A/N: Sorry for the length between updates, all- I'm was in the midst of finishing up my VERY LAST SEMESTER of college and the tests were coming in fast and thick. This was intended to be longer, but I couldn't resist the cliffy. But, have no fear, I know where I want the next chapter to go, so the updates will come sooner :D
Another comment- I don't know whether or not "Red Light District" is the proper term for the more seedier area of New York in the late 1800's. If anyone can give me more accurate information in comments, I will gladly change it for the sake of continuity. Until then, "Red Light District" is the best I can come up with.
Also, I now have a beta- GlovedHand from Aria. However, my dear beta has not seen this chapter yet. So…I give you the un-betaed version. I may repost later with the betaed version, but I could NOT resist posting this now that I had it done.
Chapter EightThose two hellish weeks of meaningless starvation were what finally drove me to slam my front door closed on a surprised-and lightly amused, I noticed angrily- Lucas and storm out into the streets clad heavily in my now usual black velvet. Perhaps it was the fact that I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I could not trust him that I not make me repeat the question of the weeks prior, or it was merely the fact that he controlled my movements that I hated. As it was, I mustered what small amount of preternatural speed and strength I possessed and took the nearest route to the only place I could believe other vampires would be found: New York's infamous Red Light District.
I could well imagine Mama Valerius' voice in my mind as I walked there; she would be quietly appalled that her little, shy singer would even contemplate setting foot in such a dismal place. I chuckled quietly at her stern admonishments in my mind.
"There, Christine! No, I forbid it. You will never be seen doing such a thing, not if you are to be viewed as a proper young lady. No, dear, you will not go there."
The small voice of Mama Valerius rang in my head at that last sentence, not with the resonance I knew Mama always tried to have, despite her usual calm nature, but with the trembling of an old woman's dying voice.
I missed her. I missed her guidance. I still do. Mama Valerius had always been the place I could go to be safe, the place where Papa's memory was intact, where I knew where I stood and what was expected of me. When I went to the Opera, that all changed. Raoul tried to be my comfort, tried to be the one I could be assured would support me, but he only confused me more. I did not know how to untie my feelings for him from those of friendship. Perhaps…God, perhaps I never had. In some ways, I suppose marriage to my best friend, my dearest friend, was the best thing for me. But not, conceivably, for him.
I shook my head. Thinking of the dead was little use to me now. The District's red window lights glittered ahead, flickering flames in dirty lanterns. Horse manure littered the streets, mixing with the more foul scents of human urine and feces. The cobblestones were broken and cracked; trash was everywhere, blowing in the cold wind. Whores walked the streets, raising their skirts to passersby both male and female. I looked at my dress, obviously costly. It was unwise to be here alone, but I had no choice.
Setting my sights on the heart of the District, I continued walking, forcing my thoughts onto keeping an eye on the crowds before me. It was eventful here, for such a cold night as it was, tavern owners hawking the quality of their drink, brothel madams displaying their wares by their front doors, flashing legs and bosoms to the passersby. I was hoping I would go unnoticed in the crowds, but that was not to be.
"Madam! Madam! In here, please!" The voice had a lilt of culture that did not belong here, so much so that it was noticeable even to my ears, unused as I was to the rough English of the crowds around me.
It came from the steps of a church.
I balked, swallowing. I can't, not now, not ever, not after all I had done…All that He could never forgive…
Was I asking for forgiveness?
I waved him away-don't come near me!- and continued down the street, sidestepping the muck that spilled even onto the sidewalks. The priest continued with his entreaties to enter, and I looked with a saddened eye at the snow blowing heavier amidst all the trash. The weather was worsening.
I thought for a moment of attempting to use the speed and flight of which Lucas had spoken to me about, but I couldn't risk using it amidst the crowds still in the streets. As it was I'd never used it to begin with, and unafraid as I was to walk the streets alone, confident in my ability to defend myself, I still feared using an ability I had no training in- some instinct left over from the Opera, perhaps. I had come hoping the weather would make it nearly abandoned here. Earning money to pay for a next meal was apparently more important than the snow here. I had nowhere to go.
I thought…
The suggestion of it stopped me in my tracks, swaying slightly from the force of the wind and the power of the thought. I couldn't go in there, ever…
Mama Valerius had stressed the importance of the church, it's precepts, it's…holiness. My step meant death now, unnatural death, unacceptable death.
I stared back at the face of the church, so forlorn on the street but as imposing to me as the face of Notre Dame itself. Raoul, would that you were here now… I wanted him there so badly in that moment. Wanted to feel him put his arms around mine and tell me everything was fine, there was no need to fear anything. Pretty fairy tales, those were. I wished with all my heart they had been true.
The church front loomed before me with all the dismal grace of a spectre, and quite suddenly I realized I had turned around and come back to stand in front of its steps. I made no movement forward, standing as if part of the sidewalk, letting the crowds pass around me, some with indifference, some with curses I paid little attention to.
Could I?
Remembering the first time I'd ever entered a church was difficult for me, I'd been so young, but I know it was with Papa. I remember the humble little chapel he took me to in Sweden. We didn't know anyone, not even the priest. We traveled so much that knowing anyone was rare, but Papa always insisted we go on Sundays, even if the weather was terrible. He always took his violin, and played hymns on the steps of the churches we went to. Quite often it was enough to earn us a meal and a bed for the night.
The earliest I remember was that one small chapel in Sweden, with a congregation of only 20 or 30, a small village compared to the cities we'd been to. I remember Papa packing up his violin and leading me inside for services to start, and I remember the tall, shabby man that followed us in with his head bowed, the man who sat at the back of the church, never speaking to anyone.
"Papa, why doesn't that man talk to anyone?"
"He doesn't feel he can, Lotte."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe…maybe he has sinned against God."
I glowered. "Then he shouldn't be here, should he?"
Papa frowned at me, softly. "No, no, Christine, that's not true at all. Perhaps he has sinned, but God will forgive him. God always sees what we do. He even sees inside us." He knelt in front of me, looking me seriously in the eye. "No matter what we do, the pure at heart are always welcome in His house."
The pure at heart…Was I? Oh, God, was I? Could I ever be welcome again?
My fists clenched so tight together I knew there were half moons of blood where my nails bit into my palms at the memory, healing with the speed I also knew I unnaturally possessed.
Even as I took the first step up to the doorway of the church my mind ran away with me, taking me far away from where I was to a place beyond the dilemma I now suffered. Somewhere in the distance I heard the sound of Papa's violin, playing for our room and board.
The pure at heart…
I strained to recognize the music as my feet continued plodding up the steps against the will of everything I believed, and for a moment I saw my Papa, standing on the steps in white shirtsleeves, playing. My feet stopped as I stopped to listen, to recognize, and I wasn't even dimly aware of the babbling of the priest as he came to greet me, his hand outstretched to grasp my sleeve. I wanted to hear this, to hear what my Papa played; it had been so long…Keep playing, Papa, just a little while longer…
The slow, mournful sound of the Resurrection of Lazarus greeted my ears.
And the pavement rushed to meet me as my world twisted and faded down a thin passageway of darkness.