Chapter Seven

It was upon my return home that my newest experiment was set to begin. In an interest of saving myself the time and pain associated with the constant transformations my face and body were forced to undergo, I had decided to attempt renewing the dosage before its effects wore off. It was a relatively basic principle, employed in everyday circumstances with simple pain medications—one replenished the prescribed amount shortly before the former one had run out. My only fear was that this principle would not so readily apply to such a questionable drug as this one, and thus had I chosen to perform the experiment within the safety of my tomb, far from every human gaze, where, should the experiment go awry, no harm would be done.

That was assuming, of course, that I would not suffer some permanent and irrevocable damage to my own person.

It was late in the evening when I slunk down the Rue Scribe, headed in furtive silence towards the entrance to the lake. I had just pulled my hat down over my face and ducked quickly beneath the light of a streetlamp when a too-familiar voice called uncertainly, "Erik?"

I froze, giving myself away without even meaning to. Had I kept moving, he'd have assumed I was just some thief perhaps, intent upon gaining back entrance to the splendor of the Garnier. However, foolish Erik had to pause in the wake of Nadir's suspicion, and present myself to his insufferable self-righteousness once more.

Seeing no point in attempting to escape his attentions now, I turned slowly to face the aging Persian as he rushed towards my shadowy form. "Erik, we must speak immediately!" he said breathlessly, face contorted in angry indignation. I had expected such a visit from him since the moment I had chosen to take vengeance upon that innocent stagehand; one could not expect the incident to stay out of the papers, and once Nadir had seen it (and he always did), he would move immediately to berate me for such an action.

"Yes, Daroga?" I said wearily, throwing my weight against the lamppost. "What is it now?"

"Erik, you know very well what—Dear God!" He halted in his steps and went so far as to take a step backwards, looking in unabashed shock at my face. Uncertainty now contorted his features, as I smiled, and again tucked my hands into my pockets.

"I must admit, Daroga, I haven't the time for this. If you would please get on with things?"

Attempting to regain composure, he scrubbed his face roughly with both hands. "Erik, I do not understand! You... Your face! It is..." He faltered.

"A scientific anomaly," I answered lightly. "I do not honestly know the reason for it myself, Daroga."

Seeming to have recalled, suddenly, what his original purpose had been, his tan face immediately turned red-hot with anger. A finger pointed determinedly in my direction. "Face or no face," he snapped, "you killed that man, Erik!"

I turned my head away, cocking it slightly to one side. "What man, Daroga?"

"You know what man!" he spat. "Allah be merciful, Erik, that man had done nothing to you!"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, threatening to flush my cheeks; I looked down, allowing the brim of my hat to cast shadow across my face, and hoped he would not see that telltale blush. Never had I blushed before—of course, never had I had the blood for it—but certainly I had rarely felt the compulsion to do so, until tonight. I had expected to feel such a way beneath Christine's attentions; instead, I felt it beneath Nadir's.

"I have killed no such man, Daroga," I replied warily. "You are allowing the paper's silly fancies to go to your head again." Turning critical eye upon him, I smirked and asked, "Not been drinking, have you, Daroga?"

His head was already shaking furiously. "Do not," he warned. "Do not, Erik! I shall go to the police!"

I laughed—I could not help but laugh. "Don't be silly, Daroga. What will you tell them? That you have had tea in the Opera Ghost's lair many a time, and thus can easily show them where it is hidden?"

Nadir was shaking his finger at me again; that was beginning to be annoying. "Do not think I will hesitate to—"

Swiftly, I launched myself from the post, and circled him; I was behind him before he had even realized I was moving. Fingers still far longer than the average human's brushed lightly across the front of his throat, a threat that he could not have misread. "Hesitate to do what, Daroga?" I whispered in his ear, before completing my circuit and resuming my stance at the post.

He was staring at me with horror written across his face, and I felt a twinge of guilt. It had been many a long year since I had threatened him in such a fashion, and immediately I felt ashamed of myself for so quickly resorting to hostilities when I did, in fact, know perfectly well that he would never reduce himself to going to the police.

"Go home, Daroga," I said wearily, as I flipped open his pocket watch and peered critically at the time. "The hour grows late."

He snatched the watch from my hand, stuffing it fussily back into his chest pocket. "I will be watching you, Erik," he warned.

I could not help but offer him a fond, affectionate smile, before turning and vanishing into the shadows.

Two and a half hours later, I sat upon a stool in my laboratory, staring as I had been for such a long time at the little pile of powder that was so carefully arranged within a petri dish. Admittedly, my nerves were not quite made of steel at this point; the basic fear that I would cast myself into some unfathomable depth of pain was not one that sat well with my stomach. It was human instinct to fear pain, and while I had mastered my senses to the point that I largely could control such fears, this one for some inexplicable reason was causing my hand to linger hesitantly over the needle for far longer than was normal.

Eventually, however, I forced myself to mix the powder, draw it into the needle, and inject it into that familiar vein. I held my breath for nearly an entire circuit of the second hand upon my wristwatch, before letting it out in a great gust of relief. There was no pain, there was no agitation of the skin, no numbing cold sweeping through my limbs. One minute, of course, was not sufficient for a scientific decision to be come to; however, it was sufficient to put me at momentary rest with myself.

I stood slowly, and walked into the kitchen. There was a vague disorientation that was perceived by a slight swimming of the vision and a ringing of the ears; however, I hoped that it was merely a manifestation of holding my breath for such a lengthy amount of time, and then immediately standing and launching my overtired body into motion. I set the kettle to boil, and prepared a teacup for the coming arrival of the hot water.

While waiting, I leaned myself against the kitchen counter. Slowly, the disorientation was fading; the tingling sensation that had for a moment swept my limbs had all but vanished, and I became aware of a persistent pressure against my right calf.

Bending, I lifted the purring Ayesha and began to stroke her absently. Her face pushed against my chin, and the purring accelerated. I allowed a tiny chuckle, and gave her another few pets before returning her to the floor. The kettle began to whistle, and I rushed to sweep it from the burner and dispense its boiling contents into my cup.

As if from the perspective of a third party, I watched as the kettle slipped from my fingers' grasp and crashed into the cup, rolling unsteadily and then falling to the floor, where both it and its hot contents narrowly missed the cat. I staggered backwards, catching myself up a kitchen chair—which promptly began to fall with me, and both of us collided with the floor. I felt myself floating upwards even as I watched myself falling downwards, watched my head thump against the tiles and give one sickening bounce.

I played spectator to my wretched form curling up on itself, observed that shuddering frame as it promptly became viciously sick. Pain was nonexistent; when one is not oneself, one cannot feel the pain that one knows one must indeed be feeling. It was the horror of metamorphosis, exaggerated and then subtracted from, for the amount of my suffering was tenfold but the fact that I could experience none of it firsthand was, oddly, a very much appreciated bonus.

As I watched, I began to sense a fuzzying of vision; slowly, blackness began to appear around the edges of my eyes, and soon I could see nothing but my face, warped and twisted in utter torment. Even that did not last long; shortly after the skin began to bubble and contort, the blackness took me completely. It was beginning to be a relatively irritating sensation, this unconsciousness—it happened far too often these past few days.


I became aware of a sliver of light, sharp and vicious, cutting horizontal lines across my vision. First instinct was to escape it, but it seemed to be persistent in its presence, and I seemed incapable of movement. Slowly, my eyelids began to flutter, and I felt as if I could almost sense warm, soft cushions beneath me, and the heat of a fire on my right.

Suddenly, I felt as if I were moving, and immediately became motion-sick. The urge to be sick was a strong one, but there was nothing within me to sacrifice, and so I merely choked on unattractive spittle. My head lolled to one side, and a vicious cough racked my frame.

The warmth of the fire was gone, as was the comfort of the cushions. I felt as if I were floating, in an unperceivable direction. Another warmth soon began to make itself apparent, this time a moist one. Moments later, it intensified and surrounded me, and I felt as if I were soaking in a sea of heat.

Abruptly, I was plucked from that heat, and I felt a chill began to grow. If I had thought that a chill, it was only because I was unprepared for the vicious, icy, bone-wrenching cold that I was shortly thereafter plunged into. I let out a cry, and my eyes managed to open. I found myself in a makeshift tub, freezing, my muscles contorting with angry shivers.

Firm hands dragged me from that cold, and redistributed me in the heat. I sank into that warmth gratefully, allowing it to chase away the freezing sensation my limbs had taken on.

As my vision cleared, I weakly looked up to find Nadir's face hovering anxiously above me. "Erik?" he called, voice sounding as if it were miles distant. "Can you hear me?"

"Barely," I said—or at least, tried to say. My lips refused to properly respond, however, and I am afraid to say that instead of such a word, he received little more than a confused mumble in reply.

It seemed to be enough for his satisfaction, however, because he turned away from the tub. Upon turning back, I found him to be possessing of soaps; discomfort immediately took me, and I managed to look down at myself. Shocked to find my body completely bare of clothes, I tried to cover myself, but to no avail; my limbs still could not function as I willed them to.

"You were beginning to stink—...but it's good to see you awake," he said brusquely, as he lathered his hands and began a dispassionate, methodical cleansing of me. He chattered on while he worked, and I swam in and out of consciousness. As a result, I caught only half of what he said, and even that seemed muddled and confused. Somehow his voice tied me to reality, however, and by the time he was draining the water and helping me out of the tub, I was able to stay completely in his world.

Three weeks, he said, I had been out cold. Occasionally I had surfaced to mutter and thrash about, crying out a woman's name and grasping madly at anything within my reach. Only minutes would that last, he told me, and then I would fall back into what he could only describe as a coma.

Three weeks. Christine could have become engaged to the Vicomte by now! Three weeks that I had been absent from her world, absent from the Garnier. Did she still hold her position as lead soprano? Did she even still sing in the Garnier at all? What if she had been whisked away by her charming prince, taken to some lofty chateau where I would never see her again?

Numbly, I allowed him to lead me back to the study, where he returned me to the couch, and the fire. He brought me a bowl of broth, and carefully fed me upon realizing that I could not do it on my own. He got through only a third of the bowl, however, before I feebly took it away from him and began to ladle the spoonfuls into my mouth with painstaking caution.

I refused to be babysat by him for a moment longer.

Three days more, he remained in my home, acting as an almost-friend, taking care of me in such a way that suggested he did so merely out of moral obligation, and not from any real affection for me. I tried not to ponder what would have happened to me, had Nadir not been keeping close (though suspicious) eye on my movements in the Garnier.

When he had left, and when I felt strong enough to risk a journey back to the surface, I dressed in my usual cloak, hat, and mask, and began the laborious journey upwards. I did not endanger myself or my still-recovering body further by attempting to use the mysterious powder; I did not wish to be seen, anyway, and the mask fit so much more comfortably without the face.

I was angered to find that Christine had been pushed back to a minor role, though they had not gone so far as to risk placing her back in the chorus. She seemed to be bearing it well, for she moved with dignity and refused to pay mind to the jabs from Carlotta and her cronies. Considering the open hostility, I assumed she had not long been considered out from beneath the Phantom's protection. I wished now that Nadir were still around, for my insatiable curiosity demanded to be told of the exact date of her demotion.

As I began my descent into the depths, I passed a once-familiar corridor, and paused. Looking down that lonely lane, I found myself impossibly tempted, and was forced to make my weary way down it. Already my breath was coming more quickly than usual, the oxygen burning my lungs. I was too old for this; my body had seen far too much in recent times. I wished only to sink down into my coffin and sleep for an entire day, Ayesha purring loyally at my side. However, that lane beckoned, and thus did I follow it.

It ended at a glass wall, giving foggy vision of Christine, seated at her vanity. Fingers plucked idly at her hair, as if attempting to do something with it, though nothing was being accomplished. She sighed suddenly, and dropped her chin into her hand. Slowly, her head pivoted to stare around the room wistfully. "First my angel," she whispered, "and now Erik..."

My heart leapt, upon hearing her use my name. Never had she said "Erik"—always "Monsieur Sartre," and that name hardly felt like my own. But Erik... That was a name to which my heartstrings readily responded.

I pressed a hand against that cruel glass, and had almost considered calling out to her, when there came a knock upon her door.

"Come in," she called, voice immediately taking on that deceiving lightheartedness.

I expected the Vicomte, and was poised for anger, when instead the cheerful face of little Meg Giry peaked around the edge of the door. Both girls let out a little giggle at some unknown delight, and Meg quickly slipped into the room.

"Christine, I'm so excited!" she said immediately, and I saw Christine make half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm. Meg grasped her hands, and clutched them tightly. "You are going to the masquerade ball, are you not?"

Christine hesitated. "I am not sure," she confessed with a frown. "Raoul wishes it; he has even offered to buy my costume—a black domino, and he a white."

Meg seemed baffled. "And yet you are not sure? Who would say no, to a Vicomte?"

My little soprano shrugged, and looked askance. "That is a wonderful question, Meg..."

I felt my heart beginning to beat hard in my chest, and with much regret, was forced to turn and make the rest of the journey back home. The exertion had been too much for me, but already I could tell my strength was returning. I had made a dire mistake, yes, but not an irrevocable one. By the time of the masquerade, I would be well on the way back to my former glory. It would not be for some time to come; traditionally, they were held at the beginning of the new season, and while the days would pass quickly enough that I could not dawdle, I also did not need to feel pressed for time. And that was perfect, for there was much work yet to be done, many preparations yet to be made.

The first would be re-obtaining Christine's company—and, more importantly, her station in the opera house...