A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed the last chapter. I am sorry to The Queen Sarah for the misconceptions about your pen name. Hope everyone will review the next chapter with as much gusto as they did the last. Disclaimer: Erik lives in my closet. Not yours…mine. I still haven't bound and gagged ALW, but I'm working on it.
Erik said nothing, as he stalked through the rafters of the Opera Populaire. He knew Giry had disappeared, but still watched the corps du ballet with the usual fervor. However, the prima ballerina, the young Marie, was trying on his nerves. She danced with the grace of an ox, and her feet pounded against the stage. He wished every night that Giry would come back and dance for him, one last time.
He watched the performance with cat-like eyes, fingering a beautifully crafted lasso in his hands. Tonight would be Marie's last performance. Giry's last performance. For in his mind he had transformed Marie's lithe, twig-thin figure into Giry's curvaceous body. Giry, not Marie, would come to harm. Giry's curtain would fall in the end, not his. The prima ballerina was promenading gaily around the stage. Erik pounced on her in mid-step, and felt her trembling body beneath his gloved fingers.
"Do not fear." He whispered calmly. "The Angel has come to take you home."
With one deft movement he strangled her with the lasso, and smiled a deliciously wicked smile. Her body fell to the floor with a thud, and carefully he looked around at the audience, who were slowly advancing upon him. With one sharp movement he stepped on a floorboard, and his personal trapdoor opened into the catacombs. He felt it lock surely behind him.
"Fancy that." He said. "And no one shall ever find me."
He stalked down in the caverns of the opera house, running despite his knowledge of secrecy. He had committed murder again, and this time he felt no pang of remorse. The first few times, with the ballet rats, he had felt a flicker of guilt. They had not deserved to die. But they had anyway, because of the managers' foolhardy behavior. He remembered their faces, and little Kathrine crying out: 'It's the Opera Ghost!'. She had met him, and had suffered for that behavior. Erik had smiled then, a twisted smile, full of guilt and happiness. This time, though, there was no mercy.
"Antoinette," he muttered. "Yet I love you still."
Giry herself was settled in her bed, lying next to Armand's prostrate figure. They had made love that night, passionate love. However, it was Armand who carried all the passion. Giry kissed him with dead lips, and her words were dry and limp in her mouth. She knew she did not love him. It had not been an escapade to the distant stars, but like wallowing in the filth of the Parisian sewers. She had sold herself to her husband, whereas with Erik she had loved him with devotion. If she had married Erik…she sighed, thinking of his own warm body and the delicacy and passion of his caresses. How she would love to hold him again…once, just once. But then she remembered the child she was carrying, Erik's child, and how she could never be free. Armand was her salvation, she was married, and the child would be passed off as his. Armand's child, but true fruit of Giry and Erik. And then, when the child was older, what would she say to it? Would she lie and sin? She would have to. She would have to lie to her child and her husband until death, and even in their graves they would not know the truth. Giry would hide it, and hide her love for Erik.
"Good morning," whispered Armand, kissing her head.
Giry was jolted out of her thoughts.
"Good morning." She replied, and got dressed quickly.
"I love you Antoinette." He said.
"I do too." She replied, pulling a dress over her naked body. She realized that her now-rounding stomach was protruding in a garish way. Instinctively she ruffled her dress so no one would now. However, her husband noticed it.
"Antoinette, are you getting plump?" he teased.
"Yes, Armand, I believe we have a child."
"My God." He said slowly. He kissed her forehead and shamefully began to cry. "I always dreamed of having a child." He whispered.
"Yes." Sighed Giry. "I wonder what it will be?"
"If it is a boy, let us call him…Alexandre."
"That is a pretty name." Giry agreed. "But if it is a girl, may we call her Marguerite?"
"Of course, my love. Marguerite Louisa, if we may?"
"Why Louisa?" she asked.
"It was my mother's name." said Armand. "She always wished to have a grandchild."
"I prefer…Erika." She said.
"Erika is ugly, Antoinette."
"Fine." She muttered, completely nonplussed. "We will call it either Marguerite Louisa or Alexandre Francoise."
"Francoise?"
"Francoise was the name of my father." Lied Giry. It had been the name of a stagehand she had remembered giving her a piece of sugared candy.
"Then alright." He said. "I love our child already."
"I do too. I love our child."
He got up and pulled on his own clothing, and disappeared out into the crowded streets.
"I love our child, Erik." Said Giry, fingering the bedspread. She went out of the room and into the kitchen, where she found a copy of the morning paper, ink staining their small table. She did not care about the stain, but what the newspaper said.
Corps du Ballet in Shock at Opera Populaire
She read the article quickly. Marie, darling, sweet Marie, was dead.
"Erik." She muttered. "Erik, why?"
Her hand shook with the shock. She almost saw Erik's terrible countenance in the horrible grimace of death. He was not beautiful now. He was a twisted, horrible monster. A creature, not a human. No human could commit such a crime without remorse.
"Erik," she whispered. "Erik, you bastard. You lying, cheating, foul bastard." Her voice had begun in a whisper but soon she was screaming the words. "Bastard from the pits of Hell! Oh Erik!"
She wailed and went into her room, and lay down, sobbing on the bed. Her hatred and love for the man made her heart ache. She loved him and she feared him. Thank God she had gone, or he would have killed her outright. But now longing swept over her, and she wanted to go back. Marry the murderous bastard, and raise their child.
Erik hid in the catacombs, finishing the piece that he was writing. The pain he felt poured out of him like blood. When it was finished he sighed, satisfied. He penned out another note to the managers.
My esteemed gentlemen,
As I own this theatre, I command that you play this piece during intermission in one of the operas. It is your choice to do so, but be warned, Marie's death is only a forewarning.
Sincerely,
O.G.
He tied it up with a red ribbon and laid it to one side. A tear streaked across his face, but he brushed it way thoughtlessly.
"Antoinette, come back to me."
He then penned out another letter, this time to Antoinette.
Dear Giry,
My heartfelt congratulations on your marriage. Your husband must be delighted with the upcoming birth of our child. If you truly want to be happy, return to your beloved. Marie's death was a warning, and I shall continue to send out more warnings if you delay.
O.G.
He exited from the passage from the bedroom, and out into the deserted halls of the Opera Populaire. He said nothing, but left the two notes on the desk of the managers. He penned out a short notice on the note to Giry.
"To be given to Mademoiselle Giry immediately."
He left with the air of a man that had a great burden lifted from his heart.
A/N: It has been approx. two months since Armand's and Giry's marriage. Hope to see good reviews. More twists left to come…