Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Well, in this chapter, I suppose I own all of the characters, save for Christine and Erik. Hurrah!
Side Notes:
Readers and reviewers –I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please do not give any secrets away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers! You all have been so wonderful, thus far :)
Le Chat Noir – your cameo is in this chapter, as a thank you for your research help.
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions and wonderful eye for catching mistakes – you are the best:)
Black Knight
The dockworker leaned heavily against the brick wall of the upscale town home, cloaked in the darkness of the alley. To any passerby that happened to see him, they would think it rather odd that a rough, weathered river-man was hanging about the streets of the Kensington neighborhood, and would quicken their pace to avoid being harassed, or worse, robbed.
Hale knew he was out of place—it was his intention to be so. For if the two men positioned somewhere across the road were aware that the home was being closely guarded, they would be less likely to make any kind of move until the Comtesse was being spirited away. And that would draw them out of hiding, so he could make his move.
The watchers were hidden from sight now, as they also used the shadows to the best of their advantage. He knew that they were still there, however, for every now and then, his astute ears would pick up a muffled whisper, or the slight shuffling of feet against gravel.
The home had darkened since dusk had fallen, and the only bit of light that emitted from the draped windows was the flicker of a candle in a third story window. Hale knew that the covered panes most likely concealed a flurry of activity within, for at any moment his partner, Murry, would arrive with a hansom cab to bear the Comtesse and her family to safety.
As if on cue, the rather outdated, rickety carriage slowly rounded the corner and pulled to a stop. The lone passenger descended from the cab, his person completely shadowed in a great, billowing cloak and a wide-brimmed fedora, pulled down to hide his masked face. The man casually strode over to the front steps as if in no hurry, but Hale saw his eyes dart quickly in the agent's direction, where he was tucked away in the alley.
"Good evenin', gov'," the dockworker cried from his corner. "Bright night, this one. Th' moon is sure shinin' down tonight, as hif someone asked hit to brighten up the sky a bit."
The passenger turned to the Sûreté agent. "Yes, darkness does tend to lend itself to mischief. Tell me, sir, how do the streets fare tonight?" he replied, his English smooth and crisp. Striding over to the man, he leaned forward, close enough to converse quietly, away from interested ears.
Hale lowered his voice to a whisper. "Two of them, next to the building just over there," the man said in rapid French, all traces of the dockworker's cockney now gone. "When the Comtesse leaves, they will most likely try to follow. And as Murry will be driving the cab, I will need your assistance."
The man nodded in assent, and paused a moment in thought, reflecting on the docker's words. "So you are French, then. I did not think that 'Hale' was your real name. Are you known only as 'Hale'?"
"Just as you are only known as 'Erik.' Most things are not what they seem in my occupation. But then again, you already know that," the man stated, choosing his next words carefully.
"I have made a few inquiries about you; some to Nadir Khan, and some to other sources. You were an assassin for the shah of Persia." The masked man started at his revelation, then relaxed nonchalantly, glaring back at the clever agent.
"Shall you arrest me then, Monsieur?" Erik leered, his eyes flashing. "Turn me in to Scotland Yard, perhaps? I am sure that I could answer many questions that have plagued them for years."
Hale shook his head. "You will find that many of us in the Sûreté have similar backgrounds. Perhaps not as…distinguished as yours, nor so long a list of victims," the man replied matter-of-factly. "However, Monsieur, you must understand my need for caution in this case. The opera murders…they were not exactly political assassinations—"
"Thank you for your words, Monsieur," Erik coldly cut in, and abruptly turned back to the stairs. "I shall see Madame de Chagny off, and then return to assist you with your watchers."
Hale paused a moment, then nodded in agreement. He certainly knows how to cover his tracks, he thought as he watched Erik confidently stride up the stairs once more. And the agent once again had the sneaking suspicion that the man's time spent in Persia was only a small portion of his vast experience with death.
Christine stood with her back pressed against the wall, clutching the knife in her little hand so tightly that her knuckles were bone white. She had heard the abrupt rap at the door, but wavered with indecision just beyond the handle, afraid of what might lie behind it.
It must be Erik, her mind told her logically. Who else could it be? Killers do not usually knock before they enter…
And yet not a muscle in her body moved. All of her joints were locked into place, tense with fear; breathing came in quick, shallow gulps. Her eyes widened as the door slowly creaked open, and her fingers squeezed snugly about the dagger handle.
Then the man's face came into view in the dim light of the foyer, and the Comtesse exhaled the air that had been held in her aching lungs, relief flooding over her. The knife clattered to the floor, and she flew towards the masked man at the door. He whirled around at the sudden movement, then braced himself in surprise as the woman flung her arms about him, accidentally knocking his hat from his head. She buried her face in his neck, the dark wool of his cloak collar soft at her cheek.
Erik's arms came up around the girl and he held her close, reveling in the comfortable contact that was still so new and unfamiliar. His finger slowly traced along her spine as he reminisced over the moment they had shared the night before, in the quiet gallery of the concert hall. He felt her lips curl into a smile about his neck, and he knew she understood the meaning behind his subtle gesture.
"Thank you for the lovely rose," she whispered into his ear and turned her head slightly so he would notice that she had tucked it into her brown curls. He smiled gently down upon her, touched by the small act.
"And the dress—I hope it is to your liking, as well?"
"Yes, very much so!" Christine laughed merrily, and all thoughts of the People's Will vanished now that her angel was at her side. She slid from his arms and gracefully turned a circle, holding out the folds of the rich blue material for him to observe.
It was then that she caught sight of the rest of the household descending the stairs; the old man's arms full with their valises and cloaks, Papi's with her little charge. The maid's face was considerably paler than it had been earlier, and while the Comtesse noted that she was wearing the green dress Erik had sent along with the blue, she looked none too pleased about it.
Christine strode over to her two friends and reached out for the sleepy Jean-Paul, nestled in Papi's arms. The boy, still clutching the white toy horse, opened his eyes drowsily at the movement and wrapped a small fist behind his Maman's neck, a faint sigh escaping his lips.
"Oh, mon petit homme, we are tired, aren't we?" the mother cooed into her son's ear, brushing a few unruly curls from his forehead. She slowly made her way over to the man at the door, her eyes dancing joyfully at the thought of introducing her precious boy to her maestro.
"I do not believe that you have been properly introduced," the Comtesse said, her delight spilling into her voice. She jostled Jean-Paul a bit and murmured a few soft words to the little boy. He opened his bleary eyes again, but they widened considerably when he saw the masked man before him. Christine perceived some spark in her son's memory, leading her to believe that perhaps he remembered that the person who had asked him to care for César had also worn a mask.
"Jean-Paul, this is Erik," she said gently. "But you should call him Monsieur, as I have taught you. Can you say Monsieur, my little man?"
The boy struggled over the word a bit, but with his mother's gentle encouragement, he managed to spit it out.
"Bonjour, M…Mon-sieur."
He turned quickly to his mother, and she smiled sweetly at the boy, nodding her approval. She then looked up to her angel, her face beaming with pride, and saw that his eyes glistened with some unfathomable expression.
"Bonjour, Jean-Paul," the man replied, speaking to the boy with a tone of voice that one would use with an adult. Christine mused over this, and realized that Erik must have very little, if any, experience with children. She again murmured something unintelligible into the boy's ear, and he buried his face in her shoulder. The young mother gently lifted the boy's chin, and turned him to face the masked man.
"Say thank you for the horse, Jean-Paul," she said a bit more firmly.
"Christine, really—" the man began, but the Comtesse shook her head.
"He needs to learn these things." She frowned at her little son, and spoke in a tone of voice that was sure to get his attention. "Jean-Paul?"
"Merci," the small voice replied quickly. Then his eyes glistened with curiosity as something caught his eye, and he dislodged his fingers from his Maman's hair. Leaning away from her, his small hand reached out to the man's face.
"What's that?" the boy questioned, his eyes brimming with interest in the white mask. Erik flinched away from the prying fingers, and cast a warning look to Christine. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she hastily grabbed her son's little fist, pushing it back to his side.
"I warned you that he was curious," she laughed nervously, her eyes full of apology.
"I have no idea where he gets it from," Erik muttered, maintaining a tight fist of control over his irritation.
The young woman shrugged off her teacher's sarcasm, and turned to Papi and Norry, who had come up to her side at some point during the exchange. She gestured to them, and made the necessary introductions.
"My caretaker, Norris Nitote," Christine nodded to the grizzled man, and the old servant reluctantly offered his hand to Erik.
"And you have met his daughter, Papillon. She is my lady's maid." Papi bobbed in a small curtsy, her silent disapproval evident in every movement.
"Madame," Erik inclined his head to the woman in greeting. She frowned slightly, and Christine belatedly realized that she should have properly introduced the woman.
"No, Monsieur, it is just Mademoiselle," Papi replied, her voice cool and detached.
Christine interrupted the exchange, trying to ease the palpable tension in the room. "Both have been very good friends, and have loyally served the Chagny family for many years," she explained to Erik, valiantly trying to smooth over the situation. Papi simply turned away, however, and went to lower the rest of the lamps before they departed.
Erik stooped over to retrieve his hat from the floor, then reached for Christine's cloak to assist her with it. She smiled in thanks and moved about the foyer, helping Papi to put out the remaining lights. Now shrouded in darkness, only the moonlight filtering in through the open door offered any sort of guidance through the night. The Comtesse picked up her son and drew a deep, shaky breath.
"Well, we are ready, I suppose."
Erik handed Christine into the carriage, then stepped back to see them safely away, her gentle words still clinging to his ear. Her beloved face had fallen considerably when she realized that he would not be accompanying them to their new residence, but after he reassured her that he would be along directly, her anxiety had eased a bit.
Leaning out of the cab, she had placed her lips next to his ear, her breath warm and enticing. "Come home soon, then," she had murmured softly, then swiftly planted a kiss on his cheek.
Home…Did she, could she possibly ever consider the place where he resided her home, as well? Her brief words had held so many possibilities, such promise…
Potential for disaster, as well, he mused, thinking of the old caretaker and his daughter.
Erik had carefully studied the two servants' faces, their slight uncomfortable movements, the way their eyes darted nervously away from his. All actions told, to his chagrin, that they already knew much more about him than he would have liked.
He sighed, knowing that the situation at his residence would indeed be a brewing pot for catastrophe—tense, at best. However, he had no idea how to amend the circumstances, and was not even sure if it was worth it to him to try.
As the carriage clattered down the cobblestone street, Erik turned his thoughts back to the situation at present. His sharp eyes scanned the neighborhood for any telltale movements—the flash of clothing, a slight shifting of shadows, the rustling of a bush.
Above the noise of the cab, his sensitive ears heard the sound of footsteps running up behind him, and he whirled around to find that Hale had emerged from his dark corner of the alley.
"There!" the agent cried, and quickly pointed across the street to two wraithlike shadows moving quickly along the iron gate of a residential garden in the direction of the cab. Both men sprang into action, chasing down the figures that, by now, realized they had been spotted.
The shadows broke into a frantic run, each splitting off into a different direction. One of them darted into the darkness of the alley, and Erik chose to pursue him, while Hale continued on after the other.
The masked man picked up his pace, now sprinting across the slick cobblestones in a full run, his hat flying from his head and into the dark street somewhere behind him. He turned into the damp, shadowed alleyway, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Erik slowed his pace to a quiet walk and listened for any out-of-place noises coming from the dark spaces between houses.
There! A quiet sound came to him from the recess of one of the houses' side doors—the soft, gritty scrape of boots against the stones, accompanied by rapid breathing. Erik cautiously crept closer to the man's hiding spot, his hand slowly reaching under his cloak to grasp at the sturdy piece of rope that hung there. He inched his way along the wall and paused a moment at the edge of the doorframe, his heart wildly pounding against the confines of his chest in anticipation of what lay just beyond.
Finally, he leapt into the doorway, brandishing the lasso in his hands. In utter confusion, he glanced about the empty stoop and saw a stray black cat crouching in a corner, its back arched, hair standing on end as it hissed in protest of the intrusion. All of the air in his lungs rushed out, and he fell against the doorframe in frustration, trying to calm the frenzied spinning of his head caused by the adrenaline pulsing through his body. He forced his mind to focus on his hunt, back on other possible solutions to the man's disappearance.
Suddenly, a great force came down upon his back, sending him tumbling down the small stoop to the cold, grimy cobblestones. He quickly turned himself about as his attacker fell on top of him, the man's strong arms viciously coming down upon the hand that still held the lasso.
The man's position afforded Erik a brief chance to size up his opponent—the pale skin…a thin, firm mouth twisted with hatred…the murderous gleam in his eyes. He could not have been more than twenty-five, and yet was filled with pure rage and anger. And then the man's other hand came into view, and he saw that it brandished a dagger, gleaming in the moonlight.
Erik snarled viciously as the fury rose up inside of him, and with one powerful push, he managed to pull himself out from under his attacker's grasp. He then quickly pounced upon the bewildered man, effectively reversing their positions. Now the advantageous one, the angel from hell wrapped his long, deadly fingers around his prey's throat; his other hand grasped the young man's wrist, pinning him to the ground.
"Who are you?" Erik sharply questioned his victim, but the only response he received was a harsh Russian curse and stream of spit in his face. He released his grip on the man long enough to punch him soundly, his fist connecting so hard with the man's face that a stream of blood gushed from his nose.
"'Кто Вы?" Erik's voice was deathly cold as he repeated his question in Russian, and saw a flicker of surprise cross over his victim's face. The dark angel's mouth distorted into a sneer. "Oh yes, I speak your language very well, in more ways than one."
The ensnared man smirked back, his cruel words icy and mocking. "I have no doubt that you do. Perhaps you will understand this, then—if you kill me now, my only regret will be that I would not be there to see you place Madame de Chagny next to her husband in the cold, hard ground."
Flames of fury licked within the masked man, burning through all his tight reins of control. Tightening his grip on his victim's throat, he roughly kneed the man in the ribs, causing him to crumple in pain. He then seized the discarded dagger and swiftly sliced along the Russian's collarbone in the same manner the Comtesse had been injured. Grabbing a fistful of hair, the dark angel yanked the man's head back and pressed the blade to his throat.
"You shall not touch her," Erik hissed through clenched teeth, blind rage flashing heatedly in his eyes, fusing with the fear the Russian's malicious words had stirred.
The subdued man immediately saw his attacker's moment of weakness and took full advantage of it; in one swift movement, he spun out from under the man's grasp and flew at him, his fists flying as they tumbled to the ground. Somehow, in their vicious fight, the Russian managed to knock the mask from his opponent' face, causing him to drop the gleaming blade that he had brandished in his hand. Quickly bending to scoop it up, he raised his eyes in triumph.
All expressions of victory drained from the Russian's features, however, and were replaced by shock and horror as he beheld the face of the man that stood before him. He paused in disbelief, his mouth gaping in mute astonishment as the creature snarled with hatred.
The momentary distraction was all that the monster needed, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he whipped the rope about the other man's neck and pulled it taught, forcing his victim to his knees. The dark angel fixed him with an icy glare, his cold eyes snapping in bitter irony.
"Well, Monsieur, my strength could not overcome yours, but one look at my hideous face and you practically conceded to me," he cried wildly, his gruesome features gnarled and twisted in his madness. And then his mouth turned up grimly, and he let loose an unhinged, maniacal laugh.
"Of course, now that you have seen my wretched features, you must not be allowed to live. Have you any last words before I mercifully kill you?"
The Russian sneered back, his eyes defiantly meeting those of his murderer. "Yes, I do. Kiss the Comtesse goodbye for me, and pray that she does not open her eyes."
The loathsome creature turned his ugly face away from the man in mute dismissal, then quickly and expertly jerked the rope. The familiar sickening snap echoed throughout the alleyway.
Erik fell to his knees, still breathing heavily from exertion. He gazed upon his hands, now red with the man's blood, and looked about him dazedly. What met his eyes was a grim sight; blood had indeed been scattered about the dark corner of the alley, some of it his, most of it the other man's. But no matter whose, when the light of morning came, it would be a dead giveaway that some sinister act had taken place during the night.
Damn, he thought, cursing himself for the messy work; for in the past, his dealings had always been executed with quick and clean precision. This time, however, he had allowed his fury to break through his barricade of control. He sat back on his heels and silently contemplated the body before him.
And the blackness stirred once again—the feelings that always came after he killed…
First the shock of what he had just committed. After the rage that sent his blood racing faded away, it left only his foggy brain, tingling with numbness behind his eyes.
And then realization flooded over him. He had murdered. It was almost too much, this terrible knowledge that someone who had lived and breathed only moments before had struggled under his overpowering hands…and lost.
Then came the worst of it—the overwhelming blackness of mind that washed through him, overshadowing all other senses: despair, hatred, and detestation of the world and all that was in it. But most prominent was the self-loathing he harbored—a monster, a slaughterer that would rot in hell for his deeds.
And finally, after all the horror and revulsion that swept through him had taken hold of his mind, he would bury it away, never to be thought of again. And as he killed again and again, and again, it became easier to simply and conveniently detach from the horrors before him, to let an icy layer form a shield around his heart, so he wouldn't have to think…wouldn't have to feel…
This time, however, the sweet oblivion of apathy did not come to him as it had in the past. For no matter how greatly he tried to shut away despair, Wretchedness still wrapped its corpse-like fingers about his throat, clutching at its prey with an unyielding grip.
What has changed? Erik's mind searched frantically for a way to fight off the night that hovered about him, but struggled uselessly to extricate its icy, merciless hand from his soul.
My soul…With a great moan, he buried his face in his bloody hands, at last understanding. Sticky red smeared across his face, branding him as a fool—a condemned, bloody fool. Of course he could no longer purge his soul of its darkness after the kill.
My soul is no longer my own. Yesterday, I gave it to her when she pleaded with me for it. So now I belong to her…and am accountable to her…
Erik heard heavy footsteps behind him. He quickly scooped up his mask and replaced it upon his mangled face, then cautiously pushed up off of the ground, slowly stretching his aching limbs. A sharp pain shot through his side, and he bent to examine the gash at his rib cage. The wound was not too deep, but it was obvious he had acquired a few bruised ribs during the tumble, which would be extremely painful over the next few days.
Erik took up the dead man's dagger and cut away a strip of lining from his wool cloak. He carefully wrapped the material around his torso, covering the knife wound with the temporary bandage, and winced as the cloth pressed against the gash.
Hale came up beside him and bent over, leaning on his knees to try and catch his breath. As he raised his head again, the agent's eyes swept over the dead man, momentarily stunned by the odd angle of the Russian's neck. Then he shook the haze from his mind and let a cool, unruffled demeanor fall into place. He watched as the masked man knelt to remove the rope from the body.
"What of the other?" Erik asked, his manner now also calm and composed.
"Escaped. Ran off in the opposite direction, though, so you needn't worry about him pursuing the carriage. Murry will be sure to take a round-about way to your town home, just to be safe. He'll know if anyone is following." Erik nodded absently in assent, his eyes still on the dead man before them. Hale cleared his throat.
"I suppose we should take care of this, then, before anyone happens upon it," the agent hinted, gesturing to the grisly scene.
"Isn't the Thames where most murdered men in London end up?" Erik simpered, raising his eyes to his cohort.
Hale was caught off guard by the disconcerting gleam her perceived there. Madness stared back, tempered by some unfathomable emotion…sadness, was it? Whatever it was, it chilled him to the core.
Two shadowy figures stood at the edge of the Thames, not far from the East India Docks. Not a soul was about at this time of night; all of the dockers that labored during the day, unloading crates from the Far East, had long since retired to their favorite pubs. The lingering smell of tea and spices still hung in the air, mingling with the putrid, foul stench emitted by the murky waters that flowed through the city.
Glancing about warily once again, the two men slowly lowered their burden to the edge of the pier and rolled it into the deep waters below. They stepped back, then solemnly gazed on as the weighted body sank beneath the surface and disappeared from sight.
After it was gone, the stood as silent sentinels of the docks, watching to make sure it did not resurface. An ominous silence hung about them, interrupted only by the gentle rumbling of the swift river.
"Tell me, Hale, do you have a wife?" Erik asked quietly.
Hale glanced up at the man, and with relief, saw that the mad gleam which had earlier resided there was no longer present. He shook his head sadly.
"No, Monsieur. It is a risk I am unwilling to take. Unfortunately, men like us cannot afford to love—the price is too great."
Erik said nothing, lost in sober contemplation as he continued to stare into the depths of the water. By now, the body had most certainly been carried away in the strong currents of the Thames.
After several minutes, the agent sighed and began to make his way across the grimy dockyard. "I don't think he's coming back up. Let's return home, shall we?"
"Yes..." the masked man whispered sadly, and turned to follow the agent. "Home."
Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.
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