Greetings once more!
A big thanks to all of you who, through your reviews, have helped me to create this story! I honestly don't know where I'd be without you people!
This chapter is a bit longer than my others, at your request. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Now, let's get to it!
Chapter Eight: Claudine the Composer
Danny was no longer angry. Rather, his frustration had dissolved into depression the minute Sam left his hospital room. It was as though he were mourning over the death of a relative that he had never heard of, seen, or met.
Beyond his rock-bottom mood, Danny could feel his strength coming back to him over the next few days. He had finally managed to complete his transformation, but still could not use any of his greater or complex powers.
He needed that strength too: he was scheduled for surgery in about half an hour.
As he lay in his hospital bed, his sister peeked around the door.
"Hi, Danny," she said meekly. She was obviously afraid that her brother would yell at her again.
"Hi, Jazz," he replied dejectedly. "Come in."
Jazz walked over to the chair beside Danny's bed and sat down, never taking her eyes off him the whole time.
"Is something wrong?" she asked. "Am I bothering you?"
Danny gave a weak smile. "No. I'm just feeling a little down, is all."
"I heard you were going into surgery."
"Yeah. Apparently, a piece of my collarbone snapped off when I got hit against–I mean...when I fell out of that tree." Danny smirked embarrassedly; he hadn't taken the time to invent a credible story for his presence on the golf course yet.
"Oh my... Doesn't it hurt?
"Only when I move my arm."
Jazz smiled warmly. Her brother was definitely in a better mood; at least compared to the people at school.
"Danny, you know I think you're great, right?"
Her brother sighed. "Yeah. You said that once before, didn't you?"
"Right, and I mean it this time, too."
It was at this point that a doctor, dressed in a green surgical gown, stepped through the door.
"Alright, Mr. Fenton," he said drably. "The OR's ready. We can get on with your surgery now."
"Bye, Jazz," said Danny as he was switched onto a gurney.
Jazz gave no reply; merely, she waved until her brother passed through the doors, gazing at his innocent face until the last.
The plan was simple: Danny and Sam had notified Tucker of the connections they had made between Spectra and the Phantom, but said that they needed more evidence to cinch their suspicions. So, all three agreed that Sam and Tucker would take turns staying after school, spying on the doctor and her assistant's activities.
Today was Tucker's turn.
"Camera on," he said to himself. The monitor on his PDA lit up with a miniature version of the hallway as the camcorder he had built into it clicked on.
It seemed like an eternity before Tucker found anything of real evidence as he was skulking outside Spectra's office. About half an hour into the scouting mission, he heard music coming from down the hallway, near where Danny's locker was.
What's that? he thought.
Tucker left the office behind as he followed the music. It had a hauntingly beautiful quality to it, like Sam's music box, he recalled. As the techno-geek turned into the band room, his green eyes widened with mild surprise.
In one corner of the room, an immense pipe organ embroidered with gold paneling and red velvet sat in place. At the keys was a tall, thin man wearing a gray suit-jacket, playing with tortured, pained movement. The sight was incredibly bizarre for a man playing an organ.
"Hello, young man," said the man without altering his action or position.
Tucker was now genuinely startled. This man had known he was there without even turning around to face him.
"H–Hello," stammered Tucker.
"Don't just stand there, come in!"
The teen slowly walked into the room: he had never been inside here before. An orchestra pit dominated the center, with music stands lined up along each level. On the side of the room opposite the organ, a collection of violins of all shapes and sizes lay against the wall. He went over to the man, who was finishing the cadenza on his organ. As the last note reverberated throughout the room, the organist turned around, staring at Tucker with green, mismatched eyes...Danny's eyes.
"And who might you be?" asked the mystery pianist.
"Tucker Foley. Who're you?"
The man stood up, drawing himself to his full height. "My name is Mr. Claudine. I'm the school's new symphonic band conductor and instructor."
"Oh, I got it." As Tucker started to leave, his PDA, in a holster on his belt, picked up a series of red notes on an ancient-looking piece of paper.
"Uh, sir?" he asked. "What were you playing, anyways?"
Claudine cocked an eyebrow in surprise. "Oh, this? It's a song I've been working on. Took me almost a third of my life to complete. Do you like it?"
"Oh–uh–yeah!" stammered Tucker quickly.
"It's a wonderful thing, music," mused Claudine as he sat down at his bench. "Man's highest and most sophisticated art form. No matter what the song says, it's the fact that it's music that counts. It justifies everything we do in its service, good or ill, don't you agree?"
There was no answer.
"Hello?"
Again, no reply.
The tall, thin man turned around to face Tucker, but there was no one there. His forehead creased beneath his slicked-back hair.
Tucker was now running as fast as he could towards the school exit, fumbling with his PDA to turn off the camcorder. He had already gotten what he needed, and there was no reason to stay in the room with that creepy man any longer.
Once safely outside the school, Tucker went through his pocket, taking out a pair of lime-green earphones. He put each one into its respective ear and turned them on.
"Sam," Tucker spoke into the Fenton-Phones. "It's me. I think we've found our man."
A ritzy mansion that once belonged to the founder of Amity Park lay on the northernmost extremities of the town. For about twenty-five years, the house lay abandoned, no one having enough money or influence to pay for it. Now, there were lights on in the house, people moving around inside, and all-around activity going on.
There was a simple explanation: according to the census, the house now belonged to a certain Dr. Penelope Spectra and Dr. Bert Rand.
Erik, entering the vicinity in gaseous form under cover of night, materialized outside to admire the house. It was a tall, gothic mansion, completely painted in shades of gray. Four spires dominated the corners, surrounding a courtyard bordered by fortress-like walls. The lawn which had fallen into disrepair, was the color of old hay. It was the classic haunted house.
He phased inside, coming into a foyer that looked as though it had come straight out of the Baroque Period of Austria. Erik himself had taken the liberty of modeling it after the grand atrium of the Opera Garnier, his last home and domain.
Silently, he walked through a series of long and winding corridors until he came upon a lavish lounge, a fire roaring underneath the hearth. Spectra and Bertrand were seated comfortably in two plush, chintz armchairs, apparently enjoying the moment for all it was worth. Both were in their evening wear: Spectra wore a red silk evening gown; Bertrand a maroon ascot, smoking jacket, and cap.
"Good evening, my dears," said Erik as he stepped into the light. His cloak, slouch hat, and tuxedo were in place, as always, yet the color scheme was different: what had once been all different shades now was only black and white.
"Why hello, Erik," said Penelope in a pleasantly surprised tone. "You're right on time."
"Unlike some people." Erik glanced right at Bertrand, who scowled back.
"So," continued Spectra, "I trust you had luck?"
"Of course, Madam." The Opera Ghost produced a large vial of glowing green matter from the folds of his cloak. It seemed to undulate with raw, untapped energy.
"Oh goody! Bertrand, be a dear and bring the vial to me." There was a child-like innocence in her voice.
"Why can't he come over there?" whined Bertrand.
"Because I outrank you; now move!"
Bertrand floated over to Erik, shooting daggers from his eyes at his colleague. The cloaked man handed him the vial, which he then gave to Spectra. As she opened the lid, glowing green mist drifted out of it, circulating around her head. Penelope breathed it in, replenishing her youth once again.
"I'm gonna miss these kids," she sighed. "Honestly, how do you do it, Erik?"
"The music brings out the emotion of the composer and directs it at the audience," explained the Opera Ghost. "That, my dear, is the result of just one song."
"Impressive," mused Spectra. "Then our plan's going off without a hitch. Another few weeks of this, and we'll be looking young forever!"
"There's one problem," Bertrand chimed in. "The ghost kid's due to be released from the hospital within a matter of days. When he gets back, he'll head right for us."
"I already told you," said Erik, irked to no end. "Even if he's well, he'll be in no shape to fight us. He barely posed a threat at his full power."
"Then it's settled," said Penelope, sipping a flute of water. "We draw him into our grasp before he gets his power back."
Erik poured his own glass. "Naturally. A toast!"
All three raised their water glasses, which gleamed in the firelight.
"To our eternal afterlives, and the beauty that is destined to pervade them for eternity!"
Spectra smiled. Her wishes were about to be fufilled...
Voila!
I apologize to all my readers for taking so long with this update, but I wanted to make it good! Once again, thanks for all your reviews! Send more!
Your sincerest regards,
Monsieur Caracal.