, he strode on through the darkness.
They had to be aware of the fact that he had killed Lionel. That… power he had struggled with for a moment, before he had stabbed the creature, that power must have been the same as the one controlling those threads.
The Master. Lionel had mentioned him, as had those other two, Adhemar and Aeternus. It must be the Master, whoever that was.
As he climbed down a staircase not too far from his lair, the one ahead of him suddenly stopped. For a moment the Phantom hesitated, almost regretting that he had left his sabre and daggers as well as another length of rope in the boat. But no, everything would go as planned. That one was just there to receive him.
And if not, he did not need weapons to deal with his enemies. Weapons were only there to make things more enjoyable.
At the foot of the staircase, he recognized the mind out there, waiting for him in the darkness. He had not truly reached out this morning, for fear the intruders might discover his presence, yet he had still felt them, and this one ahead of him was definitely one of them.
At least he knew who to expect now.
Tugging at the collar of his cloak so he would make a perfect impression, he turned a corner, knowing now not only where he was ultimately heading, but also that he would meet the man awaiting him this very moment. He was calm, completely calm, and ready for the confrontation.
With Claire's description in mind, it was very easy to recognize the scarred face illumined by a flaming torch. "We meet at last, Adhemar", he stated. And Heavens be damned, what scars! He would readily exchange his own burn marks for those!
"Phantom", Adhemar growled. He was definitely brighter than Lionel, for he was careful not to meet the other man's eyes. His features, however, were easy enough to read: a very poor display of hiding pure loathing. Had it not been this very man who had called the Phantom his own flesh and blood, only a few hours ago? Did Lionel's death cause this sentiment in him? To the Phantom, there was no other reason, at least not an obvious one. Maybe there existed a very subtle reason, but he could not tell yet, not when Adhemar was not looking at him directly.
But he would find out, he was certain of that.
"Follow me", Adhemar said gruffly, his black cloak billowing out behind him as he turned on his heel sharply and started down the corridor. The Phantom very barely suppressed a snort. Was this all that fellow could do with his cloak? He himself could do that much better. If he let his cloak billow properly, Adhemar would probably die with envy.
As the Phantom had assumed, they soon arrived outside the very hall where Meg had first glimpsed Lionel. Something had changed, however: The air, normally cold, carried a heat it had never yet reached even on the hottest summer days, and there was a reddish light cast out into the corridor, just like the glow he had seen this morning.
The threads were stronger here, tighter, intricately interwoven, and stood out clearly in his consciousness. Their source was near now, very near.
Adhemar stopped and turned, again careful not to let their gazes meet. "In here", he said, waving the hand holding up the torch, so that its light flickered, making the shadows dance.
Very well. Here he was. Now he would see who he was up against, and decide what to do with them. Sauntering to the doorway, he tried to convey a sense of calm that was not exactly what he was feeling inside. Under the arch, he halted, right between the pair of cherubs hewn from the stone and under the source of the red light, surveying what he saw.
There were more than he had expected. Many more. Due to their huddling together, he could not quite put a number to them, but he estimated that there were about thirty assembled, if not more. Some stood out clearly among them, especially a pair of unusually tall, broad-shouldered ruffians with long, untidy manes, one blond, one black; others were cowering on the floor, along the two lines of braziers they had put up along the hall's length. Quite stylish, he had to admit that, and not only useful for lighting, but also to heat a room considerably. He might keep a few once he was done with this lot. And all eyes were fixed on him. Not that this worried him, his stance was perfect, after all; it merely increased his slight uneasiness. They had indeed been waiting. They had been expecting him.
Lazily shifting his cloak, he let his eyes wander along the lines, wondering where their so-called Master was. There was a man with a rather common face who was watching him very closely, flanked by a pair of fair-haired fellows, and the fact that this one wore only one glove made him assume that this might be Aeternus. Further along the line stood an old man whose face was partially hidden by a hood; it did not surprise the Phantom anymore that it was the right side the man was hiding. Could it be this one, maybe?
How many of those assembled bore markings like his own, dooming them to a life of outcasts for the rest of the world? How many of those were… his kin?
Who were they? They had to tell him. They had to give him some kind of explanation at last.
Standing between the sculpted angels, he almost smiled at the irony of it. Only a short time ago, he had been an angel, too, Christine's Angel of Music, but then he had allowed her to discover his identity, and he had been cast out from Heaven. And precisely in his darkest hour, these strangers arrived, these strangers which were marked like him, and once more he found himself amid angels… How he wished he could truly be once more the Angel he had once been, even though it had been nothing but a lie! Christine had trusted him then, trusted him and loved him.
She had loved a lie, then.
Drawing himself up proudly, he made his voice resound through the vast cavern. "Who are you, and who speaks for you?"
There was movement ahead, and the lines parted reverentially, revealing a towering dark shape coming towards him.
And then the threads of darkness exploded inside his head, and he knew no more.
