A/N Most importantly, thank you very very much to Wee Boat for her mahvelous beta-ing!
This was supposed to be a one-shot, but Mr. Destler seems to have taken up residence in ma poor leetle mind… so I see this going on for a bit. He has to wreak some crazy in my favorite city!
"BoA" is based on the 1989 POTO movie (which was an extreme departure from the original Leroux text), and I've taken some liberties in creating this Erik in order to make him my own. That being said, he's still a big ole murdering dude, so please be advised that the blood will flow.
Just once more- this is not ALW!Phantom- and I am not planning to hold back on the goods. If you aren't hip to violence and sexual situations… go read Buds. Very non-threatening!
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence; ripen, fall, and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
The Lotos-Eaters by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Even the afternoon rain couldn't keep the streets of the French Quarter from pulsing with patrons. Several of the musicians who had been playing on the street corners had halted and retreated to find refreshment. Erik kept playing, unwilling to abandon his little square.
He lifted his eyes to regard a man in a tight yellow dress nursing a daiquiri. This person had been watching him for thirty minutes, or so Erik estimated, and had not moved from his spot under the overhang of the "Blue Orchid" transsexual club. Lowering his gaze, Erik continued to play sections from one of his original compositions.
He paused his playing to bend down and scoop a few bills out of the case. A little money on the velvet encouraged passersby to give, too much discouraged. Erik wondered if he would do better nearer Jackson Square, where the artists gathered and other performers waited their turn to thrill the crowds of pedestrians. That was too open an environment, though. He'd wait until the evening before considering a move.
Earlier that day, Erik had trolled the Quarter, looking for suitable accommodations. He couldn't afford a hotel room; less because of the cost and more because of the security. He needed privacy, and he needed anonymity. Though he liked the look of the Royal Orleans and the Monteleone to be sure, neither would suffice. His comfort had to be earned in his own way. And perhaps, that would make success here all the more sweet.
The signs for rent and sale of condominiums dangled tantalizingly from the overhead balconies. Erik eyed each with longing, but the domiciles on the major thoroughfares were too conspicuous for his needs.
He would have preferred something on Rue Royale, simply to be away from the din of Bourbon Street and also to relish the easier pace; elegant, quiet, full of art and antiques calling him back to a time well before his encounter with the Devil.
The Devil, he considered. Such a rather common and diluted name for that Being.
Walking towards the River on St. Phillip, he paused as he saw a woman stepping up to an iron gate, above which one of those taunting signs hung. She stopped to lower her shopping bags and adjust her purse. Erik quickened his pace and paused behind her to unceremoniously spill the contents of his grocery bag containing the items he'd need for work tonight: a needle and thread, a small pair of scissors, some antiseptic wash, gauze, a few plastic containers, aspirin, garbage bags, matches and a box of candles.
"Oh, my God! Can I help you?" the young woman said, bending down to help him gather his things.
"No, no… thank you so much. I am only clumsy," murmured Erik, slowing picking up the box of gauze and the spool of thread.
"That's okay. These sidewalks are so uneven!" she said gamely, and turned to punch in the code.
#59221
Erik closed his eyes, and repeated the numbers in his mind over and over again as he strode past the woman, down towards a tiny diner where he could write the code on a napkin and grab a bite to eat.
As the day wore on tediously into night, Erik packed up his few belonging and walked down Bourbon, back towards the condominium on St. Phillip. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, and depressed the code into the gate. Once inside, he found himself in the middle of a tropical courtyard. Banana trees were planted in the four corners, and large-leaved plants edged the stone walkways. A bubbling fountain formed the centerpiece, and three sets of iron tables and chairs were positioned for light conversation or outdoor dining in more tolerable weather.
Erik kept close to the darkest corner, noticing only one lighted window among the many. His eyes fell upon a lock box on one of the lower doors, and he smiled to himself. Scaling the lattice underneath the balcony wasn't difficult. Breaking into the French doors was more an inconvenience that anything else. Once inside, he smelled a pungent scent of cinnamon air freshener and the distinct aroma of abandonment. This was a fragrance he knew well.
The condominium was bare—which was to be expected—but considerably spacious. Hardwood floors lay beneath nine-foot ceilings. Two balconies: one courtyard, one street side. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, but it was a roomy one with a claw-foot bathtub and a pleasing expanse of bare tile.
This will do nicely, he thought with a smile playing on his cracking lips.
He unwrapped the candles and set them about. Arranging the needles, gauze and materials on the sink counter top, he nodded with pleasure. A certain amount of the provincial made him feel reverential.
Erik crept out of the condo the very way he'd snuck in, and went hunting for his next creature comfort.
Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop was a frail-looking construction at the corner of Bourbon and St. Phillip. Built in the 1700s, it was one of the few remaining original French structures, having survived the many fires that both destroyed and purified the city over the centuries.
Erik had noticed this hovel before on his wanderings, and tonight he felt compelled to enter and see the interior for himself. Dark, very dark, he noted with approval. Small candles illuminated individual tables, and aside from the garish neon beer signs, the shop radiated age and authority.
Shuffling himself to a side table, he set his violin case on the seat next to him and adjusted his scarf. His face was rapidly disintegrating, and he was not interesting in alarming patrons. A girl frittered towards him and reached for the candle at his table. He made to lash out to her wrist without conscious thought, but drew back as soon as he saw her nimble fingers snatch the glass and flick a lighter.
"Welcome to Lafitte's. What can I get you?" She was a wisp of girl dressed in all black with her red-streaked hair tied up in a messy bun.
"Do you have wine?"
"Sure! You want to see a wine list?"
"No… do you have a house wine?" he said softly, embarrassed. He hadn't been forced to imbibe cheap wine in a long time. Now he had to be practical. This girl was so lovely, however; he longed to keep her hovering over him.
"We sure do. We've got a nice red. It's $3.50 a glass. I'll bring you some water too." She looked pointedly at the scarf around his face, and lowered her gaze.
"Please excuse my covering. I have a terrible cold, and you are far too lovely to contaminate."
With that, she smiled shyly. "I'm sorry you feel poorly. I'll get your wine and some water right now."
Erik looked down at the table, and saw a piece of black paper. Turning it over, he read with amusement: "Vampire and Ghost Tours! See the Haunts of the Vieux Carre! Tour the Cemeteries and Come Face to Face with Death!"
His hearty laugh was interrupted by the tinkling of piano keys. He hadn't even noticed the baby grand in the corner before him. A voice intoned into the microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It's a pleasure to be here tonight, even though the weather seems to be at odds with our enjoyment…"
Twittering laugher followed as nodding heads agreed with him.
"My name is Vincent Mondelli-"
"Vincent! We love you!" hollered a patron from the back.
The man at the piano smiled. "I love you too, darlin'! Endearments now out of the way, to those new to Jean Lafitte's, welcome. We're so glad you're here. As always, if you have a request, please jot it down on a napkin and send it on up here. Cross it with a George Washington, and I'll play it with gusto. Pass over an Andrew Jackson and I'll play for you in your home!"
A woman whistled from behind Erik.
"You, my dear, are cut off!" Vincent smiled, and played a bit of a Broadway tune. "Should I start off with the favorites, just to get them out of the way?"
"Oh, play 'Piano Man' and deal with it, Vince!"
Vincent smiled, and played a snippet of the song. "You already know I'm your Piano Man! And this microphone does not smell like a beer!"
He paused as they laughed.
"It smells like bourbon!"
The mirth elevated.
The girl returned to Erik's table with a glass of wine and a plastic cup of water.
"Can I get you anything else?
"No, thank you." He tuned his head, lowered the scarf to take a sip of wine and covered a grimace. "This pianist is popular, I gather, Miss….?"
She blushed. "Carrie. Yeah, Vince is our most popular player. Just wait—the bar will get packed by about ten or so. He's so good with the social, you know?"
"That, and he is handsome, is he not?"
Carrie smiled softly. "I guess that's part of it. You know," she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "he was a student at NOCCA. Really promising."
Erik shifted his scarf. "NOCCA?"
"New Orleans Center for the Creative Arts, sorry," she said. "The Arts Magnet school here?"
"Ah. And why is he playing drivel for the drunks in a bar if he was so promising?"
Carrie frowned and stiffened. "It's hard, you know, making a living in this city. Vince tried his luck in Chicago, then New York. But he's got family here, and I guess he's got to eat. He gets a lot of tips."
Erik nodded. "One must damn near sell their soul for a profitable career in the arts."
The soft smile returned, and Erik warmed again. "Sad, but true." She gestured to her apron. "I wish everyday I was Andy Warhol or something."
"Perhaps the gods will find you and bless you with good fortune. Or some kind of fortune."
"Maybe, maybe. But I'm scared. I think that woman," she said, gesturing to a figure seated at an adjacent table, scribbling on a notepad, "is a talent scout or something."
"And this troubles you?"
"Well, yeah. She's been in here off and on for a week, taking notes and talking to the piano players. Someone said she's here looking for people to play at a new club. And if Vince leaves…I'd just…" Her voice trailed off.
A woman passed them to put a napkin on the piano and a few bills in the empty brandy snifter.
"Ah, yes. 'Only Living Boy in New York.' Now, ladies and gents, we aren't in New York, but this one is a classic," said Vince as he launched into the song. He played with ease that left Erik feeling both enraged at his complacency and jealous of his gentle contentment.
The woman in the corner continued to scratch out something on her tablet.
His wine finished, Erik called for the bill. Carrie returned with the check, and looked down at his violin case.
"Are you a musician?"
"I am."
"Do you play around here?"
"Sometimes on Bourbon."
She laid the check down in front of him. "Well, maybe I'll see you around. Drop a tip off to you, huh?" She turned and headed for another table.
Erik glanced at the bill. She'd only charged him for a Coke. He left her ten dollars. Her flesh looks so soft.
Leaving the bar, Erik stopped at the street and was immediately offended by the sound of heaving. He peered around the corner to see a man leaning heavily on the brick wall, choking and struggling to undo his fly.
Erik could smell the sickness and fear on the boy before him. He tucked the violin under his arm and walked slowly over to the retching figure.
"Oh Jesus fucking Christ…"
Erik chuckled. "I can't save you, but can I help you?"
The boy looked up at him, vomit streaming down his Sigma Chi sweatshirt. "I gotta go… I'm gonna get sick again… my brothers left me." His eyes were unfocused. Erik wondered if he hadn't ingested more than just alcohol.
"Left you alone in this condition? That's not the traditional meaning of fraternity, is it now?"
Another heaving retch cut off any response the boy might have offered.
Erik watched him carefully. His jeans hung off his spindly hips; this was just a child. Well, certainly a child to him, ageless creature that he was. The neck of the sweatshirt was wide around his wiry neck. His hair was mussed and his face pale.
But the skin. The skin of his face was perfectly smooth. A shock, to be sure, for such a young man. Not a trace of a blemish or scar, at least to Erik's prying eyes.
"You should not stay here."
"Huh?" came the weary voice.
"You will be picked up for public intoxication, or worse, if you fail to zip up your pants."
"I gotta find my brothers."
"You should at least come with me and clean yourself up. Surely, your brothers would be disappointed in your current state. Why, you've sullied the Greek letters on your sweatshirt. That might earn you a bit of wrath, don't you think?"
"But I don't…" he dry heaved and leaned again on the brick. "I don't know you."
"I live not too far from here. And I've been in your position before. I know what drink can do to a young man unaccustomed to the virulent poison."
"So I could piss and clean up at your place? You wouldn't mind?"
"I would not."
Erik put an arm around the boy and led him down St. Phillip. His stumbling steps were merely a nuisance. He was only one of many intoxicants bumbling off of Bourbon Street, even at this early hour. Erik led him towards the iron gate, and punched in the code to admit entry. Shuffling the boy inside, he walked him towards the trellis and bid him sit. He sat his violin case against the locked door of the condo.
"I've managed to lock myself out of my home. Wait here, and be quiet, lest you wake my neighbors and they call the police. I shall open the door and come back for you. Do be respectful and vomit into the garden, rather than on the stone?"
He turned to the trellis, and scaled it quietly. Once inside, Erik found the back door, and using a knife and a pin, unlocked it. Walking back into the courtyard, he passed the drunken youth to retrieve his violin, then scooped the boy up in his arms.
"Let's see what we can do with you, shall we?"
Erik took him around to the opened door, and walked him gingerly up the stairs to the bathroom. "You must forgive me. I've only just moved in, and I have no electricity. But I do have water, so you may use the toilet and wash up."
The boy nodded dumbly, and fell to the cold tile as Erik reached for the matches and lit the votive candles. He stepped aside to set his violin case down. He clicked it open, and reached into the top to retrieve his knife.
A thin blade, much like Joseph Lister would have used. Erik palmed it and walked back into the bathroom. The boy slumped next to the toilet, crying softly. "I shouldn't have had that Hand Grenade…"
"You took some kind of drug too, didn't you?"
"Uh huh. X, I think. I was trying to get this girl to let me fuck her, and she gave me this pill…"
"Yes."
"I'm Charlie. My name is Charlie."
"My name is Erik."
"Can you take me back to campus?"
"I don't think you will be in any condition to go back to campus anytime soon."
Erik knelt beside him and lifted his sweatshirt. The boy fought back. "I don't wanna…"
"I know. I just want to make you more comfortable. And I want to see your skin."
Sliding the clothing off, Erik marveled at the soft, virginal skin. He peeled his gloves off and let a hand stray affectionately over the boy's ribs.
"What are you doing…"
"I'm appreciating you."
The knife slipped through Charlie's ribs into his lung with ease. Erik gripped the boy's neck and held him still. Not moving the knife, not caring for the boy's cries, he heaved the body into the bathtub and considered the blood as it flowed. The inevitable sucking noise followed.
Without hesitation, Erik took the knife to the tender skin of the throat and pulled away sharply. The carotid artery pumped the life out of the boy with the same energy Erik imagined the youth might have had pumping into that sweet girl he fantasized earlier that evening.
Before the blood soaked the jeans, Erik fished the boy's wallet from his back pocket. He'd regard the contents later. Right now, he wanted to focus on Death, and give it proper respect.
Moving his knife to the tender flesh on Charlie's face, Erik carved a symphony around the skull, removing the flesh gently. The hide was deposited into one of his plastic containers filled with antiseptic solution.
Erik moved to the mirror and began to cut away at the decaying mess. He cleaned off the fresh flesh, and cut it purposefully to fit the contours of his face. With reverence, Erik began to sew the new flesh on, piecing it together as if creating a mosaic of life experience. This youthful skin exhilarated him; it infused him with a sense of hope. In the soft candlelight, his skillful stitching was almost invisible. Or perhaps he wished it to be so. In any case, his new face pleased him.
Taking one of the garbage bags, he slipped it around the body's bleeding head. A second was wrapped around the torso, rather carelessly. He put a third around the feet, and checked his pocket watch. 2 AM. Not very late at all, but he felt the need to get the body out of his home as soon as possible. Erik solemnly extinguished the candles
Hoisting the carcass on his shoulder, he trudged down the stairs to the back door. Reaching a hand to lower his fedora over his brow, Erik walked calmly out of the courtyard out to St. Phillip, and walked slightly north on the street. Seeing no one on the boulevard—they were all on Bourbon Street or too drunk to give a care—he deposited the body in a sitting position, leaving only the one garbage bag on his head. The blood on his torso was dry, and Erik carefully placed the left arm over the lap to cover the side puncture wound. The stream of blood would just have to be visible.
God help the person who lifted the bag.
Because this Devil wasn't very merciful.