A/N: Glad you all are enjoying this as much as I am. Hugs and chocolate to all my reviewers. I appreciate your words more than you'll ever know. Alright, in this chapter I do a little screwing with the timeline in order to pick up the pace a bit. It mixes both musical and book timeline so that Buquet's body makes an appearance, Carlotta croaks, and Erik drops the chandelier all on the same night. Got it? Great! This chapter also introduces my first serious departure from canon, and I hope you will like it. After all, I set up the torment of one of the characters we all love to hate. ;) A note:
Mystery Guest: This story is intended for fans of Phantom. For fans of Hannibal. For those fans of both and fans of neither. I will definitely be providing plenty of background info on the Hannibal/Clarice story in future chapters, but for now I'm trying my best to make you feel what the Phantom characters are feeling. They have no idea who these people are or what their history is and when they find out…well, it could be either good or bad for them. However, if you want some general info now, you can go here: www. geocities. com/ jstarz927/ synopsis.html
Chapter edited 2/10/04
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In this LabyrinthBy Jstarz927
Chapter 6
...To Murder is Sublime
She should have seen it coming. All of it.
As it was, perhaps her eyes had been dazzled by the winking lights of the chandelier or by the lush opulence of their private box. Hannibal had chosen not to attend the first performance of Il Muto, and Raoul had insisted on being her escort after he had seen her stepping out of her carriage without her husband. She had listened to his idle, energetic chatter all the way up the Grand Staircase and through the foyer. She stopped when he did not part from her in front of his own box but instead continued to follow her around behind the left side of the theater.
"Raoul, isn't your box that way?"
"Oh, yes. I'm afraid that it has been sold. It was only temporary and tonight is a full house...but M Firmin was kind enough to lend me the use of another private box. By some stroke of fortune it had not yet been sold!"
"And which box would that be?" Clarice asked, though the crawling feeling in her stomach told her that she already knew.
"Number 5." Raoul released her arm as they stopped before the door to box 7. "Enjoy the performance," he continued, turning to enter the door to her left, "I will be only one column away."
She should have known then. She should have marched into that box and hauled his ass out of there. Maybe then everything wouldn't have gone to hell. Then again, she doubted that the invasion of his private box was the main reason for the Phantom's anger that night.
The lights on the seven-ton chandelier dimmed and the dark stage was illuminated to reveal the typical garish splendor of the opera and the first few notes were sung, the shimmering vibrato filling the great expanse of the theater.
Clarice watched the first half hour of the opera with mixed interest, and all the while, every single one of her police instincts was assaulting her mind. She saw Carlotta strut onto the stage for the second act with a young singer dressed in a man's clothes at her side. That must be...she half-stood from her chair for a better look.
It happened so fast. Carlotta filled her diva's lungs and opened her mouth only to send a magnificent croak into the air. The image of the singer's horrified, painted face was still twirling in Clarice's mind's eye when she heard the maniacal laugh fill the theater.
A flutter of a black cloak up near the frescoed ceiling, the sudden darkness in her box as the main chandelier swung on its counterweights away from her, a heavy object swung down from the rafters to dangle above the stage, bulging eyes staring out from a death-gray face, the mutterings of old men replaced by piercing screams quickly following suit. And when Clarice's mind resurfaced from its reeling shock, she peered over her balcony to see the sea of shattered glass and blood from broken bodies blanketing the floor like diamonds scattered amidst rose petals. In the back of her mind, she could hear, the sound of Raoul fumbling frantically to open his box door. It was a buzzing noise, like a fly examining a fresh kill. Then the slam of the door as he rushed down the hall, presumably to burst into the theater as a knight in shining armor to save his princess.
And then Clarice leaned against the balcony of box 5 and gazed across the swirl of bobbing heads, frantically pushing against each other in their desperation to escape. She was still standing there several hours later when utter silence reigned. The screaming had died down a little while after the frantic mobs had exited the auditorium.
And it was several hours since Carlotta had pulled off, in Clarice's opinion, the most enjoyable performance of her career. Several hours since Buquet's partially decomposed body had swung down from the rafters. Several hours since the massive chandelier had fallen from the ceiling and a terrified Christine had seized Raoul by the hand and dragged them both out of sight.
Several eternities that Clarice had stood there, the silence of the immense Opera House oppressively pressing in upon her ears like layers of wool, suffocating and hot.
Five people had been killed when the chandelier had fallen. Their blood was still spattered among the seats, staining the gilded frames rose-red before blending perfectly into the red velvet seats.
I never can escape it, can I? No matter where I go, no matter what I do, the innocents will always be the ones to suffer.
The lambs, silent for nearly a year now, were beginning to press upon her soul like the deathly silence was currently pressing upon her body. She had thought that she had silenced them for good the night she had chosen Hannibal.
He had been strangely aloof lately. In the few weeks since she had collapsed into their bed at two in the morning, he had retreated into some distant corner of his memory palace with no intention of returning anytime soon. He would eat dinner in utter silence and then disappear into his study for hours on end. She doubted that he slept at all.
She had attempted to talk to him about Christine once, voicing her concerns about the torment the girl was going through and whether he knew anything about her connection with the Phantom of the Opera and why did he keep so many secrets about said phantasm who seemed to have no intentions of being kept a secret himself and why the bloody hell was he still keeping secrets from her after all that she had done and said and been through over the years for him, for them. It was five minutes before Clarice realized that she was shouting.
And Hannibal had looked straight at her unblinkingly during her tirade and waited patiently until she was done. "Let Christine make her own choice, and let me make mine, my dear," he had said when she had stopped for want of breath. And then there had been the click of the study door behind him.
Now Clarice stood with her head in her hands gazing over another scene of death and destruction and felt her mind slipping through her fingers like water. She barely registered the sound of the box door opening and was unaware of the presence of another being until the sickly sweet smell of alcohol filled the enclosed space. Grimacing, she turned to face the intruder.
Something inside Firmin had broken when he had seen the chandelier crash into the audience. He had tried to soothe the pain for hours afterwards, going through bottle after bottle of scotch, despite the feeble warnings of his partner. In his inebriated state, his feet had somehow brought him here, box 5, the very symbol of his tormentor.
With his syrupy vision, Firmin felt a stab of fear when he discovered the other presence in the infamous box. The fear quickly turned into a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach when he figured out the person's identity. He could not place it, but it was far from unpleasant.
"Wha…are you doin here?" He took several steps in her general direction, leaning against the immense column for support. He clutched the bottle in his left hand closer to his body.
Clarice could not have thought of a person she would have liked to see less at that moment. She found her body stiffening, unwilling to do the man any physical damage while his appearance was already so pathetic. She settled for cold scorn.
"I wasn't aware that this box was off-limits. You were more than willing to lend it to the Vicomte de Chagny tonight."
"Ahhahh." He laughed a terrible, gargling laugh and slumped against the balcony less than a foot away from her. "A smart lady, aren't you? Sure your husband must be proud."
Clarice jerked roughly away from the balcony. "Good night, monsieur," she snapped.
Firmin's right hand shot out, grasped at the empty air where her sleeve had been, dropped back to his side. "No, wait. I's s-sorry for that. Dunno what came over me. I…" he squinted, "can't…see too well right now. Was-was the damage as bad as it sounded?"
Clarice crossed her arms. "Worse. Even in your state, you should remember. Get to the point, monsieur."
Firmin leaned heavily against the balcony as he covered his eyes with his hand and let a ragged, sobbing curse escape his lips. "D'you know what it's like to have your world destroyed, Du-Duchess? To have things so completely out of your control…?" He blinked and shook his head roughly. "It was funny though, wasn't it? Opera Ghost, Opera Ghost, what a splendid farce! And now, I am…lord of the drunkards…baron…of bacchanalian rites, king of, uh, the corkscrew." He laughed again as a few tears from his crossed eyes rolled down his cheeks.
Clarice stared, too horrified and fascinated to respond.
The manager worked his feet back underneath him and took several unsteady steps towards her. "You remind me of someone, Madame Fell." His eyes uncrossed as he scrutinized her face and lifted one finger, stopping short of touching her. "S'not dirt there in your cheek, is it?"
Clarice drew a short breath, and her heart seemed to twist inside her chest. Turning quickly, she strode out from the box, groping in the darkness of the hallway like a blind child.
Firmin remained where he stood, his sluggish brain slowly registering his confusion. He shrugged and lifted the bottle to his lips.
Outside box 5, a pair of eyes winked in the darkness and disappeared as a hiss of anger filled the hallway.
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The strings of Apollo, the god of music's, lyre upon the roof of the Opera House had left gashes in Erik's hands that had not faded even hours afterwards. After staring numbly at the damage, he grasped the strings once again, relishing the pain as his sore flesh scraped against the cold stone. He swung himself into a sitting position upon the shoulders of the neighboring statue, his back resting against Apollo.
Perched silently atop his domain like the shadow he was, his great black cloak fading into the night, Erik bowed his head against the bitterly cold wind. Faraway, there was a growl of thunder. And then all was silence.
The ardent, tender voices of Christine and Raoul had long since faded away. Staring at his scored hands once again, Erik could barely remember grasping the statue so fiercely that the skin of his hands had broken. All he had seen before the black despair had enveloped him were Christine's delightfully full lips again and again meeting those of that wretched boy.
He had been a fool.
Erik laughed softly into the night. "I ascended all this way from the darkness to seek your advice, God. Is this how you answer me?" He swayed precariously upon his perch. His next words were barely a whisper. "If so, thank you. I had my doubts before, but I know now, dear merciful God." His only answer was a louder growl of thunder. "There's no happiness to spare this abomination, is there? Of course not. Your infinite pride will never let you admit that you've made a mistake."
Feeling a surge of fury, Erik leaped to his feet, balancing upon the head of the statue and once again grasping the strings of Apollo's lyre when his body began to sway. He tore his mask away with one hand and thrust his face towards the heavens. "Then simply look at me! Look at this freak, this atrocity, this monster. Look! That's all I ask of you!" The wind tore at his face, and the thunder rumbled even louder. Erik smiled inwardly at the melodrama of the scene. It would have made a fine opera.
He stood there for several minutes as the rain began to fall. Raindrops fell from the heavens, caressing his naked face: the only caress he would ever feel. He tilted his head towards the sky and opened his mouth, feeling the bitter droplets slide down his throat. The clouds opened completely then and the rain fell fast and hard. Erik felt the gentle caress of water turn into stinging blows, cold and harsh. He did not turn his face away as he continued to plead silently to his dark deity, clinging to his perch like a sailor upon a storm-tossed ocean. His tears mingled with the rainwater, and eventually, racking sobs forced him back into a sitting position.
Nobody should have died. That ridiculously gaudy chandelier should not have claimed any lives with its death. Dammit, he had shaken the thing on its counterweights for a good minute before letting it fall, maniacal laughter and all. Surely even the slowest being would have realized the danger of remaining in their seats in that time. Surely the sight of Carlotta croaking like a wretched toad would have tipped them off that something was wrong.
What does it matter? whispered the nasty, familiar voice in his head. What have you to lose from killing people? No, you have everything to gain. They know your power now, they've closed the theater because of you. You have nothing for which to mourn.
"If that were true, I wouldn't be sitting here now." He was talking to himself again. Erik hunched his shoulders against the wind-blown rain. Christine would surely not return to the Opera for a long time. She had her engagement to plan, after all.
A flash of color below him caused him to shift his gaze downwards. He blinked as he beheld the apparition standing at the foot of the statue of Apollo.
It was that Duchess woman. Erik hissed in anger at his carelessness. God only knew how much she had heard. Hot embarrassment overwhelmed him at the thought of her observing his weakness.
And then she lifted her head against the pounding rain and saw him. They stared at each other for a long time, Erik comforted by the fact that she could not possibly make out his features in the blackness of night. What was she doing here?
As an expert magician, Erik had grown skilled at predicting his audience's thoughts. He tried it now, peering into those eyes some dozen feet below him and probing their depths. There was a flutter in his chest as he sensed the coppery scent of blood staining her memories. Curious, he looked closer. And drew back in sick horror as the image appeared of an iron gate slamming shut in a dark cell. What did this woman know of cages and darkness?
Watching closely, Erik saw her body shudder. Whether it was the result of the chilling rain or of his scrutiny, he would never know. He whirled around, his cloak failing to billow dramatically in its sodden state, and disappeared into the night.
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Certain aspects of human nature are most dangerous when repressed. In such circumstances, all that is required to release a torrent of forgotten skill and experience is the slightest trigger. For Hannibal Lecter, murderer of over 20 people, the trigger was the memories of his summers in Paris before his capture. A trigger that Clarice had unwittingly set off that night when she had returned from her fruitless search for Christine in the bowels of the Opera.
Dr. Lecter ventures into his memory palace now and gazes at the effects of that night. Doors are flung wide, a dank smell emanating from the darkness of the yawning mouths. Makeshift walls are ground to dust and objects shifted from their places. He can't say that he entirely disapproves of the changes.
He wanders the hallways, the feet of his mind moving soundlessly over the many miles of winding corridors, pausing every so often to dust off a picture frame or scrutinize a particular sculpture.
Images return to him now, transparent and faint as ghosts of the past. Screams resounding, eyes bulging with fear, and everywhere the pungent, greasy scent of death. Dr. Lecter closes his eyes and shudders as a sensation akin to pain rushes through him. He reaches forward and makes a few more adjustments, bending pathways, twisting stairways, smiling in contentment at the new structures revealed.
He does not know how much real time has passed since he first ventured into his shaken memory palace. It could have been hours or weeks; time holds no power within this precious residence.
The final thing he does is to close every single door leading to Clarice Starling. Since the beginning of their time together, he has created several carefully-selected shared entrances into his memory palace, and, through a process of hypnosis and detailed instruction, taught Clarice how to build her own home. However, he is unwilling to risk allowing her to know now what he plans to do.
He had never been fool enough to think that Clarice had come to him out of desire for a savior. He had seen the way she had thrown herself into a field dominated by men. She had entered fighting and would have fought until the end. He had toyed with her, tasted her pain, grief, and triumph. He had closed his eyes to ponder the games played with the feisty cub and opened them to find her looking right back at him, a full-grown lioness with the capacity to frighten him.
Now as he closes the final entrance and his feet carry his physical body down a familiar path, he tries not to predict her reaction. Undoubtedly, he will be both wrong and discouraged by the thought. Overconfidence had resulted in his capture the previous year, and he resolves himself to caution.
His eyes let him know that policemen stand by all entrances. He wonders what new disaster has befallen the ill-fated building as he passes by the guards unseen, soft and quick as a shadow. As he approaches his destination, he proceeds more and more cautiously, pausing once in a dark alcove for over ten minutes as two firemen block the hallway and whisper feverishly about the damage to the auditorium. He begins to smile as he listens. Erik has truly outdone himself this time.
Dr. Lecter makes it to his destination without further trouble. Fortune is with him; the subject is here. The doctor's blood boils as he observes the scene that takes place before him yet stands perfectly still as Clarice storms through the hallway barely a foot away. He is mildly curious when he hears the door to the roof slam shut behind her but does not halt his progress.
The wretched man has enough time to swallow one gulp of his filthy drink before a cloth is clamped over his nose and mouth and his eyes begin to roll from this new, more powerful drug.
A wild, discordant melody echoes through the halls of his memory palace as Dr. Lecter eases the limp body to the carpeted floor and closes the door, leaving them alone in the deathly silence.
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Firmin woke up in a haze of ragged gold and red stars. It took him a minute for his eyes to focus, but once they had, he had no trouble identifying his surroundings. He was standing upright, strapped tightly to something with vast quantities of rope. He was in box 5 and he had a massive headache. He heard something move right behind his right ear before a familiar, cultured voice sliced through the thick silence.
"I took the liberty of sobering you up. I hope you don't mind, but I do wish for you to be lucid during what shall pass. Unfortunately, the infusion I used causes quite a bit of stomach pain, so let me know if you feel terribly uncomfortable."
There was something extremely wrong about this unfamiliar situation. Why couldn't he move? What did the voice mean by "what shall pass"?
Apparently, his recently sobered mind could not keep up with his thought processes. Firmin groaned as his head seemed to split between his eyes and a new, dull pain grew in his stomach. His tongue felt oddly limp in his mouth. "I…I, where am I? Andre, is this a new patron? Why aren't we meeting him in our office?"
A sigh behind his ear. "Monsieur, I don't think you heard me correctly."
Firmin blinked his sore eyes. "Who are you?" Silence. "You're, you're him aren't you? The Opera Ghost? Wha-what do you want with me? I closed the theater…what else…?
"I want to talk, monsieur. Talk about the way you run your business. About the way you treated my wife. And about your plans for the future." While it talked, the voice moved from behind his ear to his side and finally around into his field of vision.
Firmin's mouth went dry as he beheld the apparition before him. A dark hulking shadow with maroon eyes burning with a black fire. Placed against the backdrop of the red velvet theater, the figure looked as if it was bathed in blood. He felt a lurch in his stomach that he was sure had nothing to do with whatever drug the monster had put in him.
"Bonsoir, M Firmin." Then he grinned and said in unaccented English, "I'm delighted to finally make your acquaintance properly." There was a flash of silver, and his right hand rose, holding the unsheathed, serrated blade of a Harpy. "Shall we begin?"