The last two days had found Erik buried deep inside the case. Between the incident in Giry's office and Nadir's attempts to permanently relocate somewhere unmentionable upon Erik's person, he found himself sufficiently motivated.
Using Giry's records, Erik was able to pinpoint a number of money trails that followed a pattern and made certain parties look very suspicious. He had started to suspect some days ago that some school administrators might be taking bribes in exchange for inside knowledge. Such knowledge might include floor plans, security plans, or anything that someone might want to know if they were interested in attacking the school when the right amount of people were present.
Such as at the opening night of the opera that Christine was about to audition for.
He ground his teeth. The fact that this threat could affect Christine did not sit well with him. He knew that between himself and Nadir they would neutralize the threat, but even the smallest possibility of Christine being in danger was unacceptable.
The thought stopped him short. Why did he care?
He wasn't quite sure what was happening to him. He couldn't help but care. And what was more was that he couldn't stay away.
He knew she was desperate for his teaching. That much was evident by her vigil outside the practice room for the past two nights. What was less comprehensible was why he was chasing her back.
Despite what Christine thought, he had seen and heard her those two nights. He knew she was waiting for him to return, but after what had transpired, it was no longer possible for him to do so. Now that he had been found out, he couldn't allow the ruse to continue.
Alas, Christine - the charming, tenacious creature that she was - didn't seem to want to let sleeping dogs lie.
Lessons or no, staying away from him was in her own interest. She didn't need to know any more about her mysterious tutor.
He'd keep an eye on her, however. Out of professional interest. The least he could do was see this thing through and make sure that all of their hard work paid off.
It was with this rationalization that Erik decided to attend the auditions.
The auditions were being held at the main stage at Cartier, a building called Diamond Hall. Aptly named, it was a suitably impressive theater. The building had both orchestra and mezzanine seating, as well as two boxes on each side of the stage for wealthier patrons. Erik had already looked up the names of those who regularly rented them. Fittingly, they were usually taken by the very people they were named after.
The hall was brightly lit. Sconces of white light were perched intermittently throughout the theater. Long, even glass windows along the second floor walls invited the world into the theater, but blocked them out if necessity deemed it so. The theater was decorated in royal blues and golds, with a sky blue dome at the centermost part of the ceiling. The navy blue curtains with gold tassels had been swept aside to accommodate the auditions, and the orchestra pit's metallic grate sealed shut.
But Erik's favorite feature of the entire auditorium by far were the catwalks that allowed him to watch the proceedings from above without anyone being the wiser.
He had done enough reconnaissance at Cartier to know the campus inside, out. While Diamond Hall was one of the least busy parts of campus, it would not remain so for long. In the coming months, a generous portion of the student body would be housed in this very building for hours at a time, and so Erik had taken it upon himself to learn it well.
He had arrived an hour early hoping to avoid the arrival of the production team. Thus far, he had done an excellent job of remaining unseen at Cartier with the exception of a few ballet rats here and there.
And, of course, Christine.
Before long, people appeared and settled in their seats. The panel totaled five individuals, three men and two women, all graying. Erik recognized them all on sight. Four out of five were vocal professors of the college, and the fifth was the dean of the music department. He had done his research into each of them, and while none of them were on his immediate list of conspirators, he felt inclined to keep an eye on them.
He watched with lazy disinterest at the auditioners came in one by one. The baritones and basses were in good supply, thankfully, but the school seemed to have limited options on tenors. After the men, the panel took a small break to discuss and stretch. Erik looked on balefully, wishing he could give them his recommendations so that they could move on and cease wasting his time.
The women were up next. Unlike the men, they entered the theater in small groups, outnumbering the men almost five to one. Such was the way of the world of theater. He hoped Christine was not cowed by it.
When he spotted her he straightened, his pulse picking up. He was able to note with approval, and appreciation, the care she had taken to prepare. Her naturally unruly blonde curls were smoothed back into a simple low ponytail that bunched at her neck and spiraled between her shoulder blades. She wore a sky blue sleeveless blouse tucked into straight leg black slacks that hit just above her ankle, ending in simple black flats. She looked clean and polished, and impeccably professional. Erik's chest swelled.
His eyes darted away to assess the other girls, and when he landed on one in particular, he scowled.
The harpy was there as well.
No matter, he thought. So long as she did not bother his Christine.
He paused. His Christine? Since when had he begun to label her as 'his'? She did not belong to him. For all he knew, she could belong to another.
The thought filled him with far more irritation than was he comfortable with.
The music director gestured to the accompanist to retake their position at the piano, and the panel called out the first girl's name. She was a sturdy thing, with short black hair and masculine features. A dramatic soprano. Erik thought she would suit well enough, especially for someone of her age. The panel seemed to agree, judging by their furtive whispering and subtle nods.
Another two sang. Competitors of Christine's, they fortunately did not match her talent. As he knew that these were likely older students, he felt a brief moment of pity, and then like the panel, moved on.
Cara Bergamasco took to the stage next, looking for all the world as if she owned it. He watched as she threw a simpering, arrogant look towards Christine, and Erik felt his blood boil. It took all his self control not to drop a sandbag on her…
She did not do abysmally, and that furthered Erik's rancor. She did, however, add far too many frills for his liking, and dwelled too long on notes she would otherwise not, if only to impress the teachers. He thought she did it to hide the one or two notes she had botched.
It was finally Christine's turn. She meekly walked up and onto the stage, handed her sheet music to the accompanist, and introduced herself. Her confidence appeared low, but that was hardly unusual for the poor thing. If Erik had had more time with her, he would have snuffed that trait out of her completely. He clenched his fist. He did not want these idiots thinking she was terrible right off the bat.
She then did something strange. Before looking at the accompanist, she took a look around the auditorium, her eyes searching.
Was she...looking for him?
The thought was mad, and he immediately dismissed it. There was no way. And yet, a small spark of hope ran through him, thrilling every nerve ending. Perhaps not all was lost…
At last, she nodded to the accompanist and began. Despite appearances being to the contrary, her voice came out smooth and precise. The notes flew and fell with grandeur, soaring above the audience and seeming to pierce straight through Erik's heart. He watched her, enraptured, elated to be seeing her perform without the barrier of a wall separating them.
She started off strong, continued strongly, and ended crisply and beautifully. The smattering of applause she received did not do her justice, but he reminded himself that the panel had to remain impartial. He was satisfied to see, however, that they were all marking things in their notebooks, their pens scratching away furiously. It was an added bonus to see Cara tapping her foot nervously against the back of the seat in front of her, her expression a mask of fury.
Christine thanked the panel quietly, and descended from the stage, returning to her seat in the audience to watch the rest of the girls sing.
The auditions ended soon thereafter. From his position, he could see a tiny smile gracing the corner of Christine's mouth, and a gentle blush staining across the bridge of her nose. He looked on, infatuated, wishing with all his might that he could take her hand in his and see that smile directed towards him.
"Thank you all for coming out this morning. We will be in contact soon about casting decisions. We do not anticipate having callbacks at this time, but that may change at a later date. Please check your emails periodically, as we will be informing people primarily through that channel. Thank you again, and enjoy the rest of your weekend."
The auditioners began to filter out. To Erik's surprise, Christine did not move a muscle. She was staring at the stage, seemingly lost in thought. How he longed to approach her, to ask her what thoughts plagued her mind, but he knew he could not. No, Christine would remain out of reach, far too good and pure to be sullied by his influence. He was too undeserving of such goodness, he could not possibly entertain the notion of approaching her again…
After twenty minutes of gazing longingly at her and deliberating, he finally made his decision. It was time to move on for the both of them.
Well, Nadir thought, I should have known I'd find Erik here.
The government agent looked up at the building, contemplating its fine facade.
It was tucked away from the rest of campus, situated back from the road and surrounded by parking lots to accommodate the guests that would enter its halls. It was cuttingly modern, yet sleek enough to convey beauty. During the day it was subdued, reflecting only natural lighting and concealing the inner workings of the building, but by night, Nadir knew, the building shone bright white. The front of the building was an amalgam of glass boxes, designed, it seemed, with the New York Met in mind. The boxes were stacked upon one another in a symmetrical fashion, building upon each other with every story. The building curved in on both sides, inviting attendees in with genteel modesty, while the diamond-shaped overhanging protected all who entered. A fountain was placed in the center of the courtyard, the tri-layer confection spitting water onto the black spackled pavement.
It was, in a word, remarkable.
It was fitting, of course, that Erik would be here. He had always been drawn to beautiful things. And this theater was certainly the crowning jewel of Cartier.
Never one for mincing words, Giry had been straightforward in her text that morning. She had all but demanded Nadir make his way to Diamond Hall if he wanted to intercept Erik.
If he had ever been under the impression that Giry was taking orders from him, it certainly seemed that the record had been set straight.
To Nadir's surprise, however, he needn't have worried about finding Erik, as Erik seemed intent to find him first. As soon as he entered the building, the masked man grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him around the corner. It was darkened, the motion-sensored lights failing to kick in, and occupied by cleaning equipment. Nadir could hear his compatriot breathing heavily, his golden eyes trained on the hallway.
Nadir straightened his collar, indignant over the manhandling. He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but shut it quickly when he heard a female voice ring out in the hall.
"Hello? Is someone there?"
A young blonde girl was walking down the hall, her footsteps as hurried as Erik's were. She was looking all about her, frantic and searching.
Nadir opened his mouth again, but Erik slapped a gloved hand over it, hissing dangerously in his ear,
"Shut up, you great booby!"
Nadir glared at Erik resentfully, but obeyed, turning his eyes back to the girl.
Only a small grunt had left Nadir, enough to make the girl pause. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening for more. After another few seconds, she walked out the door.
When Nadir turned back to Erik, he witnessed him staring after the blonde girl with something he had never seen in Erik's eyes before. It was that elusive something in that unnatural gaze that filled Nadir with disquiet.
"Erik….you cannot be serious."
Erik stiffened. "You will not speak of things you do not understand, Daroga," the masked man bit out.
Nadir turned his eyes back to the girl's retreating form. He knew he wasn't imagining things. Erik did a decent job of concealing his true feelings, but Nadir knew him better than anybody else. And the man was undeniably enamored of this girl.
"She's a distraction, Erik," he said quietly.
"Don't you think I know that?" Erik hissed, then cursed, realizing he had as much as admitted that Nadir was correct. The Iranian tried not to smirk. "It is nothing," continued Erik, as if he hadn't admitted his folly aloud. "We're here for business."
"So long as you know that," Nadir stated.
The space between them grew frigid, as did Nadir with the knowledge that he had spoken rather foolishly. "Listen well, my meddling friend," Erik said in cool tones, "That will be the last time you presume to lecture me. Are we understood?"
Pursing his lips, Nadir stared back at the shadow man, almost entirely sure that it would not be the last time he lectured him for something. "As you say, dooste-e-man."*
"Good." And before he could blink, the Phantom was gone.
Christine was feeling much better.
The audition was out of the way, and what's more, she had done well. The nerves she had expected to ruin her chances hadn't impeded her the way she thought they might. Instead, they had bolstered her. That adrenaline had transitioned, changing from destructive to empowering.
The feeling had lasted the better part of the day. And so when Meg half-heartedly asked if Christine wanted to go to some party that night, the latter had accepted.
"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" Meg asked, incredulous.
Christine laughed. "What? You said yourself I should celebrate!"
"Yeah," Meg answered, "But every time I ask you to come with me to one of these parties, you always turn me down. What's changed?"
Christine smiled, her mood too good to feel affronted. "I've just been thinking that a change is coming. So why not go with it?"
"Why not indeed," Meg said, narrowing her eyes at her friend. "Okay!" she relented, clapping her hands together. "Then we've got some work to do."
Christine was compliant for Meg's "makeover", but it only went so far. In the end, she was only successful in getting Christine to agree to putting on bronzer, and borrowing Meg's top. Christine was wildly uncomfortable, but under Meg's assurances that she looked great, she couldn't find it in her heart to take it off.
"I don't want to go too far from campus, Meg," Christine warned as she pulled her shoes on.
"We won't," Meg promised. "A friend of a friend is having a party in their dorm. It should be fairly harmless."
Nodding to herself, Christine placed a crooked smile on her made-up face and followed her friend.
Like Meg promised, the party wasn't too much for her to handle. There was plenty of alcohol, and plenty of pressure to drink it, but nothing more than that. She could feel some of the male students give Christine a few lingering looks every once in a while, which she curiously returned in her beer-addled state. Every so often, Meg would jab her in the ribs with her elbow and give her an encouraging look. To her credit, she didn't push any more than that, and neither did she leave Christine's side.
"How do you feel?" Meg shouted over the dull pounding coming from a nearby speaker.
"OK," Christine returned honestly. They had been at the party for nearly two hours. She was on the drunker side of buzzed, but she didn't feel sick. She felt a little like dancing, but had no idea how to go about it.
Meg threw an arm over Christine's shoulders and gave her a dry peck on the cheek. "You're doing great, hun. Are you glad you came?"
Christine beamed at her. "Sure am!" She sloshed a little of her drink on a nearby table, which Meg noted with a critical eye.
"Alright, champ," Meg said, grabbing for the cup and placing it down. "Let's switch to water for now, okay?"
Christine frowned, but nodded, following Meg as she led her to a small fridge.
"Here," Meg said, twisting off the cap of the water bottle and handing it to Christine. Christine took a grateful sip and let her eyes slide closed in bliss.
A blonde young man slid up to them, gesturing to the water bottle in Christine's hand. "Not quitting on the partying just yet, are you?" He grimaced, as if in pain.
Meg let out a short bark of laughter. "Connor. Hey. No, just taking a much needed break for hydration." Meg paused. "Chris, this is Connor. Connor, this is Christine, my roommate."
"Pleasure," he said, holding out his hand to her. To his credit, he seemed to mean it.
Christine gave him a tentative smile and clasped his hand. It was a little clammy, but she tried not to let that color her impression of him. "Same."
Meg looked around. "A solid rager, Connor. Your roommates here too?"
Connor nodded, taking a sip from his own cup. "Sure are. Dex and Brad are around here somewhere. Peter is pissed because someone's misplaced his oboe. Dude forgot that he hid it under his bed before the party even started so people wouldn't touch it. We keep telling him this but he won't believe us."
"Why doesn't he just check under the bed himself?" Christine asked.
Connor smiled toothily. "Too drunk. Everytime he tries to, he says he's going to puke. It's been fun watching him make a fool out of himself."
Despite herself, Christine smiled a little. Connor seemed to note this, and move in a little closer.
"So, what're you going to school for, Christine?"
"Voice," Meg answered for her. Christine sent a blurry glare towards her friend, who only shrugged in apology.
"Sorry, sorry," Meg said, smiling around the rim of her cup.
Christine turned back to Connor. "What she said. What about you?"
"Interpretive dance." At Christine's look, he guffawed. "Ah, don't be like that. All you classics kids are way too prone to judgement."
"No, not judging," Christine said. "Just….my exposure to dance has been pretty limited. If it's not the ballet or musical theater, I'm at a loss."
"Well," Connor said, mulling that over, "Most art is interpretive, wouldn't you say? I mean, most operas these days have some weird interpretation in their production, right? Like that version of The Magic Flute with the pulleys?"
"I saw that on Youtube," Meg added.
Christine laughed. "By that standard, I guess you're right."
They continued the small talk, laughing good-naturedly and making fun of the more inebriated party-goers. After a while, a group started to trickle outside and into the fresh air. The music thinned out from behind the closed door. Christine took a deep, grateful breath that did not include the scent of stale beer or body odor.
"Smoke, Meg?"
Meg nodded enthusiastically. Connor put a cigarette between his lips, lit the end, and inhaled. He passed it to Meg. She took the proffered white stem between her first two fingers daintily. Christine looked on disapprovingly.
Meg looked at her friend, then rolled her eyes. "Lay off, will you? Wasn't I supposed to be the mom-friend tonight?"
Christine crossed her arms, the action steadying her a little, making her feel more like herself. "Meg," she warned.
She felt the eyes of the group on her, and, feeling embarrassed by the attention, tried to let it go.
"I see now why she doesn't come out much," another boy said.
Christine flushed.
Meg cocked her hip, holding the cigarette aloft in one hand and placing the other on her hip. "You don't know anything. Christine's the best. And a total babe, for your information."
Christine choked mid-sip of water.
The boy raked his eyes over her, leaning back a little to get her full measure. His eyes settled eventually on her face, but he spoke to Meg. "Yeah, alright, Giry. You're not wrong."
Christine, slightly offended, had opened her mouth to respond when she heard a shuffling noise from a few feet away.
She paused. "Did you guys hear-"
Christine…
She turned around, eyes widening. She knew that voice…
Christine...come to me…
Blinking, Christine started to follow the voice, the familiarity of it niggling at the back of her mind.
"Christine! Where are you going?" Meg called out.
"I'll be back in a minute," Christine returned, her voice oddly flat.
She rounded the corner of the building next door, and her eyes immediately registered the lack of light. A nearby lamp post was flickering weakly, and like most of the lamp posts around campus, only seemed to give off light when it suited. She didn't immediately notice, then, the figure before her until he was nearly on top of her toes.
"Oh!" Christine exclaimed a little breathlessly, her body flooding with panic. "I-" She stopped short, finally taking in the figure before her. "It's - you!"
"Hello, Christine," said her tutor. "Are you having a pleasant evening?"
Her head was spinning, with no small thanks to the alcohol she had imbibed. "Um, yes?" she answered, her voice coming out as more of a question than a response.
"Were you following me?" she blurted out. She cursed her tongue. Great, Christine, she thought miserably. That sounds like a sane thing to ask someone.
"I was not," he answered primly, his voice giving no indication that he was offended, and yet Christine still worried he was. "I was here on business. Someone I had to speak with who...ah, but that's neither here nor there." He tilted his head at her. "You've been looking for me."
Christine frowned. So he knew she had been waiting for him outside the rehearsal room? And he hadn't bothered to answer her? The nerve!
"As a matter of fact, yes." Her tone was sharper than it had ever been with him. She felt cross, and the alcohol was giving her the confidence she needed to give him a piece of her mind. "Yes, I have been looking for you. And apparently you've been ignoring me!"
"I have been doing no such thing."
"You just admitted that you know I've been looking for you! I'd say that puh-roves you're ig-ignoring me." She swayed a little, one foot crossing over the other.
His gaze dropped to her feet, then returned to her face. She could not tell, but she would swear his eyes had narrowed. "Are you inebriated?" he demanded.
"None of your bus...beeswax!" Oh good, that sounded mature.
He seemed to take note of her childish antics. His eyes moved in a direction over her shoulder. "I assume those people you are associating with have furnished you with spirits, then?"
Who talks like that? she wondered idly. "No, they didn't furnish me with spirits. I furnished myself." She felt proud she had gotten that out.
The light flickered on, and she was able to get a better look at him. He was wearing black again, from head to foot. He wore large black combat boots, black pants, a black button-down that he had tucked into the pants, and a black duster that fell to his ankles. The collar of the duster was turned up around his cheeks, shielding what she could now see was a black mask that covered all but his clips and chin. The duster also had a hood, but he had lowered it.
"You're very tall," she commented vaguely, her focus on taking all of his impressive form in.
He made a grunting sound in the back of his throat. It was difficult to read his mood in her current state. His mask didn't help matters, either.
"Drinking is not wise, Christine. You will sleep badly for it. Not to mention the damage it does to your throat. People tend to shriek while intoxicated. Especially people in your demographic, I've noticed."
She wanted to stipulate that he had never seen her drunk, and therefore how could he know, but she held her tongue. She was certainly sobering up, if her contained behavior was any indication. "If you were still my tutor, you'd have some say over that. But noooo, you left. Without a word. Or a trace. Just...poof."
She thought she saw him smile a little, but she could have been imagining things. "I do not poof." He paused. "You would...want that? For me to resume tutoring you?"
"Yes." She swayed again, but only a little. She saw his hand flex, as if to assist her, but he made no move. "I didn't want you to stop." Her throat closed up, but she told herself she would not become emotional. It would be utterly humiliating, and she wanted this man to think well of her.
He shuffled a little. He was so large, so intimidating, and yet she was not afraid. Strangely enough, he seemed to be afraid of her.
"Is it Madame Giry?" Christine asked suddenly. She hadn't considered it before, but maybe the woman had said something to ward him off. "Did she tell you to leave me alone?"
He looked at her for a moment, as if seeing her for the very first time. "No," he said at last, quietly.
"Then what is it?" she returned, equally as quiet.
"I…" He made to take another step towards her, then cleared his throat. "Nothing. Very well. We will resume our lessons. If that is your wish."
She beamed. She could have hugged him then, but didn't think he would approve of such a measure. "Yes! Thank you!"
He nodded. "Good. Then I will see you at our normal time on Sunday evening." He paused, and inclined his head to her. "And from now on, no drinking." He turned to walk away, and had gotten a few steps in before she raced after him.
"Wait!" She grabbed onto his sleeve, and turned him to face her. She held out her hand. "Phone."
"Pardon?" He sounded flummoxed.
"Let me give you my number. In case you decide to bail on me again."
Slowly, he handed the phone to her. She noted that he was deft, clearing the contents of his screen before handing the phone to her. It was a clinical phone, absent of pictures on the background or any kind of casing.
"Here," she said, handing it back over once she had inserted her full name and her phone number. "Feel free to text me yours, too." She looked at him slyly. "With your name, of course."
He stared at her. She began to feel uncomfortable with his unrelenting attention, and just as she was about to apology for her intrusiveness, he muttered something.
"What?" she said, stupidly.
"Erik," he said hoarsely. "My name...is Erik."
She smiled. "Erik."
He made a little breathless sound in the back of his throat. He stood there for another moment, seeming to deliberate something, but in the end, merely nodded at her and departed. She watched him leave, a feeling similar to watching a sunrise flooding her chest. She walked back to the group and tried not to smile too widely.
* According to the interwebs, dooste-e-man translates to my friend in Persian. If this is incorrect, please let me know!