Claude could have spent hours describing everything he liked about his wife's physique (and even longer if he was allowed to include 18+ content), but he never doubted that the particular feature that ultimately sent him over the edge was her hair.
It all started when he had trapped her inside Notre Dame. Pride still smarting from having his canopy toppled on his head, he felt the need to put her in her place before dramatically exiting the cathedral. He had only intended to twist her arm backwards until she broke down and sobbed for mercy.
Mere coincidence resulted in his face getting shoved into her hair.
Claude was completely unprepared for the overwhelming wave of female pheromones that completely flooded his senses. His knees almost buckled as he instinctively gripped her harder for support. Which was a serious mistake, as he weighed more than she did and almost sent them both toppling to the floor.
The moment they regained their balance, he buried his face deep into her hair, inhaling deeply of that powerful drug that had already made him addicted after his first hit. The Minister of Justice was so high that he let Esmeralda elbow her way out of his grasp without attempting to grab her again.
It was then that Claude realized that he would either have to turn Es, or destroy her. He couldn't let her go, not when she had this level of power over him. And although he was delighted to get to know every last inch of her intoxicating person, he never became less fascinated with her voluminous cascading waves of ebony hair.
Unsurprisingly, Claude happily took the opportunity to bury his face in her hair as soon as he realized that they could communicate through her dreaming. She was only too happy to snuggle up in his lap, relishing his comforting warmth.
He held her, and held her, and held her, until he felt himself fade back into a spirit as she awoke. She had immediately headed to Notre Dame in search of the name plaque. He, on the other hand, found himself being pulled through the city to yet another location.
After phasing right through five walls, seven pedestrians, and a dog, he found himself roaming his guards' stables. The horses were absent—taken, no doubt—leaving behind a disgusting mess of manure and moldy straw. Claude was very grateful to not have a functioning nose. His minions were such slobs, which was why he had hired Phoebus to whip everybody into shape.
Which had not worked so well, but that was beside the point.
Claude was pulled through another locked door, where he was brought face-to-face with his own gigantic horse. The animal was unsettled, stomping its hooves on the floor, whinnying like a lost foal. Its food and water troughs were empty.
Claude knew why. Since he had procured Snowball, the Minister of Justice had kept his horse in a separate, secure stall and only he had the key. Nobody was allowed inside without the minister's supervision. Too many people would happily slice the horse's tendons out of pure spite for the mister. They knew how much he cared for the horse.
But now that the minister was dead, the horse hadn't seen him—or any human being, for that matter—for over 24 hours. No wonder Snowball was anxious. Snowball was remembering his master and wondering where the Minister had gone.
Which is why I'm here in this stable. My horse is remembering me. Claude brooded as he floated aimlessly through the empty space. How much time had passed since Snowball had last eaten? It appeared that the city had chosen to leave the horse locked up to starve.
"No," Claude growled. "No no no no NO!" He felt like a little boy throwing a tantrum, pounding nonexistent fists against the ground. "It's not fair!"
And right at that moment, a pitchfork flew through the air and embedded itself into the wall directly behind where Claude was hovering. "You think your situation isn't fair?" an angry voice shrieked. "I'll tell you what's not fair!"
"Phoebus?" Claude deliberately kept his tone aloof and disinterested, hoping to impress upon Blondie that he was too unimportant for the minister to actually care.
"Being sentenced to roam the earth for twenty years as a ghost! Twenty years! And I can't even get drunk to make things go faster! And it's ALL YOUR FAULT!"
"How on earth is it my fault that ghosts can't consume alcohol?" Claude asked pointedly.
"Because you stabbed me! See, I wasn't supposed to die for twenty years. My room in the afterlife wasn't ready, because I wasn't supposed to be dead yet! So now I have to wait as a stupid ghost for 20 years for a room in Heaven to open up!" Phoebus snapped.
"So you have a room that will be ready for you eventually," Claude pondered. "Is it possible that if I cause you to misbehave and lose your room in Paradise that I could get the room instead?"
"Not with that attitude." Both ghosts were spun around to face a young man holding a scroll and quill pen.
"Hello, Angel Clark," Phoebus greeted the man. "I assure you, I have behaved myself very well. Well, at least I behaved better than this guy did."
"Your name is Clark?" Claude asked.
"That's 'Angel Clark' to you," Clark responded, scratching his quill pen against the scroll.
"My apologies, Angel Clark," Claude replied. "Also, I really should not have insinuated that I wanted to steal Phoebus' room in Paradise. I really need to stop thinking like a politician."
Phoebus snorted, to which Claude responded, "You really aren't important enough to interest me."
Scritch, scratch, scribble. Clark took notes on their behavior.
"He's going to give us a debriefing," Phoebus explained. "He'll us now we have been doing. I'm interested to see your progress report."
