A/N: Here it is then, the long-awaited (well, by me at least) Erik/Clarice confrontation. Hannibal is the next chapter, I *promise*, his part's already been written. Remember the betting pools? Erik was leading 3-2. Read on read on…*grins wickedly*
Chapter 13
Confrontation
It was like venturing into the throat of some mighty beast. On her way down, Clarice had been comforted by her certainty that the Phantom was otherwise occupied in his lair. Now the darkness of the empty hallways seemed to pulsate with tangible malice. Every step, every turn was uncertain. Her pulse quickened as she rounded yet another silent corner.
The blackness swarmed with dream shapes and the steady roar of an angry mob sounded the beast's growl somewhere deep in its belly. Clarice held her lantern high with one hand, her pistol cocked and ready with the other. She wondered then, as she walked over the rough flagstones of the old Communard's road, what exactly she would do when, if, she found the Phantom.
She could not kill him. This she already knew. Past experience…and an insatiable curiosity would not let her destroy such a man. No matter how he greeted her. But could the Phantom look into the eyes of a person holding the barrel of a gun upon him and know that she was incapable of pulling the trigger? She hoped not.
The indistinct sound of the mob swelled into a triumphant roar. They must have found their way across the lake. Clarice forced her steps to remain steady as the sounds of bloodlust and crashing objects rang through the passageway. But even she was forced to halt as the mob found the piano.
Like Orpheus' death rattle, a great crashing, discordant sound exploded through the darkness and Clarice winced as she imagined the magnificent black instrument breaking under the enraged mob. She closed her eyes in pain and therefore almost missed what happened next.
The flesh on her arms rippled as some sixth sense warned her of another presence in the darkness. An extremely close presence.
She heard the muffled snap of cloth behind her, her ears rang with the memory of the snick snick of a gun cocking in the darkness, and her hand was going up, up, to hover at the level of her eyes. She felt a thin, strong cord settle over her head and tighten mercilessly. The back of her hand began to bleed. The pistol slipped from her frozen fingers, and she heard the low growl of frustration behind her.
"Spirited wench."
And he reached forward to snatch her hand. She felt his weight shift forward, and then she was moving again. Years of training rushed through her limbs and she threw her upper body forward and sideways. She heard the grunt as her attacker bore the brunt of her weight. They both hit the hard rock floor. The music slipped out of her waistband to flutter like fallen leaves to the ground. The lantern shattered upon the rock, its candle sputtering among the glass shards.
Blackness surrounded her. She was trapped in some sort of thick cloth. Crying out in frustration, she ripped the cloak from his shoulders, kneeing him in the kidney as he reached for her again. As he hissed in pain, she retrieved the candle from the broken lantern, lifting it high as she grabbed her pistol from the ground and raised it to torso height.
"Get up. I have a gun pointed at you right now. Keep your hands where I can see them."
The Phantom did not move except to chuckle softly into the floor. Bested by a woman for the second time tonight! A weight descended on his head and he looked up furiously as he snatched the cloak she had thrown at him. He rose to his feet, lifting his eyes to see the gun barrel aimed at the center of his chest.
The candle that she held did not shed enough light for her to see his face. Pity, I could have gotten her when she was reeling in shock. Instead he spat something in Latin at her that he was sure she could not understand.
"Now, now, my dear Opera Ghost. I most certainly do not love young goats."
Erik's eyes widened as he refastened the cloak around his shoulders. "Who are you?"
She did not respond. Instead Clarice took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them. Then she thrust the candle towards his face, holding it a hairsbreadth away from his flesh. He could not turn his head in time. The flickering light of the candle threw every intricate detail of his ravaged face into sharp relief.
She blinked.
They did not move from this strangely intimate position for the better part of a minute, and he shook inwardly as she gazed solemnly at his face. This was no look of revulsion. She was peeling away his flesh piece by piece, peering into the black depths of his soul. How dare she…desperate rage pulsed through his fingertips but he could not move…
Clarice finally lowered the candle when she saw the beads of sweat forming upon his forehead. Turning her body slightly, never taking her eyes from his face, she dripped candle wax onto a small shelf jutting out from the rock wall and set the candle upright in the pool of hot liquid. She withdrew her hand when she was sure the wax had cooled enough for the candle to remain standing.
"What is your name, Opera Ghost?"
He was tempted not to speak at all. He had been prepared to die tonight after releasing Christine. But not like this…not at the hand of this woman who laughed without mockery, whose eyes burned with something that reminded him eerily of himself.
"Erik," he said, taking care not mutter.
She paused. "No last name?"
"Not to my knowledge," he said with a sneer.
"I see. Erik." She lowered the gun then so that it was no longer trained on his chest but ready to be raised at a moment's notice. "In that case, I believe these belong to you." She held up the leaves of sheet music that had fallen to the floor, each page painstakingly handwritten and signed with the same flowing script.
He stepped back. "Is this some sort of trick?"
She shook her head. "No, Erik. In fact, I believe this is one of the few things tonight that hasn't been some sort of trick. Wouldn't you agree?"
He heard the hostility in her tone easily. "I did no harm to either of them."
"I believe you."
"Why?" he snarled.
"Because I believe Christine."
"You…saw her then."
"Oh yes. And should you like to know, she is safe. You, however, are not."
"I should think that rather obvious."
"From me, Erik? Do you think I am the hound of the mob, that I will stay with my quarry until they come to collect their trophy?" She laughed. "No. I am not here to give you over to them."
"What are you here for then? Women of your social class do not normally find it amusing to prowl through dark cellars."
She looked at him. His twisted, malformed lips were sneering and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes, even as they watched the gun warily. His stature and height in the enclosed space made him look for the all the world like the Grim Reaper's younger and darker brother.
She said it anyway. "I'm here to save you."
The look on his face was utterly unique. She might as well have hit him with a sledgehammer, knocking the hostility, annoyance, and even some of the grief from his face.
Then he threw back his head and laughed long and loud. The empty passageway rang with the harsh sound of it.
"You're very amusing, duchess," he said at last after the mirth subsided.
"Do you see me laughing?"
The hard edges returned to his eyes as he sneered. "Am I a sacrificial lamb to be saved from the slaughter?"
"You…do not deserve to die at the hands of people such as them." Her voice seemed to tremble as she said this. Then whatever had struck her passed and she seemed to stand up taller. "And…" here she smirked, "the world is far more interesting with you in it."
Erik stared hard at her. "You really mean it, don't you?" She could feel him withdrawing, drawing a protective veil across his emotions. He sighed heavily as he half-turned away from her. "No matter. Go. You have no place here."
"And just what will you do if I leave?"
"What I should have done long ago. The mob shouldn't be quite finished destroying my house yet. I'll just go and…"
"No. You won't," said Clarice flatly. "You will follow me as I make my way back to the surface. There, you may do whatever you wish, but I will not let you throw yourself to those vultures."
Erik stiffened and whirled back upon her, his amber eyes that had been dark with sorrow now fiery yellow with anger. "I do not ask for your permission, madam," he hissed, and his voice was like a discordant song. "I have never asked for anything in my life. I have taken it. I took and hoarded all the knowledge and beauty the world had to offer. I took the life of a young girl and bent it to my will. And now, I will take my death, as I should have done years ago."
Clarice held out her hands and gestured to the emptiness of the dark passageway. "I do not see Christine here."
Erik made a sudden violent motion toward a pocket of his cloak, and the pistol came up at once.
"Don't." Clarice said in a tight voice. She took a breath that caught in her throat. "Don't make me do something I will regret."
Erik laughed; it was a terrible gasping sound. "And just how do plan to ensure my cooperation? What will you do if I refuse?"
Clarice smiled then in a way that Hannibal Lecter would have envied. "I'll kill you," she said simply. "And you're not ready to die, Erik, oh no, not just yet."
"A rather twisted argument to make," he sneered.
"Is it not true?" He did not answer. "You will die by my hand, or you will leave with me and live. It is your choice."
Not like this… he thought. "It is my house, madam."
"Not anymore, Erik. This is no longer your home. They—" she jerked her head toward the sounds of the mob, "—have seen to that. But they will never get you. I am a very forgiving person by nature, but there is nothing I hate more than a wasted life."
"Then you will forgive me, madam," Erik said shortly. "For I am a ghost. And ghosts do not have lives to waste."
Clarice narrowed her eyes. She had expected this encounter to be difficult, but it was quickly turning tiresome. Erik's voice was weak and even his sarcasm was half-hearted. If he truly did not wish to live…
"Get past me then," she said. "If you are a true phantom, this pistol cannot harm you and neither can the mob. You've talked yourself into quite a dilemma, Erik."
She would have said more, but the Punjab lasso was speeding towards her before she even had time to blink. She threw herself to the ground as the rope cracked the air above her head like a whip. Three more times the lasso hissed and struck in the space of less than a second as Clarice rolled upon the damp floor, ducking and dodging.
Finally she felt the rope catch and she immediately let go of her pistol to prevent her wrist from being wrenched from its socket. The Punjab lasso tore the weapon from her grasp. She heard the pistol clatter on its journey across the floor before it slid outside the circle of candlelight. Clarice looked up to see Erik holding the rope loosely in his hands, looking as if he had never moved.
She tensed, fear blossoming in the back of her mind, her body feeling naked and defenseless under the intensity of his murderous gaze.
The darkness around them seemed to hold its breath.
Clarice lowered her hands and opened her arms wide, leaving her neck exposed. Her voice was quiet. "Will you kill me now, Erik?" She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, a millisecond later, an eternity later, her adversary had not moved. She took a deep breath, feeling the exhilarating rush of air through her throat. "I saved your life…and hers too. Will you now take mine?"
The Phantom relaxed his grip on the noose infinitesimally. His voice was low, like a storm about to break. "What do you mean?"
"The gun, Erik. Surely you did not think those bullets were obliging enough to hop out of the gun of their own accord?"
"And surely you did not think you had the right to interfere with lives that were not your own."
"My apologies. Both of you were doing a marvelous job on your own."
Fire blazed in his gaze and he tightened his grip on the noose. "I could kill you for that."
Clarice shrugged, her arms still loose at her sides. "Yes, you could," she said simply. "I saved your life then and am trying to do so again. If you find that concept infinitely frightening, then by all means…let us dance."
Something inside of him snapped, and he couldn't take it anymore, anymore of her damnable righteousness or her infuriating truths. Thrusting the Punjab lasso back into its pocket, Erik made a furious sound in his throat and rushed at her full speed, intending to push her aside and escape down the passageway. But she stepped directly in front of him and he raised his hands, grabbing at her arms… he found the floor jerked out from underneath him. His world spun and then he was lying flat on his back upon the ground. His ears rang from cracking his head against the hard stone.
Trying to get back up, he found a foot set firmly across his throat and an elbow against the pressure point on his right arm. He was as immobile as an insect upon a pin. Attempting to retain what little dignity he could, he did not struggle as he looked into the eyes of his assailant with a resoluteness that could not mask his shocked embarrassment.
Clarice released him, allowing him to get to his feet. "You rush into your attack heedlessly and without thought. As you see, there is always a better way."
Erik slowly got to his feet, refusing to look at her. Confusion and shame were knocking against each other in his head and he couldn't wrap his mind around what had just happened. He had lost. He had lost to a…a…
Erik smiled wryly as he turned to face Clarice. "Your not-so-subtle metaphor is duly noted." Rubbing a bump forming upon the back of his head, he sighed. He looked at her again, and an unspoken agreement was made as the two combatants both temporarily sheathed their hostility.
"Lead the way, madam." Clarice looked at him pointedly. He spread his arms open wide. "Do not worry, Madam la Duchesse, I will keep my part of the bargain."
Clarice hesitated, searching his yellow eyes with practiced scrutiny. She nodded, apparently satisfied. Then she paused. "You're bleeding," she said stupidly.
Erik lifted his torn hands in acknowledgment. He glanced at her. "As are you." His eyes took in the gash on the back of her hand left by the Punjab lasso and then moved up her arm. His eyes narrowed. "Onto my shirt, too, might I add."
"My apologies, monsieur. My options were rather limited. But I promise not to make a habit of it."
She fell silent then, unsure of what else to say. She lifted her head to see Erik looking at her inquisitively. Clarice rubbed at her eyes, feeling as if she were brushing cobwebs from her face. Then she turned and took up the candle from its niche in the wall.
Holding the candle aloft, she walked at a brisk pace through the dark tunnels. If she listened carefully, she could make out the continuing shouts of the vengeful crowd several levels down, muffled by stone.
But she could not hear the sounds of Erik's footsteps behind her. Feeling a bit like Orpheus leading his doomed lover from the underworld, Clarice ascended a set of stairs, ignoring the doubt gnawing at her insides. She did not give him the satisfaction of looking back.
After what felt like an eternity and no time at all, she reached the iron gate that she had discovered in the first month of exploration in the cellars. The barrier opened with a whining creak and she stepped out onto the Rue Scribe, feeling the rain beginning to beat upon her head. Only then did she turn, eyes squinting as she struggled to peer into the black mouth of the tunnel from which she had emerged.
For a breathless second, she saw nothing, and the dark tunnel appeared to mock her with its emptiness. Then a white shape disturbed the shadows. A pale hand grasped the iron handle as Erik stepped out into the street, shutting the gate behind him.
She felt the sigh of relief she hadn't realized she had been holding escape her ribcage in a great rush. As she watched, the Phantom lifted his eyes to look upon the outside world. He breathed hard and his limbs convulsed as the rain beat upon him and thunder growled around them.
He was not looking at her. His eyes seemed to focus on nothing at all as he turned his face toward the night sky, unconsciously tilting the ravaged side of his face toward the pounding rain. He closed his eyes as the water ran down his cheeks like tears from heaven.
She opened her mouth and stopped, hesitant to break this strange spell. "Erik…"
A carriage swept to a halt before her, and Clarice jumped back, startled, from the small wave of water that splashed from the wheels. Then the door of the carriage was opening and a familiar voice was calling her name.
"Cassandra?"
She looked up and saw a white-faced Christine huddled against the back of her seat and sitting across from her, leaning out the door and shielding his eyes from the pouring rain was…
"Raoul?"
She turned, afraid to see Erik's reaction. Before the Rue Scribe entrance into the Opera cellars, there was nothing but the rain beating against an empty sidewalk.
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* For those who want to brush up on their Latin insults, it was "Amas haedos!" pronounced "Ah-mahs hay-dose."