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 the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.
Side Notes:
Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic". Thanks also to Siren and Cookies for helping me brainstorm.
Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)
An extra-long chapter for those who find it difficult to wait more than a week between updates. You know who you are…: )
Family Affairs
Lavender…
The scent burned his lungs. He breathed it in, its power intoxicating his mind, taking him to a place far from his repugnant surroundings.
For Erik, the stench of death existed in a multitude of forms. The decay of a corpse. His musty cellar. Metallic blood. Earth freshly turned by a shovel. A pile of lilies upon a coffin. Even a coffin itself—the sweet smell of pine had lulled him to sleep many a night.
Now it was lavender, though, which would forever carry the smell of death. He had died many times, enveloped by the heady fragrance. And when he breathed his last, he should like it to be lavender that greeted him. It was much more pleasant than the reek of rotting flesh which now hung in the air.
Erik lay upon his straw mattress, hands tucked behind his neck, eyes scanning the gloom above him. The room was long and high, its thick stone walls lined by grimy, skeletal prisoners slumping against their pallets, knees tucked up to their chests, resigned to their wretchedness. Some of the creatures chose to sleep the hours away. Others whispered in quiet comradeship the latest tales: whose wife or brother had most recently visited; who had foolishly requested bread to stave off hunger or a candle to stave off the cold, and had subsequently been dragged to the lower levels. And some chose to contemplate their past lives in silence, their ruminations only increasing the keenness of their misery as the cries from the lower levels pulled them from their dreams and returned them to their nightmare world.
The prison itself was an ancient affair. At some point, its impenetrable walls had served as a fortress of sorts—more than likely for an Ottoman palace. Erik could tell by the narrow staircases and doorways. When he passed by the slit windows or stood in the high-walled courtyard, familiar onion-topped towers stood stark and mighty against the sky, telling him what no Turkish guard had bothered to—he was in Constantinople.
Istanbul, as the Turks preferred to call the city.
"Number seven-thirteen."
Erik glanced at the two guards standing above him, their eyes carefully averted from his face. He unhurriedly sat up, leaning upon his elbow with the ease of a shah in his harem.
"Why do you turn away, gentlemen?" he hissed. "Do you not find my face interesting?"
"You have a visitor," the guard muttered, his gaze fixed upon the wall.
Erik stiffened in surprise. He slowly rose from his pallet, gesturing to the chains at his feet. "If you will."
The Turk stooped over and cautiously unlocked the chains from the wall. The notorious escape attempt was never far from the guards' minds; all had been warned what this man was capable of. Even now, the Turk felt the man's unsettling gaze upon him. Straightening his shoulders, he cleared his throat and glared at the prisoner.
"You will address me as Effendi, number seven-thirteen." The Turk sneered and held out his club, gesturing for him to follow.
Irons clanking upon his thin ankles, Erik fell into pace between the guards, chin tipped defiantly as he strode the length of the room. Fire shot through his bruised feet and radiated up the length of his legs. He ground his teeth against the pain and forced his muscles carry him forward.
Fortunately, his feet were not cramping as much as they had immediately after the caning; through sheer power of will, he had laboriously kneaded and stretched his swollen toes to keep them from curling, and therefore, was fairly certain there would be no lasting damage. If, of course, they healed before the next inevitable caning.
The other prisoners ceased their talking for a moment, staring at his horrific face as he passed. Some turned away awkwardly; others shook their heads in amazement, wondering what kind of tortures had caused such deformity.
Not long ago, the gossip had centered on the arrival of a new prisoner—a sorcerer once known as the Trapdoor Lover. These men who whispered the gossip—they were the brightest of political and criminal minds, hailing from places as far away as New York City, and as close as Ankara. Murderers, thieves, and politicians; one or two of them had even been a part of the Persian court at Mazenderan during his service to the shah. All of them had risen to dizzying heights of power in some form, thus becoming a threat to the Turkish sultan and ensuring their tumble to the lowest of the low.
Men who had once been great were now living in squalor and filth. And still, they looked upon him as a parasite of humanity, this foreigner with the devil face.
Erik scoffed at them as he walked by, his golden eyes bright and belittling.
"Keep your eyes down, ayip!" The guard to the left sneered.
Erik stared at the man, his lips curling.
"We are not friends, Effendi?"
The guard swung around to face Erik, startled to find him several steps behind instead of beside him.
"Did you say that?"
The prisoner merely quirked an eyebrow, and continued down the hallway towards a large, copper-tiled room.
"What a pity. You do not want me for an enemy."
"I heard it again!" The Turk turned to the other guard. "You heard it? That voice—it was so close, it was as if it was inside my—"
"Inside your head?" The second guard barked. "Itouulu itt! The creature is a sorcerer—he is playing games with you." He shoved the top of his club into Erik's back. "You there! If you do not want several more of those scars reopened, shut your mouth!" Pulling open the barred door, he motioned the prisoner inside.
"My mouth has not yet opened, Effendi," Erik smirked at the burly Turk as he strode into the room.
Eyes growing round in shocked outrage, the guard raised his club to strike the insolent man.
"Stop!" The cry rang through the room, halting the Turk's hand. A thin man rose from the splintered desk in the corner and stepped forward, his eyes taking in the filthy prisoner. "I want him alive, you idiot."
The visitor did not cut an interesting figure by any means. Physically unimposing, he tried to make up for it with plain, immaculate clothing tailored in the severest of lines. He possessed a pale, round face that was all the more emphasized by slicked, silvered hair and oval spectacles perched on the tip of his sharp nose. Nothing unusual about the man…
Save for his eyes.
"My God," murmured the visitor, his eyes widening in disbelief of what he saw. And then they hardened to a savage brilliance, his mouth twisting in something akin to a smile.
"Ah, Monsieur Phantom! Forgive me; I did not know you at first. Your face, you see—it really is quite monstrous." Mas Quennell stepped forward, extending a hand to the man. "It is a great honor for me to at last make your formal acquaintance. Our two previous meetings have not afforded me the opportunity, as you were somewhat overwhelmed at the time. I believe the first time we met, I punched you."
Erik scrutinized the offered skeletal fingers, his own thin hands chained in front of him. "Yes," he said coldly, "it was the same night you nearly strangled Christine to death."
"It had to be done—the girl knows too much." Mas drew his hand back and continued on, ignoring the man's slight. "I must say, I am disappointed. I had expected more worthy a rival in you. Instead, I find you languishing in prison. Tell me, how do you like your view?"
Erik leveled his own hard eyes at the man. "I have seen better."
M. Quennell chuckled. "Touché. A clever reply. It is a pity you are such a horror—you could have been a celebrated man." Mas slowly circled him, sizing up his adversary. "We are not so different, you and I."
"I highly doubt it. I do not murder women and children."
"Of course not. You only murder their husbands and fathers." The visitor chuckled at his jest. "We are alike—it is true! I have spent a great deal of time these past few months studying your life, Monsieur—your years with gypsies, advisor to the shah, extortionist and resident ghost of the Opera Populairé. Simply amazing." Mas cupped his chin in thought. "The whole Chagny affair was rather undignified, however; wouldn't you agree? Threatening to take the poor boy's life, all for the love of a capricious little chorus girl who left you in the end." He smirked. "She has abandoned you again, I see."
"Do not dare to speak of her—"
"And drowning poor Philippe de Chagny like that." The man shook his head. "Although, you did save me a good deal of trouble, in that respect. The Comte was becoming much too great a threat, both to me and the Fraternité."
Erik's eyebrows quirked in surprise; the fact that Philippe de Chagny had been a threat to Mas Quennell was news to him. He tilted his face sardonically. "You are certain that I killed the Comte, then. From what I had understood, Chagny's death was ruled an accident. He had ventured into the cellars after his brother, only to slip and drown in the waters of the underground lake."
Mas barked. "Oh come now, Monsieur. He threatened your sanctuary—invaded your stronghold and compromised your power. Of course you murdered him! I would have done the same. As I said, we are similar creatures; we know what we want, and we take it before anyone else has the chance to. Power is lifeblood to us. When someone threatens our power, then we destroy them. We are steely, soulless machines, Phantom; it is our way of life."
"I used to think so," Erik murmured.
"I suppose you mean your little Comtesse," Mas sneered. "Yes, she seems to have caused your very foundation to crumble. But no matter. This weakness of yours shall soon be taken care of."
Erik glared at the visitor. "What do you mean?"
"The Orient Express."
The prisoner paled at the words, all blood in his body suddenly ceasing to flow.
Mas smiled as his revelation drew its desired effect. "We know that your lady and her party took the Express L'Orient north from Constantinople. While we have yet to discover her final destination, she shall be found, soon enough." The corners of his mouth twisted into a wry grin. "You will tell us."
With a cry of rage, Erik flew at the contemptuous man, plowing into his midsection and throwing him to the floor. Cuffing Mas across the face with his irons, he whipped his chains around the man's neck and buried a knee in his back, pinning him to the ground.
"Leave her alone, do you understand?" he growled through clenched teeth. "All that she wants is to live in peace with her son!" Two strong sets of arms grabbed his shoulders and tried to pull him off of the struggling visitor, but Erik's fingers held fast to the chains. "Tell your crew of fools to let her be, or I will crush your throat with my bare hands!"
"…Then kill…me," Mas choked, daring the man to do just that.
A third prison guard came barreling into the room, raised his club high, and struck Erik across his shoulders. A blinding flash of pain streaked through his back and into his nerves. Head spinning wildly, he released his captive and put hand to the ground to steady himself. The Turks immediately dragged him off of the sputtering man and tossed him into a corner, their clubs high and ready to strike.
Gasping for air, Mas held up a hand. "No—wait—!" Coughing and sputtering, he pushed himself to his feet and stalked over to the prisoner. He towered over Erik, his eyes fixed on his face, breathing heavily from the attack. Blood streamed from the corner of his mouth where iron had connected with flesh; whipping a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at the wound, then tossed the soiled cloth at Erik's feet.
"I have tried to be patient, Monsieur," he spat. "Cooperative, even. But no more!" Still rubbing his throat, he turned to the second guard. "Make him suffer, but do not kill him. I want to know where the Comtesse is and where the oath is—he knows the answer to both of these questions. You know where to find me."
Through a thick haze, Erik watched the man turn on his heels and retreat, his form twisting and mingling with the black grid of bars suspended from the ceiling. His eyes skimmed over a system of pulleys and ropes, then fell back to Mas as he walked through the doorway.
"Wait," he called.
Mas spun around and glared at the heap in the corner.
"I wonder," Erik continued, struggling to sit up, "whether your Turkish friends would be so apt to assist you if they knew you were Russian instead of French."
The visitor went rigid, his unusually emotive eyes clouding over. "You are mistaken, Monsieur. I am French."
Erik persisted, now aware that he had squarely hit on a susceptible spot. "You were born an exile in Russia, correct? Raised in Russia? Therefore, you are Russian. And as these loyal Turkish soldiers know, Russia is their mightiest enemy."
The guards glanced from one man to the other, unsure of what to do. He pressed on.
"I am simply curious to know why they would desire to help a Russian—"
"French!" bellowed Mas Quennell, his anger boiling over. "How dare you presume otherwise? Unlike you, monster, I had a family—parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. All French. The greatest political minds of France, in fact—"
"Then why were they exiled?"
The visitor sneered. "That is none of your concern, creature—"
"Surely the greatest minds would be welcomed into society," Erik coolly cut in. "Why exile?"
"Because he was too great! Too powerful!"
"Who is he?"
"They were afraid of his vision, his ideals for France, for the people," the man rambled on, his eyes gleaming with madness. "And they were too ignorant to understand his brilliance, so they executed him. He could have led the people to glory! But I"—he straightened his bony shoulders—"I have arisen in his place, and I do lead!"
Erik stared at the man in disbelief. "You cannot mean who I think you mean." And then he began to laugh—a cruel sound meant to taunt the madman.
"Tell me M. Quennell, are you called 'The Incorruptible'?"
"Enough—"
"A scholar of Rousseau? A follower of the Cult of the Supreme Being?"
Mas snarled. "You know nothing—"
"When you lead your pathetic, power-hungry Fraternité, your leftover Jacobin pretenders, which day of the week do you convene? Perhaps it is Nonidi or Décadi." Erik laughed again. "And then you must recess during the months of Thermidor and Fructidor, when the heat is unbearable. I suppose the ninth of Thermidor is considered a holy day of mourning for a martyred saint—"
"I am He—His very flesh and blood!" With a howl of outrage, Mas grabbed a cane from the guard to his left and held it high over his head, poised to inflict a mighty swing upon the prisoner.
Erik thrust his chained wrists into the air before the club connected with his flesh, effectively blocking the blow. Twisting the chains about the weapon, he quickly disarmed his attacker and grasped the club, pointing it at the Turkish guards before they could strike at him. His steady, wary gaze swept from one man to the next, finally coming to rest upon a furiously trembling Mas Quennell.
Somewhere just beyond the room, he heard the quiet sound of a pistol being cocked, and knew it was trained on him. There would be no escape, yet again. With a snarl, he clutched the cane between his hands and cracked it upon his knee, snapping it in two. He tossed the broken weapon at the thin man's feet.
"You know my weakness," Erik murmured low and deadly, "and now I know yours. It appears we are both insane, Gospadin."
He held the visitor's eyes, his own glistening in triumph. At last he turned his face, dismissing the man. "You may go now," he said, his voice laced with bored indifference. "I have nothing more to discuss with you."
Mas paled, rooted to the floor in utter disbelief. Slowly, he stooped to pick up the cane, pausing as if considering whether to strike the man for his arrogance. With a growl, he then hurled the broken stick across the room like a petulant child and turned on his heels.
"See that he is punished in the best way you know how!" he cried, pointing to the prisoner. "Make him suffer—do not kill him, but see that he pays." And with those final words, he stalked through the door, slamming the bars behind him.
The Turkish guards turned to Erik, brandishing their clubs, eyes gleaming. The third crossed the room, tugging at ropes and moving pulleys. The second swung his arms around to loosen the muscles in his shoulders.
"So, number seven-thirteen, are you ready?" whispered the first, a dark smile spreading across his face.
Erik grimaced. Pain was no stranger to him, but it was still pain. This is going to hurt, he thought. With a sigh, he gestured to the man.
"As you will, Effendi."
OOOOO
Christine pressed the flat of her palm to her eyes, struggling to still the spinning in her head. For a brief moment, a flash of pain had throbbed in her heart, and she swore she had heard her angel cry out her name. And then the sound and pain was gone, leaving behind only a dull ache in her chest. The experience, however, had shaken her to the core. Shuffling baby Sasha in her lap, she reached for her teacup with trembling fingers, only to slosh the brown liquid over the rim as it rattled in its saucer.
Gospazha Borochova glanced up from Benyamin, her concerned eyes sweeping over the young woman. "Ribyonuk?" she asked, and patted her midsection.
Christine shook her head, smiling weakly. "No, no nausea today. I just miss my husband—that is all." She gestured to the gold band upon her finger, then touched her heart.
The Russian woman nodded. Though the two women could not speak each other's language, their like experiences had drawn them to each other in mute understanding, and served as a groundwork for what was quickly becoming friendship.
Nearly four weeks ago, Christine had written cryptic letters to Sister Helena and Father Jakob in Jerusalem, inquiring after the fates of the missing three. Gospadin Borochov had cleverly suggested that the letters be mailed via the Church of the Virgin Mary before Týn, to give the appearance of official church business. This plan, however, also meant that any responses would be returned to the Prague kirche, and would require a constant eye upon incoming mail. Thus, the task fell to Ze'ev.
Christine and Rhivka would pass their time together in the Brno Pension's worn parlor, laughing at each other's conversational charades and waiting anxiously for the Gospadin's return. Other days, they would stroll about the city in search of fountains and parks, the twins settled in the lovely black pram Ze'ev had purchased, Jean-Paul darting back and forth in pursuit of Prague's various pigeons.
Sometimes Norry would walk with them, usually on his way to the city records office to read over the Austrian police's registers, which chronicled the comings and goings of Prague's travelers. Henri would also accompany the ladies on their walks, gesturing left and right at statues, flowers and trees, rattling off random details about the allure of each place. On several occasions, Christine and Rhivka had been forced to step into a ladies' boutique to escape the endless drivel.
"Maman?" Jean-Paul tugged at the ruffled trim of her dress.
"Yes, little man?"
"I want to play."
Christine looked at the boy in confusion. "Well…play. You have plenty of shiny new toys." She gestured to the brightly colored blocks, animals, and soldiers scattered across the floor.
"No. I want to play." The boy toddled over to the upright piano pushed against the rose-sprigged wall and flung his arms over the bench, pulling himself up.
"Oh." Smiling apologetically to Rhivka, she returned Sasha and scooted over to her child, helping him onto the piano bench before he toppled the thing. Pushing back the lid, she hovered over the ivory, unsure of what to do. Finally, she slid onto the bench next to her son and placed her hands on the keys.
"Maman!" Jean-Paul scolded, scowling at his mother. "Not there. Papa sits here." The boy pointed to the right side of the bench.
Of course, Christine remembered. He always keeps the unmasked side of his face closest to Jean-Paul, to avoid prying fingers. "My apologies, mon petit," the mother smiled, and moved to the other side of her son.
The boy solemnly nodded his approval and readied his hands over the blacks and whites, waiting to begin.
Christine bit her lip nervously. She had never been good at playing the piano; what precious little her father had taught her had long been forgotten. Erik, at one time, had taken it upon himself to teach her to play. After two grueling lessons, however, he had thrown his hands up in the air, declared her an inherently bad pianist and suggested she stick to singing. She had not minded, for she much preferred to listen to him play.
Now, however, she wished she had paid closer attention.
She crooked her head in thought, then turned to her son. "Jean-Paul, why don't you show me what you have learned? Perhaps you can teach your Maman to play."
The boy brightened at the prospect and promptly began to press one key at a time. With a blunt tone, he glanced up at his 'pupil' and explained "this is C", or "F is next to G", his tiny fingers sliding from one note to the next.
Christine was truly taken aback by how much Jean-Paul had learned from his teacher. It should not have surprised her—Erik was an excellent tutor. She had secretly wondered, though, whether her harsh, critical angel possessed the patience to teach her little son. She should not have doubted.
Hugging her boy to her, she sang his praise. "Oh, mon fils, I am so proud of you! You make your Maman very happy."
The toddler giggled and squirmed in her embrace, his tiny fingers reaching once more for the ivory keys.
For a good part of the afternoon, Christine and her son sat at the piano, plunking out melodies and singing silly Breton songs. Sometimes Rhivka would join them if she recognized a tune, her own bashful voice nearly eclipsed by the energetic singing of mother and son. Soon, however, the twins grew irritable and she rose to take them back to their room.
Christine watched as Jean-Paul toddled over to Benyamin and Sasha and planted a kiss on each of their foreheads; Rhivka smiled at the boy's kind gesture, then nodded to her friend and drifted from the room. The mother's heart pounded inside her chest at the sight, and she had a sudden urge to determine her son's thoughts. Calling the boy to her, she settled him on her lap, her arms wrapping around his shoulders.
"Do you like Benyamin and Sasha?" she asked.
The boy gazed up at her with innocent eyes. "I don't like the sounds."
"Yes, they cry a lot, don't they?" she agreed. "And they sleep all the time. Aren't they nice, though, when they laugh and smile?"
Jean-Paul thought about it for a moment, then nodded.
Christine brushed her hand across the boy's forehead, smoothing back several unruly curls. "Jean-Paul, how would like to have a frere or soeur, like Benyamin and Sasha?"
The child's eyes widened. "Two?"
"No, mon petit," she laughed, "only one. For now, anyway."
"I want a frere. A big one."
"Well, will you take a little frere or soeur? They will get bigger in time, and then you can play games with them."
Jean-Paul frowned, pondering over the idea. At last he nodded. "Yes, I want one. Now?"
Christine smiled at her impatient child. "No, you must wait. We have to make sure that we are ready for your little brother or sister to live with us."
With a disappointed sigh, the boy buried his face in her dress. She pressed her lips to the top of his head, breathing in the smell of powder.
In truth, it was most likely too early to tell her son about the impending arrival of a new baby. There were a million different things that could happen between now and December—or at least, she thought it would be December. However, she was impatient as well. Impatient to begin her new life with her husband and children; impatient to put the past hurts and fears permanently behind them, and give Erik the 'normal' existence he had secretly yearned for. Christine felt as though her entire future perched precariously like a delicate vase on the edge of a table; that one slight tremor would send it tumbling over the molding, scattering crystalline shards across the floor. In a way, finally telling someone about the child—though that someone happened to be not three years old—enabled her to grasp the base of her life and hold it firmly in place.
Perhaps the precariously balanced future was why she had yet to visit the Ceska Obchodni Banka, and safe box number 665.
If only I can wait until Erik arrives to go there, she rationalized, concluding that it would be much safer with Erik by her side, should only dangers await her beyond the safe box.
"Maman?"
The small voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Yes Jean-Paul?"
"Does he have a Papa?"
"Who, little man?"
"My frere."
The mother smiled into her boy's curls. Jean-Paul had already decided the baby would be a frere.
"Yes, the baby has a Papa. He is your Papa, too."
The distinctive sound of a clearing throat resonated in the room and Christine spun around, her face flushing in embarrassment.
"Madame Reinard." Ever the gentleman, Ze'ev strode into the room and bowed, M. David fast on his heels.
"Gospadin," Christine murmured, her eyes instantly drawn to the rumpled white note he held in his hand.
"Christine," Henri said breathlessly, "we have just come from the church. Had a beast of a time convincing the old bat to let us take the letter. It's a good thing Sister Helena had enough sense to write her instructions on the back—"
"May I have the letter, s'il vous plait?" Christine said edgily, holding out a trembling white hand. Ze'ev placed it in her palm and she quickly slit it open, her eyes drinking in the missive's contents.
The Russian watched as her face turned deathly pale. A hand flew to her mouth and for a moment, he was sure the woman would faint.
"M. David, would you be so kind as to take the child upstairs to his room?" he asked.
Henri ignored the man. "My dear girl, whatever is the matter? He isn't dead, is he?"
Borochov hissed through his teeth. "That hardly helps, Monsieur."
"Henri, please take Jean-Paul," Christine pleaded, her voice quaking with barely-controlled emotion.
The avocat sighed. "Very well." Scooping up the confused boy, he gave his friend one last look of concern and reluctantly left the parlor.
Ze'ev stood before the woman and studied her face, then the carpet, a half-minute of silence falling between them.
"The news is bad?" he asked at last.
Christine nodded and handed him the note.
His eyes skimmed over the words and then he read it aloud, just to be sure of its contents.
"To My Dear Friend,
I was overjoyed to receive you letter, and to learn that you and your household are indeed safe. I was truly saddened by the necessity of your departure, and wish most fervently that I could have bid you farewell.
In regards to your inquiry: I am sorry to be the bearer of unhappy news, but I must tell you that the man in question was taken into custody the very day of your leaving, and has not been seen since. Father Jakob believes he was most likely transferred to Constantinople, or somewhere in the vicinity. As to the other members of your party, I can assure you that at the time of this writing, they were in the best of health and care not three weeks ago, when they also took their leave of us.
I wish I could impart more to you, but this is all that I know. Father Jakob will not be responding to your letter, as he has also left our company for the time being.
Please convey my sincerest wishes and prayers for happiness to your entire household.
With love from your lowly sister in Christ,
Sister Helena."
The Russian folded the letter and returned it to the bewildered woman. "M. Nitot should see this; he will want news of his daughter."
She nodded and gravely tucked it into her skirt pocket, then buried her face in her hands, her shoulders silently shuddering.
Ze'ev waited patiently until her body stilled and she surfaced from her grief. At length, she raised haunted, red-rimmed eyes to his.
"I am going to Constantinople," she stated calmly.
"You cannot," he firmly replied. "You are with child. Risking your life and that of your baby's is the last thing your husband would want."
Christine closed her eyes, considering the man's words. Yes, she yielded; Erik would not want me to go to Constantinople…he would wish me to leave him there. However, Erik also told me to leave him that night so long ago, below the opera house. I did leave him—and it nearly killed him. I cannot leave him again. She set her shoulders and repeated her resolution.
"I am going to Constantinople, Gospadin," she said.
"And your son?"
Christine closed her eyes in pain. "I…I do not know yet. But I must find Erik. My children need their father just as much as I need my husband."
Ze'ev sighed and crossed the room to the water pitcher. He filled a glass and walked back to the woman, dark eyes boring into her. "Very well; it is your decision." He handed her the glass, and she gratefully took it. "If you wish for Rhivka and I to care for your son until you return, we shall."
"Thank you," she whispered, knowing that he also meant they would care for her son, should she not return at all.
The Russian nodded. "Before you leave, however, I suggest that you do what you came here to do—what your husband asked you to do."
Christine studied the glass in her hand. "The bank. The safe box." She sighed. "I cannot wait any longer, can I? I must do this on my own."
"Yes," Ze'ev quietly replied, "you cannot postpone the inevitable." He thoughtfully stroked his beard. "Perhaps the contents may surprise you. You may find someone is waiting on the other side of the box, willing to help you."
"I suppose you mean Raoul." She wrapped an arm around her middle, suddenly terrified of the prospect that her childhood friend, her dead husband, could truly be alive. "What would I say to him, Gospadin? What if by some odd chance, Raoul is alive? How do I tell him about—about Erik?"
The Russian's eyes held hers. "You tell him the truth."
A weak smile played upon her lips. "Yes," she murmured, "I suppose it is that simple, really. Will you go to the Ceska Obchodni Banka with me tomorrow?"
Ze'ev consented. "Of course."
OOOOO
The piercing yelps of a peacock echoed through the courtyards, stirring the prisoner to life.
Erik rolled over in agony, the straw of his pallet crunching mercilessly against his bruised ribs; he did not doubt that several of them were cracked. Gingerly pressing his fingers to his rib cage, he sucked in his breath at the sudden rush of soreness. A quiet moan escaping his swollen mouth. He struggled to open his eyes, only to find that they too were nearly swollen shut.
At least the left side of my face now matches the right, he mused grimly.
A cool, wet cloth touched his forehead and he flinched, his hand automatically grasping the wrist of whoever hovered over him.
"Where am I?" he muttered, his words slurred and strained. Merde, he thought, it even hurts to speak.
"The prison sanatorium," the deep voice answered. "You were brought here yesterday, unconscious, and have been so, since."
Erik released his grip on the wrist and let his hand fall back to his side. His mind struggled to recall what had happened yesterday. He remembered staring at a decorated copper tile…
Yes, a copper-colored floor…the tiles cool beneath my face. And the pain…the guards standing over me…blow after blow…
He tried to remember the events leading up to the pain.
I had a visitor. A man. Russian…no, French. He said…Erik frowned, fighting the haze that engulfed his mind.
He wanted to know something…where the oath was, and Christine…
"Christine!" Erik struggled to sit up, heedless of the pain pulsing through his body. Two muscled hands shoved his shoulders down, forcing him to lie still. He struggled against them. They did not know she was in danger. They wouldn't understand.
"Christine," he whispered again, falling back to the pallet in exhaustion.
The voice pulled open each of his eyelids, allowing a flash of white light to pervade his sensitive eyes. "The effect of the laudanum is wearing off. I will give you another dose."
"No!" Erik cried. He swung his arm around until it came into contact with rough cotton clothing, and clutched the material in his hand. "No," he repeated more firmly. "I want my mind. Leave me my mind."
Silence filled Erik's ears as the voice paused in thought. At last, it relented. "As you wish. I should warn you, though—the pain will not be pleasant."
The prisoner stiffly nodded. "I have suffered before."
And then the voice was gone, leaving the patient to his mind and maladies.
The voice had spoken true—the pain was nearly unbearable. However, it would have been more unbearable if, in his drugged state of mind, he involuntarily disclosed his wife's location. Anything was preferable to forgetting himself.
For hours he lay on the rough cot, combing through his reunion with Mas Quennell. Meeting the man had confirmed his suspicions: their hunter was insane. And then again, he was completely sane. His movements were not irrational, by any means; they were calculated, cunning, and entirely Machiavellian. The man was also utterly grandiose, and could not see his so-called "leadership" was driving many a member of his Fraternité to ruin. Callous, egotistical…
Perhaps Mas was right…we do seem to quite alike, Erik reflected bitterly, then quickly pushed the thought away. However, at least I recognize that I am a monster…
Another spasm of pain shot through his limbs. He balled his fists and dug his fingernails into the flesh of his thin hands, forcing his mind back to his conversation with Mas. Somehow, in the midst of agony, his senses were always heightened and his mind, sharper.
What was it that Quennell had said? Ah yes…that I am a murderer of fathers and husbands. I suppose that is accurate. Erik swallowed painfully, moistening his parched throat. He accused me of murdering Philippe de Chagny. Insightful of him… not even Christine had believed I was capable of doing such a thing. Or was it the other way around? That she believed me capable, but did not believe I could have…
Erik had always felt a great remorse over the death of Philippe de Chagny. He had never truly disliked the man, for the Comte had been opposed to Raoul and Christine's plans to marry, and that had worked in Erik's favor. Philippe, while often cold and overzealous in his duties, was loyal to his family. And he had loved his brother. In fact, the only reason the man had ventured into the Phantom's lair was to search for his missing sibling.
Unlike the multitude of murders burned in his memory, Philippe's was the one killing that Erik could not quite recall. The drowning had all the markings of his siren's work—the song luring the poor Comte to his death in the lake—but the actual details were missing from his mind.
The night he had taken Christine, had nearly killed Raoul de Chagny; it had been a night of blinding madness. Yet in the dark days that followed, he had been able to reconstruct the details easily enough, based on the siren's many other songs. Philippe had triggered the warning current when he made his way to the fifth cellar and had wandered into the lake. At some point, most likely when he had locked Christine in her Louis-Philippe room to don her wedding gown, Erik had gone to investigate. He had taken care of the intruder, and returned just in time to fling his deviant angel from her room and lasso the boy.
As he again worked through the events of that fateful night, however, more and more discrepancies began to surface.
Had he been wet that night, or had he changed? Was the length of time between his descent into the lair and Raoul's arrival long enough to accomplish this specific murder? He had never before reflected upon the details; they had always been too painful to recall.
Now, however, as fire once more seared his body and ripped through his mind, he realized that he could not remember much at all.
OOOOO
The Ceska Obchodni Banka was an old, imposing establishment situated on a city corner, not far from the Wenceslaus Square, the commercial center of Prague. The red-roofed structure was nearly six stories tall, and loomed over Christine with its intimidating window-eyes, as if it had been watching for her arrival.
On either side of her stood Ze'ev Borochov and Norris Nitot, offering what reassurance they could—which, at this point, was not nearly enough to still her quaking hands and knees. This was it. Erik would not be there by her side as she took this step forward; this was a secret that she would have to uncover on her own.
Christine took a deep breath and lifted her chin, steeling her eyes straight ahead. Clutching Raoul's note tightly in her little fist, she purposefully swept through the heavy doors and into the foyer of the grand banka.
Only the dull echo of muted voices assured her that anyone was there at all. There were little to no customers at this odd hour of the morning, which was what Ze'ev had counted on. Fewer people meant fewer ears who heard, fewer eyes who saw.
One lone clerk sat behind a row of empty windows—a younger man, mustached, with a high brow, narrow eyes, and a rumpled suit—drumming his fingers on the counter in boredom.
Christine plastered a smile upon her face and approached the man. "I wish to access my safe box. Daaé, number six-six-five."
"How do you spell your name, Madame?" he asked in broken French.
"D—A—A—E."
The clerk nodded and bent over a file box, his neck flushing crimson under the lovely woman's steady gaze. His nervous fingers flipped through the cards until he came to the specific account. Skimming the words, he cleared his throat and glanced up at the woman with a puzzled expression.
"There is a note on your account card, which says there are…ah…rules—no—terms…what is the word…"
"Stipulations?" Ze'ev offered.
The man bobbed his head enthusiastically. "Yes. Stipulations. A word—a secret word should be given, and…"
The clerk leapt up from his chair and ran into one of the back rooms, out of sight. After several minutes had passed, though, and he still had not emerged, the three began to glance at each other anxiously. Christine was just about to suggest it might be wise to leave when the mustached man emerged what appeared to be a bookkeeper carrying a large envelope.
The bookkeeper greeted the customers and opened the envelope, pulling out a sheet of paper and a small Carte de Visite photograph, which she immediately recognized as one she had sat for in England during her wedding trip. Holding it up in front of his eyes, the man studied it, glanced at her, then back to the picture again. He then passed the Carte to the clerk and allowed him to look at it while he read over the sheet of paper.
Christine twisted her hands impatiently, waiting for the men to finish their quiet conference. At last the bookkeeper turned to her. "Madame, I have in front of me several…well…rather odd questions that must be answered before I take you to your safe box." He frowned at the paper, then read in a clear, precise voice—
"Little Lotte wheedled her mother, was kind to her…"
Christine threw back her head of curls and laughed in delight. How very like Raoul, she mused, all feelings of foreboding tripping away as the nonsensical words spilled from the sober banker's mouth.
The man cleared his throat, and she promptly quieted.
"She was kind to her doll," she replied.
He nodded. "She took great care of her—"
"Frock."
"—and her little red—"
"Shoes."
"And…" the man peered up from behind the paper.
"And her violin," she smiled, waiting for the next prompt. To her disappointment, however, the bookkeeper simply slid the paper back into the envelope, his questioning at an end.
"Very good. The clerk will take you back to your safe box, Madame Daaé, if your companions will wait here." He crisply bowed to the woman and motioned for the young clerk to lead her away.
"I will return shortly, Messieurs," she said to her friends.
Ze'ev nodded. "We shall remain here in the foyer, should you need us."
She followed the clerk through a windowless hallway, past several vaults. As she walked, she whispered the rest of Little Lotte's tale, the familiar words calming her nerves.
"…but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music…"
The clerk stopped in front of a large vault, cranked it open and swung the door, motioning for her to wait outside. Slipping into the secured room, he hastily returned with a metal box tucked under one arm, with the numbers '665' embossed on the front. He led her further down the hall to yet another room, furnished with a heavy mahogany desk and chair, a lamp, and several paintings upon the wall.
The man set the safe box on the desk and unlocked it, then handed her the key. "If you wish to keep the safe box," he explained, "you will need this next time you visit us. Leave the box on the desk when you finish, and I shall put it away. I will just be outside the door, Madame." With a bow not quite as eloquent as the bookkeeper's, he left the woman in peace.
Christine's hands trembled as she lifted the metal lid, not knowing quite what to expect. To her surprise, the only thing that resided in the box was a small leather satchel, filled entirely with a stack of papers. She carefully slid the parchments onto the desk and sat in the chair, feeling very out-of-place in such a business-like setting.
The first paper that caught her eye bore the gold embossment of the Chagny crest at the top. Upon further inspection, she found that is was a letter from Raoul. Her insides twisting into knots, she lifted the paper and read the familiar handwriting.
My Dearest Little Lotte,
Welcome to Prague!
Truly, this is a wretched way to begin a letter such as this, but I can think of no better words at the moment. How does one tell his wife that he has been living a life completely unbeknownst to her, and because of this lie, has caused her a world of heartache? I will not go into the details of this life until I see you face-to-face, but know, my dearest wife, that I only did what I had to do as a brother, husband, father, and patriot.
Because you are now here in Prague, I can only assume you received my previous letter instructing you to open your brooch, and thus discovered the sealed note behind the portrait. I am sorry to ask you to give up your life in Paris, but I find as the trial looms over me, drawing nearer and nearer, it calls for strength that is beyond me. I cannot live without you and our little son. There is a charming old town home that I have purchased for us here in the city, where we can safely raise Jean-Paul with the love our little man deserves…"
Christine's eyes clouded with tears and she set the letter down, overcome with sadness. So Raoul had intended for me to come to Prague, she considered. Before the trial even began, in fact. At some point, he had apparently sent me a letter, or was planning to, but something happened to it…
Anxiously biting a fingernail, she picked up the letter again.
…You will find amongst my papers all that you need to assume a new identity—certificates, a bank account, calling cards—please take them with you when you leave for our little house…
She ruffled through the stack and found, near the top, the papers he referred to. "Madame Daaé," she read softly, smiling at the thought of taking up her mother's name.
…The rest of the papers are to be left in the box for safe keeping. They are pertinent to the upcoming trial, and must remain hidden until they are needed…
Christine carefully sorted through the other sheets, her face becoming grimmer with each page she turned. Endless amounts of information—just as Ze'ev Borochov had spoken of—all implicating the Fraternité in their dealings with the Narodnaya Volya. Memorandums discussing the planned assassination of the Czar. Ledgers with detailed records of money transactions between the organizations. Minutes taken at the Fraternité meetings, telling not only of their involvements with the Russian radicals, but other clandestine groups as well.
This was the evidence that had gone missing when Raoul had died. It had gone missing because he had never returned to claim it for the trial. He had never returned to claim it because he had died. "And that is that," she murmured with finality.
In all of the information before her, however, something seemed to be missing. At first, she could not quite put her finger on it. As she sorted through the papers a second, then a third time, though, the frightful memory of icy fingers wrapping around her neck came to her. And cold, cruel words…
"She does not have the Fraternité's oath; she said as much, herself…"
"The oath!" she gasped, a hand flying to her throat. The oath was the item that was missing. In all of the papers before her, initials had been cleverly substituted for names, the members' identities carefully omitted. Ze'ev Borochov, however, had told her that the oath contained a list of every member's name, dating back to the very beginnings of the brotherhood. The oath was the key; without it, the pile of letters, bank accounts, and minutes would fail to incriminate anyone, save for a mysterious "Fraternité."
She read through the rest of Raoul's letter, mainly instructing her in what to do with the box, her papers, and how to find their town home. An address was scrawled on the bottom of the letter:
…Na Bojišti 25, Vinohrady residential district…
Christine hurriedly gathered up the papers and shoved them into the satchel. Tucking them back into the safe box, she slammed the lid shut and locked it away, overwhelmed by the responsibility now resting upon her shoulders. Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to slow her racing blood and frantically beating heart, determining what her next move would be.
Constantinople, of course. But first, the town home.
OOOOO
The three occupants of the carriage peered through the dusty windows in silence. Several minutes before, the brougham had stopped in front of a narrow, three-story town home: Na Bojišti 25. The house was a well-kept, cheery affair with a pale green front, gabled windows, and a red shingled roof.
Christine had just assumed that the house would be rather neglected, since no one had resided there for at least a year, if not longer. However, every loving detail—right down to the billowing lace curtains behind open windows—told otherwise.
"Madame Reinard, I don't think this house is empty," proclaimed Norry, voicing her very thoughts. "Those geraniums in the window boxes have been tended to daily. And begging your pardon, while it could very well be Monsieur the Vicomte de Chagny livin' here, I don't think he could keep a geranium alive at all, let alone care for 'em like that."
"It is possible that whoever resides here employs a housekeeper." Ze'ev replied, glancing anxiously at the woman.
Christine sighed edgily, ready for the whole affair to be over. "Messieurs, I find that all of these secrets are wearing thin. Raoul purchased this home. Since I have neither record nor knowledge of its ever being sold, it is, therefore, my house."
Tugging her gloves into place, she opened the carriage door and stepped out, allowing the driver to hand her down. With a strong spirit and just as firm a resolution, she swept along the walkway and up the stairs of the town home, heedless of the dirt her cream-colored skirt was collecting. Raising her hand to the brass knocker, she paused over the metal for a moment, suddenly wary of what might lie on the other side.
What if it is Raoul…
Or worse, what if it is not?
Her two companions came up behind her, and the fears vanished as quickly as they had arisen. Grasping the knocker firmly in her little fingers, she rapped on the door once, then twice, and stepped back to wait for an answer.
For the longest time, only silence greeted their ears as they listened intently for footsteps, a voice, any sign of life. And then a faint shuffling of feet upon wooden floors greeted them, followed by the flutter of a curtain being pulled away. Christine held her breath and anxiously peered through the window to try to catch a glimpse of the town home's resident. Before she was able to, the white lace fell back again and the footsteps moved towards the door. The doorknob rattled…
Christine squeezed her eyes shut, afraid to know—afraid to see—
"Christine Daaé," said a low, aristocratic voice. "It has been a long time."
The voice—it was familiar. She knew this person.
Her lids flew open and she stared into a set of eyes…ice blue eyes. Eyes she would know anywhere. These eyes, though, were slightly different—older. And sadder.
"My God," she murmured, utterly baffled. Both Norry and Ze'ev stood on either side of her, also dumbstruck. She reached for the stair railing, her knees suddenly growing weak.
The man reached out as if to assist her, then abruptly halted as the stunned girl held up a hand to stop him. His eyes swept over the woman with concern. "Oh dear," he sighed. "I have given you quite a shock."
She shook her head, barely able to emit a sound. "You…you are…" Her throat closed, choking back the words.
"Dead?" the man finished. The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. "Like many things, my dear lady, death is often only an illusion."
Christine, treading through the wake of her shattered truths and annihilated bravery, promptly—and very dramatically—fainted.
A/N:
Thanks so much for reading, y'all! Please feel free to leave me a review, and let me know what you liked and didn't like about the chapter, as well as offer any feedback. One request – if you leave a review, no major spoilers. ;) You know what I mean. If you write about the twist, refer to it as "that thing at the end", etc.
I am posting information to my website about sociopathy, and the symptoms. I'll let you decide how Mas and Erik are different or alike, based on that. Its rather fun! See my profile for the address.
Story Recommendation: Elainie, by The Scorpion
This fiction is a wonderfully dark, frightening tale to get you in the mood for Halloween season. Here in POTO land, we start celebrating early! Elainie features our POTO characters, as well as another little ghost—and a rather tragic, often scary one, at that. The Scorpion loves to throw in twists and turns, and Elainie is full of them. Its suspenseful, poetic language keeps you on the edge of your chair, and the author plays such wonderful psychological games with and through her characters, that the reader is left questioning what is real, and what is not.
And just because the story is categorized as "Horror," don't think it is devoid of romance. Elainie has several wonderful E/C moments that are charged with very subtle, very powerful love of the most exquisite kind.
Enjoy!