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, except for
Side Notes:
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! Again, thank you for not caving to the pressures to reveal my most secret of plot secrets :)
In Which M. David Commits another Grievous Error
"Are you not pleased to see me?" Henri David bowed elegantly over the Comtesse's bare hand and placed a feathery kiss on the back of it, his trim mustache tickling her knuckles. His lush brown hair fell across his eyes and he deftly tossed his head, flipping his glossy mane back into place. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man at the door stiffen darkly.
Madame de Chagny gaped at the lawyer, unsure of how to respond to his blatant flirtation. Her mouth opened and closed several times in astonishment, until at last, she found her voice. "Henri, why are you here? And for that matter," the woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "how did you find us?"
A toothy grin spread across his face as he clung to the woman's hand. "Mon Dieu, Christine, you are a vision in green," he murmured, ignoring her question. "I have missed you—it was wrong of you to vanish from the face of this earth, without so much as a word to your poor, despairing avocat! When I heard that you were no longer residing in the house just off of Hyde Park, that this brute of a man—" he gestured back to Erik "—had whisked you away to God knows where, I became extremely—"
M. David, however, was not given the chance to finish his statement. The masked man pulled out the thin rope concealed beneath his black cloak and neatly whipped it around the lawyer's neck before he could resist. Pulling the lasso taut, the dark angel roughly shoved the startled man against the wall and firmly pinned him there, wrapping cold, spindly fingers about the man's throat. Fury flashed in Erik's eyes as he cruelly stared down at the lawyer, who was feebly struggling under his unyielding grasp.
"Did I not advise you, Monsieur, that the next time you staged any foolish stunts, I would kill you?" he sneered, his lips curled derisively.
Christine flung herself at her teacher in fear, grasping hold of his elbow. "Erik, I beg of you, do not hurt him. He means no harm!"
The quaking lawyer could only nod in mute agreement, too panicked to utter anything of coherence.
"Please release him, and we can discuss this! I am sure he has a rational explanation for his presence." The Comtesse pleaded with the masked man, struggling to pry his fingers off of the sputtering avocat's throat. For a moment, she saw a flicker of indecision cross Erik's face. Then he deftly shook her hands away and silenced her with an icy glare.
"Do not be foolish, Madame de Chagny! Can you not see that even now, a throng of murderers could be camped outside the doors of this house, thanks to this asinine man?" He turned his face back to the terrified M. David and hissed into his ear. "I am warning you, tell me how you found us, or this moment shall be your last."
"No one has followed me, Monsieur, I swear to you!" the lawyer sputtered at last. "I was very cautious—"
A frightened yelp sounded from the stairs and diverted Erik's attention; he glanced towards the direction of the sound and discovered, to his horror, that Jean-Paul was still present, cowering behind the railing. Strife tore through him as he spoke lowly, his voice shaking with controlled rage.
"Christine," he murmured, his chilly stare still trained on the man under his grip, "I suggest that you remove your child from this room."
The mother's face blanched in alarm as she realized her young son had witnessed the violent scene. She quickly grabbed up her trembling child and dashed from the foyer, frantically calling up the staircase.
"Papi!"
She stumbled up the stairs, rounded the corner and almost flew headlong into the shocked servant, reeling back just before they collided. Placing her little son into the woman's arms, she hurried back through the hall, calling over her shoulder, "Please put him down for the night; I shall be along later." She then turned to Norry's room and rapped frantically upon the door.
No one answered.
"Norry, please, I need your help!" She called to him several times, until his graying head poked out from another room further down the way.
The old man looked at her in surprise, then concern, as he observed her wild-eyes and white face.
"Madame? I was just showing M. David's valet to his room. You remember Mas, of course—your husband's former manservant?" The lanky, solemn-faced valet peered out behind the caretaker and nodded to the woman.
"Madame Comtesse," Mas said quietly, absently smoothing his hands down his vest.
"A pleasure, Monsieur," she replied briskly, then turned back to the old man. "We have a situation downstairs that needs immediate attention, Norry. Perhaps M. Quennell can go through the rooms later." Not waiting for a reply, the woman raced through the hallway, Norry and the valet fast on her heels. She dashed back down the stairs and froze halfway as Erik, now in her line of vision, pounded the wall with his fist just to the left of the petrified man's head.
"That is a lie, Monsieur—I do not believe that Nadir Khan told you how to find us!" he cried furiously, his face contorting with fury. "Now, once and for all, who told you where we were!"
The Comtesse's breath caught in her throat, and she was only vaguely aware of M. David's valet rushing past her, down the stairs, to his employer's rescue. The servant hurled himself into Erik's midsection, throwing the startled man to the floor. And then the entire confrontation erupted into chaos as the three men, then Norry, tumbled about the tiled marble floor of the entryway, their fists flying, elbows jabbing at ribs, chins, whatever they could make contact with.
Christine wavered on the stairwell, started forward twice to stop the brawl, then held back again as she watched the scene unfold before her. M. David and his valet struggled to subdue a livid phantom. The old caretaker was endeavoring to force his way between the two riled men and Erik; who, with the skill of a cat, deftly spun out from under the three men. He grabbed M. David by the collar of his expensive linen shirt, brought his arm back and solidly punched the avocat across the chin, flooring the man with one powerful blow. And then Mas' fist connected with Erik's mouth, sending a splatter of red blood across the white of mask. The blow skewed the porcelain barrier between his face and the world, exposing a thin strip of twisted flesh along his hairline.
The woman watched in agony as her angel tore away from the pile of limbs and turned his back to his stunned opponents, properly replacing the mask. Even from her perch upon the stairs, she could see the murderous gleam in her dark angel's eyes—a sight that was burned in her mind since that heartbreaking night four years ago at the opera house. He stooped to pick up the discarded bit of rope and twined the end around his wrist, his thirst for revenge unmistakable with every step.
Without pausing to think upon the consequences, Christine flew down the rest of the stairs and flung her body against her angel. Pressing her palms to either side of his face, she pulled his searing gaze down to meet the troubled blue of her eyes. "My angel, if you harm any of them, I swear that I shall cut you from my soul and never think upon you again. I beg of you, do not do this!"
Some inscrutable emotion flashed through Erik's gold eyes, but just as quickly as it came, it was gone. A small trickle of red streamed from his mouth and down his neck, the crisp white collar of his shirt soaking it up. He calmly licked his lips and smirked as the girl's wide eyes.
"My dear," he whispered, coolly extracting her hands from his bloody face, "do you really know so little of me, that you would believe I'd blindly kill any poor wretch that crossed my path? I assure you, if I had intended to murder your precious avocat and his fool of a servant, I would have done so by now." He glared at the three men over the Comtesse's shoulder, daring them to interfere; not one of them stirred from their stationary spots upon the floor. Then his fingers tightened about her wrist and she winced in pain.
"Such cruel and idle threats do not suit you, Christine," he said smoothly, tugging the girl along behind him as he swiftly climbed the stairs. "You know as well as I do that you shall remember me every day of your life until the moment you breathe your last; and even then you may not forget. No matter how much you try to tear my spirit from the depths of you, try to shut my music from your mind as you have these past four years, you cannot, can you? It haunts your dreams, even after you wake. It wraps its icy fingers about your heart and inspires such fear and passion that you force yourself to stifle the one thing that can give it release—your voice. My voice."
Her maestro threw open the door to her bedroom and swung his protégé inside, then firmly closed it behind him, careless of impropriety. He stalked over to the mahogany armoire and began to yank her dresses from their hangers, gathering the blues, greens and burgundies into his arms. Dumping the pile of clothing onto her bed, he moved swiftly about the room, collecting her accessories, perfumes, undergarments, everything that she currently possessed, and tossed them on the quilt next to the dresses. A lovely, striped blue gown caught his eye, and he paused for a moment, pensively fingering the dress he had had delivered to her; her first dress after her period of mourning.
"Erik, what are you doing?" Christine questioned softly, watching in silence as the masked man shoved the dress into a tapestried valise.
Erik struggled to steer his mind away from the throbbing wound at his midsection as he crammed the rest of her belongings into the bag. It would not do to ask the woman to rebandage his side; not when his blood boiled just under the surface, rage still simmered from the fight. "I should think that apparent, my angel—I am packing your things for you. You had best tell the Nitots to do the same, for we shall be leaving within the hour. If they are not prepared, they will be left to fend for themselves."
"Are we…leaving for Jerusalem tonight?" she whispered incredulously. "But what about Noël, and closing the house…"
The man sighed in exasperation and brushed a hand across his bleeding mouth, absently smearing his chin with blood. "No, you shall not leave for Jerusalem until Nadir Khan arrives in London and I return to Paris, as planned. I will be taking you to Hale's residence until we decide what needs to be done. Any plans you made for Noël will have to be forgone, unless you want to celebrate at his home."
Christine solemnly nodded in agreement and crossed the room to the door that separated her from her sleeping child. She peered into the dimly-lit room and saw that Papi was still seated in the rocker next to Jean-Paul's bed, calmly reflecting upon some distant thought.
"I suppose you heard what was just said, Papi," the Comtesse whispered, startling the woman from her reverie.
The maid stared at the shadows flickering upon the wall. "Yes," she murmured. "Madame, I know that I swore to follow wherever you decided to go, but Jerusalem is far away…" She leaned back in the rocker and glanced over her mistress' shoulder into the other room, assuring herself that the masked man was out of hearing range. "I do not mean to openly question your judgment, Madame—only offer a suggestion, if I may. Perhaps you should consider asking M. David for his help. With his connections, he could assist you in such a way that we might be able to return to France."
Christine's face went white again and she quietly slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. She lowered herself onto the edge of her son's bed, careful not to jostle the sleeping boy.
"Papi, she whispered, "you sent for Henri, didn't you?"
The maid nodded. "Yes. The evening after I found that…noose in your Erik's room. Please do not tell him what I have done! Forgive me for interfering, but I do not trust him, Madame. I cannot. Furthermore, I do not believe that it is wise to move into an entirely different culture, a foreign way of life, with no preparation, no instruction."
The Comtesse pressed her fingers to her temples and slowly exhaled, trying to clear her head. "I will not tell him," she murmured firmly, "but I daresay he has already figured out how Henri came to discover our location. We shall, however, leave for Jerusalem as planned. And I suggest that you not tell M. David of it, for any knowledge he has regarding our whereabouts can only endanger him, as well as us. Please let your father know of our departure, as soon as possible. That is all." The woman elegantly rose from the bed and brushed past her friend. As an afterthought, she turned back to the desolate maid.
"Would you please bring up two glasses of wine, Papi, before you begin packing? I shall try to soothe Erik's temper, and perhaps he shall not be hard on you when you tell him about your letter to Henri."
The servant nodded and left the room, retreating down the stairs and into the sanctuary of her kitchen.
Papi leaned heavily against the pantry door, shutting her eyes against the overwhelming anxiety that was rooting itself in her chest. Her mind raced through all possible courses of action, trying to settle on some miracle solution before her hour had passed and they were forced to leave the town home.
Something must be done…we cannot go to Jerusalem and put our lives completely into the hands of an utter stranger—and the friend of this phantom, no less! Papi shook her head at the mere thought of it.
"I shall never go to Jerusalem," she breathed with resolution. Crossing over to the oven, she put out the flames, pulled out the half-baked bread, then removed the stewing Mirepoix from the hot surface of the stove.
"Jerusalem?" came a quiet voice from the darkened corner of the kitchen. "Is that where he plans to send you? This cannot happen—we must prevent this somehow." M. David leaned forward on his elbows, the red glow of the oil lamp illuminating his face. Even with the shadows playing upon his features, Papi could see that his right eye was already purple and swollen from the brawl she had heard from the confines of Jean-Paul's room.
"That is exactly what I was pondering, Monsieur," the maid breathed with relief, her answer manifesting itself in the form of this man. "Whatever help you can offer, I will gladly take. But I must warn you, Madame Comtesse will not go willingly. This wicked man has weaved some sort of spell over her; she trusts the words of a madman and killer above those of her friends."
The maid left the room for several minutes then returned bearing two crystal goblets and a red Bourgogne wine. She removed the cork and poured a bit into each glass, took out a serving tray, then set the glasses and bottle upon it. As she walked past the avocat, he lightly grasped her elbow and she paused, not quite sure what to do.
"Did you want something more, Monsieur? A drink, perhaps?" she questioned nervously, suddenly becoming uncomfortable in the man's solemn presence, a disposition so unlike the normally cheerful avocat.
He slowly pulled his hand away and motioned for her to set the tray down. "Does she love him, do you think?" he questioned softly. The maid sighed and sat next to the young man.
"I believe that she is drawn to him—whether it is love or not, I cannot say; she has not confided in me on that point." M. David searched the woman's face. A greater question seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, and he studied his trim fingers for a long while, carefully thinking over his words. At last he raised his eyes to the soft brown of the maid's, searching for some unknown answer.
"In your letter, you said that if I cared for Raoul de Chagny and his widow as you do, I would help. Since the Comtesse herself did not write to me, I had already come to the conclusion that perhaps she did not desire my assistance. Are you sure, Papi, that she would not leave willingly if I asked her to return to Paris with me?"
The young woman nodded. "She is determined to go to Jerusalem, with or without Father and I."
"Very well, then." The lawyer reached into his vest pocket and slowly withdrew a small white piece of paper, folded several times and secured with a seal. He toyed with the packet reluctantly, then slid his finger under the wax and opened the parchment as carefully as if he were opening Pandora's box. Folding the corners back, he revealed a small amount of a white powdery substance resting in the crease. He raised the paper above the wine glasses and tapped a bit of the powder into each drink, watching as the substance dissolved into the red liquid.
"This will not hurt either one of them, Papi," he whispered lowly, squeezing the woman's hand reassuringly. "They will drink the wine, then fall asleep almost instantly. Each glass has enough of the substance in it to render them unconscious for a good hour. This should give us plenty of time to remove Madame de Chagny and Jean-Paul to an inn where I have made arrangements, without this dreadful man following us."
Papi's eyes widened in disbelief. "And then? When the Comtesse awakes, she will not docilely return to Paris. It will be a struggle to convince her to leave this man behind," the woman questioned warily, entirely uncomfortable with the lawyer's plan. "Perhaps we should go to Jerusalem. After all, that man will not be going with us…"
M. David shook his head and grasped the woman's shoulders, forcing her to meet his warm eyes. "Papi, there is no other way," he cajoled in his finely honed, persuasive voice. "If you go to Jerusalem, you shall be at the mercy of this man, even more so than now—completely dependent on him through his puppet, Monsieur Khan. You would simply be exchanging the fear of the People's Will for another fear. This man is playing upon your paranoia, using your fright as a means of control—this is what he does, for I have experienced it myself! No, it is best to return to Paris, face the Narodnaya Volya openly and bring them to justice; they cannot harm you if others are watching. Think of your little Perri—"
"Enough!" Papi cried before the avocat could speak of her murdered child. "You need not cruelly remind me of my loss, M. David, to stir up my desire for revenge and justice. I shall do as you ask, just this once, though it will surely cost me the Comtesse's trust. But please, do not ask me to deceive her again, for I shall not do it." She lifted the tray and tersely brushed past the man.
Conflict stirred in the young woman's breast as she silently made her way through the dark halls and up the stairs, carefully balancing the tray so wine would not slosh out of the glasses. She reached her mistress' rooms and paused in trepidation, her hands shaking so badly that the crystal bases of the goblets rattled against the silver of the tray. Drawing a shaky breath, she murmured a brief prayer for strength, slowly shifted her burden into one hand, and rapped upon the heavy wooden door.
Christine silently pulled the door shut to her son's bedroom, then glanced about her suite to find that her angel was no longer packing her belongings, but had settled into the small cream-colored armchair next to her window. A linen handkerchief was pressed to his mouth, the starched white material already ruined by red splotches of blood. At the slight rustle of her dress, he turned towards her; the woman saw, for the first time, the blood splattered and smeared across his face and mask, the outline of her palm still imprinted upon his cheek.
Saying nothing, she took a cloth from her bathroom and held it under the tap until it was soaked through. Wringing out the excess water, she returned to her angel and sat on the arm of the chair, quietly studying his face. Upon a cursory glance, his anger seemed to have drained away during her brief absence, for his demeanor was calm and reflective. As she looked more closely, however, she saw that the fist holding the handkerchief to his mouth was clenched so tightly that his knuckles were a pale white…that his heart was beating so rapidly, the veins on the inside of his wrist were throbbing.
Smiling faintly, she brushed two fingers along his jawline and gently turned his bloody face to meet hers. She raised the damp cloth to his cheek and slowly began to wipe away the blood that had dried there. To her surprise, he did not flinch at her touch, but closed his eyes and relaxed his rigid features.
"Did Mas cut your lip when he hit you?" the woman murmured, pulling away the man's hand to study the jagged gash on the side of his mouth.
A slit of gold flashed beneath his hooded lids as he glanced up at her words. "I believe he wore some sort of ring."
Ever so carefully, the girl washed each contour of her angel's face: his neck, jaw, hairline, eyes and mouth, until the only bit of red left was the fresh blood still trickling from his lip. Then she moved to the other side of the armchair, wiped the cool cloth across the thin porcelain of his white mask and performed the same ritual, the symbolism of her gesture not lost upon the masked man.
When Christine had completed her task, she tossed the ruined washcloth away and knelt next to her angel's chair, resting her head upon his knee.
"I am sorry for what I said in the foyer, my angel," she whispered. "I was afraid. Not so much for Henri, in truth, but for you."
The man gently rested his hand upon her soft neck and continued to gaze upon the clear Decembernight, listening to her soft voice.
"When shall you let go of your bitterness and hatred, Erik?"
She felt his hand stiffen slightly at her question, then relax again into her curls.
"When shall you sing again, Christine?" he quietly replied.
Asoft rap stirred the pair from their somber reflection and Christine rose to open the bedroom door, standing back to allow the servant into the room. Papi swiftly walked past the woman, her face pale and hands trembling as she clutched the silver tray. She quickly set the wine glasses and bottle upon the small glossy table in the corner, and turned to leave again, her eyes averted to the ground.
The Comtesse called out a small thank you and the maid paused in turmoil, her mouth opened as if to say something. She closed it again, however, choosing to simply nod and hastily retreat from the room.
Christine lifted the crystal goblets from the table and sauntered back to her maestro, reclaiming her position on the arm of his chair. She saw the corner of his swollen mouth twitch slightly as she pressed a glass into his hands, only guessing at what had amused him. He toyed with the stem a bit, swirling the dark wine around the inside of the goblet, then let it settle again.
"Is this to still my nerves, my dear, or 'soothe my temper' as you put it?" Erik smirked. "Or have you simply chosen to do away with me in one deft swoop?" He lifted the rim to his bruised mouth and gingerly sipped the liquid, the headiness of the burgundy leaving a distinct taste upon his tongue. His brow furrowed and he took another small drink, this time letting his senses soak up the taste and texture of the wine. Yes, there was indeed something off in consistency of the Bourgogne.
Something distinctly metallic, like…
The man's face paled, and he lowered the goblet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christine raise the glass to her lips and his hand came up quickly, grasping hold of her wrist. Sloshing wine onto her dress, she turned to the man in surprise.
"Erik, what—"
"What is this wine, Christine?" he interrupted, pulling the glass from her fingers. He inhaled the bitter fragrance of the drink and found that hers, too, had an odd metallic quality. Cursing soundly, the masked man leapt from the armchair and stalked over to the wine bottle, turning the label out—Grand Cru, Gevrey-Chambertin—nothing unusual there. He waved the opening under his nose and inhaled—the strange element was missing from the bottle. Someone had added it after the wine was poured…
And then he noticed it—an odd, tingling sensation was filtering into his brain, just behind his eyes. His fingertips began to go numb…
"Leave quickly," he murmured, fighting back the fuzziness that was rapidly spreading through his mind. The room started to swim and he pressed a palm to his eyes, desperately struggling to keep Christine's face in focus.
The girl remained rooted to the floor, her eyes wide with shock.
"Take your son and run away, Christine. Now!" he firmly commanded as waves of nausea quickly swept over him. His knees began to give way and he crumpled to the floor, still fighting to push himself up with his elbows. And then he collapsed upon the cold wooden floor, succumbing to inevitable darkness.
The woman stared in mute horror at the man lying at her feet, her joints temporarily frozen in place. A strangled cry rose up from her throat and she sprinted from the room into the black hallway, frantically calling for help.
"Norry, Henri! Someone, please!" She rounded the corner and flew towards her servants' quarters, stumbling several times on the green velvet trim of her dress. She pounded her fist upon the ground and pushed herself up just as a strong arm came about her waist, pulling her to her feet. Whirling around to face the arm's owner, she looked into the puzzled face of M. David. Relief flooded through her veins; she grabbed his wrist and pulled the startled avocat back through the dark passages towards her bedroom.
"Christine! What are you—that is, what has happened?" he cried, tripping over his words.
"The wine—Erik drank some of it, then collapsed! I do not know if he is ill, or—oh God—if he is dead!" We need a doctor, some sort of assistance…Hale! We could send for Hale—he would know what to do…Please God, do not let him be dead…"
The girl babbled on incoherently as they raced into the room, then fell to her knees next to the unconscious man. She pressed her palm to his mouth, then to the hollow of his neck, checking for any signs of life. Releasing the breath she held in her lungs, she murmured a prayer of thanks and lifted her eyes to the man standing above her.
"Henri, he needs a doctor but I don't know where to find one. Could you…"
Her words trailed away as she observed a peculiar glistening in the man's eyes, some strange flicker of emotion akin to—what was it?—trepidation, regret…guilt, perhaps?
A nagging, almost ludicrous idea gripped her mind, but as the lawyer made no move to leave for a doctor, the thought slowly became a reality. Suddenly, the pieces came together.
"You…You poisoned him, didn't you? And you tried to poison me, as well, but I didn't drink it—that's why you were startled to find me in the hallway…He kept me from drinking it…" She turned back to the man sprawled upon the floor and tenderly traced his jawline with her fingertip. "Why would you do this?"
"Christine, please," the lawyer sputtered, his dark eyes pleading with the woman. "The drug is only temporary—he will wake soon. And I wanted you unconscious as well, because I needed time to—well—" The avocat lowered his gaze to the ground, scuffing the boards with the toe of his fine shoe. "There is no other way out of this situation—surely you see that? All you need do is give the oath to me, and I shall return it. They have promised to leave you in peace if you do so, and you can go back to your home in Paris. No more threats, no more deaths…this will all be over."
And then comprehension hit her with the force of a brutal gale. Madame de Chagny's face went ashen at the man's words; she rocked back on her knees, putting a hand to the floor to brace her wavering body, her mind keeling over and over in disbelief. As his explanation slowly sank in, another emotion took hold of her—her insides knotted as feelings of betrayal pervaded every cell of her body. She slowly straightened her back and turned a frosty gaze upon the man…her friend…her confidant…
"You vile, wretched Judas," the Comtesse murmured. "You have sold my family and I to this group of monsters to save your own neck. They came to you in Paris, didn't they? What did they promise you, Henri—a higher social status? Perhaps a chateau in Beaujolais or a larger spending account?" she spat, a hysterical tone tingeing her voice. "How could you do this do Raoul? How could you do this to his son?"
The lawyer raised his hands feebly. "They have promised me nothing except my life, yours, and that of the young Comte's. This, in exchange for the oath of Fraternité."
The woman shook her head in incredulity. "You utter fool. Don't you think that if I was in possession of this—whatever it is they want—I would have given it to them long ago, for Jean-Paul's sake? I am afraid that they shall have your life after all, M. David; I do not have this…oath."
A hand came around her head and roughly pressed against her mouth, muffling her cry of astonishment. Before she could resist, her small frame was lifted from the ground and slammed against the wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. She wheezed in pain as the shock of the blow coursed through her back, shoulders and head, and she crumpled to the floor in agony. Calloused fingers wrapped around the delicate curve of her throat and lifted her up again, pinning her to the wall. The man lowered his foul mouth to her shoulder and pressed his cracked lips to her soft skin.
The Comtesse's eyes fluttered open and through her blurred vision, saw the face of her attacker…his thin pale lips twisted malevolently. Mas. The shrouded man from the Paris brougham attack. Why did I not recognize him before? A tear trickled down her cheek as she squeezed her lids shut, the helplessness of her predicament and the violent pain that swept through her taking its toll on her reeling mind. Somewhere beyond the powerful form of her captor, she heard Henri's voice call out in protest.
"Really, M. Quennell, this is completely unnecessary! Your brotherhood swore to me that Madame de Chagny would remain unharmed. I demand that you release her at once, or—"
"Or what?" the valet hissed in flawless, accentless French. He turned his rage-filled face from the woman. "She does not have Fraternité's oath; she said as much, herself. You may be unaware of this, M. David, but I have been given instructions that you are not privy to." He put his mouth to the frightened woman's ear, his breath hot and putrid.
"Now, my Lady Comtesse, you know what I am capable of after our playful banter on the Place de l'Opera. Did it never occur to you that the viper that terrorized you nested in your very household?" He laughed cruelly as the woman grimaced at his disclosure. "Your husband's own valet—stalking him, bullying him, leaving threatening notes about his grounds then watching with pleasure as he tossed each one into the fireplace and made me swear not to tell a soul. And then the final touch—the Comte de Chagny's slow…miserable…death. A 'crab in his belly', the doctor had called it. 'No cure'. And all that time, if he had just ceased to drink his nightly glass of Chablis..."
"No," Christine murmured, struggling to turn her face away and shut out the horror. Dear God, she had never known the extent…never understood the true danger her family was in. Even her young husband had not comprehended the lengths to which they would go, this cryptic Fraternité.
Erik had understood, though. He had fought to protect her, taken her burden upon his shoulders so she could rest peacefully one more night…
"But I digress. You do not have the oath; therefore, you must die. And your son."
"NO!" The avocat, who had remained silent and aloof during the entire exchange suddenly barreled towards Mas. In one swift motion, the valet released his grip on Christine's throat and sidestepped the attacker, hurling the panicked man to the ground. Allowing the Comtesse to sink to the floor and clutch at her midsection, he pressed his foot against M. David's neck and sneered at his miserable efforts.
"Valiant, brave rescues do not become you, Henri." M. Quennell sighed. "I cannot kill you, however; your brother, the Marquis, shall object strongly to that. And you may be of some use to us yet. Consider this your final warning, Monsieur." The valet brought his hand down upon the back of the avocat's head, knocking him senseless. Turning his cold eyes back to the woman, he observed her still frame and terrified expression.
"Tut, my dear Comtesse de Chagny. You did not even try to escape!" His smiled at her, his thin lips twisting cruelly. "I should not be too concerned, Madame; what you suffer from is more than likely temporary paralysis. That, however, is neither here nor there, as you shall be dead in a moment's time."
Struggling to swallow back the bile in her throat, Christine stared at her murdered husband's "loyal" valet in bewilderment. She pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the floor, fighting to maintain consciousness.
"Who are you, Mas?" she whispered, her voice raspy from the blow against the wall. "You are Russian, aren't you? One of the Narodnaya Volya?"
Another wicked chortle burst forth from the man, his cold eyes crinkling as if she had told an amusing tale. "The Narodnaya Volya? Ha! They are mere pawns, Madame; another pathetic group of revolutionaries with lofty ideals and no brains to accomplish them. Without us, their names would never have been remembered." He smirked again. "No, I am not Russian, although I was raised in St. Petersburg—an exile. I assure you, however, that every single drop of blood within me is French."
M. Quennell spun away from the Comtesse and meandered about the room, coming to a halt over Erik's still form. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "This foray to London has afforded me another great pleasure; I was finally able to meet the clever bastard that has been assisting you since your brilliant escape from Paris. Did you know that we had fifteen men watching the Opéra Populaire, and not one of them spotted your escape? You must have walked directly past them!" The valet issued a swift kick to the masked man's torso, dislodging his black evening jacket in the process. He caught sight of the length of rope coiled at the man's waist and shaking his head, bent to retrieve it.
"I heard how he killed that People's Will radical in the Kensington alleyway—no small feat. The Russian was a trained assassin." Mas ran his skeletal fingers along the thin lasso, as if caressing it. His voice became low, wicked.
"Wouldn't it be tragic if your lover were to murder you and your child, then take his own life?"
No…
Christine madly tried to muster any reserves of strength she had left in her body, laboring to lift the gauzy veil that was wrapped about her mind. "The oath, Monsieur!" she cried desperately. The man stocked towards her, twining the punjab lasso around his wrist as he had observed its owner do. "You do not have the oath yet, and if you kill me—"
Her pleas were cut short as her attacker knelt down and whipped the noose about her white neck.
"My dear Comtesse," he murmured hotly into her ear, "I truly believe that you do not have it."
The rope tightened about her neck, instantly constricting her airway. A scream rose up in her throat and she opened her mouth to loose it, but all that emerged was a strangled, hideous, gasping sound. Christine felt a solid heaviness press down upon her, suffocating her as the lasso was pulled taut.
So this is how I shall die. How peculiarly fitting.
A dull roar sounds behind my ears…face hot, flushing from exertion, neck muscles straining up and up, fighting vainly for one last breath of precious air…
Air…
Just one breath…my mouth opens and closes as I gasp for the breath that will not come…my body helpless under the one who overpowers me…
And now dizziness, waves of nausea…head aches as it is slowly starved for oxygen…hands flail about, scratching, clutching at something, anything to pull the rope away…
…the rope…it digs, burns into my flesh until it bleeds…I can feel the blood, running down my face, into my eyes…I open my eyes and see only blurry light through a haze a red…
…crushing my chest under the weight…lungs are on fire, consumed by the flames in my throat, licking down my windpipe…
Time passes…yet there is no time…each second an hour of torment…minutes slide away, and now the blackness is coming, reaching out with its icy, shadowy fingers, pulling me into its embrace…
It shall end soon…Death is calling to me. When the darkness overtakes me, this pain will be no more.
…how strange that I feel nothing but peace as the life leaves my body…what is there to fear in death…has not my angel already shown me how beautiful the darkness can be?
Jean-Paul…
Erik…
Know that I love you.
For as I am dying, my one comfort is that I die with your rope about my throat…
Somewhere, far away in the fading plain, a shot rang, then a cry. Her arms fell limp upon the ground, and she knew no more.
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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