Amata stood trembling before Count Philippe. Bile rose in her throat as she felt the cold barrel of both guns, one pointed up under her chin and the other rammed against her spine. The count ran his tongue across his lips, as if savoring the taste of her fear-dampened skin. Her eyes flicked to and fro.
Philippe de Chagny was tall and brawny, and his stance was that of one used to fighting. It would be no use trying to fight him, since he had the physical advantage. Her arms twitched as the muscles of her twisted arms spasmed. Whoever it was behind her certainly had a strong grip and very big hands.
It occurred to her that there was only one hand around her wrists. The other hand was on the gun. The count was chuckling to himself about how things had come full circle. He retracted his pistol for a moment- just long enough for Amata to make her move.
Her boot heel made hard, sudden contact with the bodyguard's groin. As he dropped the pistol and released her arms, she caught it in her right. Her left hand went for the knife clipped to her bodice, hidden by her coat. With all her strength, she hauled the thug behind her up in front as a shield, knife at his throat. His gun in her right pointed at the count, who now stood aiming his own firearm.
A mixture of cold fury and hate twisted de Chagny's otherwise attractive features.
The hired muscle had recovered somewhat, but did not dare twitch, feeling the cold steel against his jugular. "Move," Amata hissed, and started backing out of the square.
"You're not in a position to do that," the count said, staring down the short barrel.
"And you're not in a position to shoot your own bodyguard," Amata said. "He probably has a family- people who'd notice if he was gone." The nearest cover was a few yards away in the form of the archways that led indoors. She started moving faster. "You move, and I slit his throat."
She felt the man swallow hard. Hopefully he falls for this. The comte sneered. "You're a detective, not a killer."
Amata felt her heart thumping as if it might jump up and out of her throat. "Do you want to bet this man's life on it?" The columns were nearly within reach. If she could just drop her burden and run, she'd be safe. With the information she had, and the witness of her own eyes, she was still a threat, so de Chagny might very well send his men after her. Still, that was better than dying now, where he had full control of the situation and any number of ways to clean up the scene of the crime. That meant if she was going to be on the run, a few shots fired hardly mattered.
His gun is an FN Model 1910, the very latest- probably .32 ACP. That means seven rounds. I have the same. Was that the man in front of her breathing hard? Was it her? She fought back the fear in her gut. Just a few more feet to go, and she could run for her life. The odds of Philippe wasting bullets as she ducked between columns was slim, and once she left the square they'd be out on the street, which meant witnesses. He wouldn't fire then.
At least, she hoped he wouldn't.
She knew he also had a handle on the situation. "My offer still stands, Mlle. Moreau. There's plenty of that bounty for both of us. How does two million francs sound? Or three? That's not even fifty percent, and fifty percent is what I offer you." Even now, he played up his smooth charm, masking the ugly rage and desperation from just moments prior.
Amata gripped the knife firmly and steeled her nerves. The bodyguard whimpered. "I told you I don't charge extra," she called back. Sorry about this, she mentally apologized to her human shield. Then she slammed the hilt of her knife hard into his temple, ensuring he'd be out cold for the next few minutes. He dropped to the ground, and she sprinted towards the street.
The inspector did not have the opportunity to think while she ran, but she knew the count's men would be combing the city for her by morning at the latest. When at last the sound of Philippe's heavy feet on her tail vanished, she ducked into a narrow byway and sunk to the damp ground, fighting for breath. What happened just now was nothing short of miraculous, she decided. I am alive and whole, not a single shot fired.
She was wholeheartedly thankful for the latest fashion: women's pants were the current trend, ungainly and flowing though they were.
Once her heart stopped feeling like it might jump out of her mouth, she pocketed her newly acquired pistol and considered what she'd heard and seen. M. le Comte de Chagny planned on running for office. He was already well-liked. Doubtless he'd win any election, considering his connections to native and foreign governments. However, he needed money to sway public opinion and gain favor with other officials.
Det. Moreau knew as clear as anything that a man like him should never be in power.
I know what he is. I can stop him.
…
"You can take off the scarf if you wish," Biyu said, while cleaning up their early dinner and its leftovers. "It hardly matters what you look like." Christine hesitated, fingering the edges of the fabric over her face. "We are living together. I will encounter your uncovered face at some point, if not now. I would rather the experience not be traumatic for you." The little woman had her hands on her hips and her lips pursed.
"Do you have a mirror?"
"In the washroom, yes."
"I'd like a look at myself first, if that's all right." Christine said quietly. At this, Biyu's expression turned from frustration to confusion.
"You have not seen yourself since…?"
Slowly, she shook her head. "Erik has no mirrors."
"Ah. I see." Evidently Nadir had told her about Erik and his own peculiarities. "Take your time, then." She gestured towards the washroom door. "My home is your home." As the younger woman stood and headed towards said door, she added: "Spare toiletries are in the basket by the tub."
"Thank you." So, the former singer opened the door, entered, and closed it behind her. Once inside, she took a deep, shaky breath and leaned forward on the cold porcelain of the sink. Her hands, matted with half-raw scars were familiar by now, as were the webs of angry red mottling all around her torso and legs. In fact, after daily applications of medicinal ointment and lotions, Christine thought of her body as more of a chore than a vessel for her soul.
In the mirror, her covered head lifted, and she sighed out slowly, as if beginning a breathing exercise. The black scarf slipped a bit, revealing the top of her bare head. If I take this off… If I remove this cloth, I will not recognize myself, she realized. But I must live with the change. Erik removed his mask, and now I must remove my own.
With a steadier inhalation and Erik's loving eyes in her mind, Christine unwound the fabric around her head. Mingled relief and nausea washed through her as she surveyed her face for the first time since the fire. The same livid marks that encircled her body extended up from her chest and neck to her jaw and across her cheek, pulling one side of her mouth into a blur between oral and scar tissue. The other side of her face boasted an array of pockmarks and bumps that rose like darkened blisters. Her nose had not completely escaped contracture as she healed, leaving the flesh withdrawn from the dainty tip it once had and exposing more nasal cavity than was normal. Above eyebrows half regrown, her forehead sported ropy, textured lines that extended and merged into a scalp that would never grow hair again, stitched together by malformed flesh.
It was as she predicted to herself, and yet so much worse. If I were still pretty, I could walk the street and everyone would recognize me as Christine Daaé. Now, if I ventured outside… Her only greetings would be disgust and pity. No one knows who I am- not even me. The longer she stared at the reflection, the more alien it seemed. The only piece of her self she recognized was her eyes, blue and blinking in the dim light.
Her fingers reached up to trace her new features and felt the damp of tears. She hadn't noticed when she started crying.
With a jerk, she drew back and turned away. What am I doing? Weeping is useless. Goodness knows it hasn't helped in the past. And with that resolution set in her mind, she turned away from the mirror, washed quickly, and spent the rest of the evening strangely glad that even love could not stop time. Every moment passed, no matter how painful, is a moment closer to Erik.
It was a small comfort that Biyu, true to her word, said nothing and reacted very little to her uncovered face.
…
Nadir returned from his brief venture underground tired and scented of cat piss. I will never understand why Erik decided to keep a cat, even a young one like her. Perhaps it was the eyes. Not only did Ahmar clearly dislike him, she'd decided to urinate outside her assigned box, since it had been dirty for too long. That would have been easy enough to avoid stepping in, but her new choice of toilet was the bathroom sink. Nadir had gone to wash his hands after he changed out the soiled sand in the box, only to splash himself with the offensive-smelling liquid as he turned the faucet.
It was definitely the eyes. Why else would he adopt such a troublesome animal? He probably couldn't resist the idea of having a feline with irises to match his own. Ahmar had not shown herself when he set out her food, so after a five-minute wait he returned to his own home, wanting nothing more than a hot bath and a fresh change of clothes.
Entirely too conscious of the odor lingering about him, he purchased a baguette sandwich at the nearest café and walked home. He would not humiliate himself by entering a cab and allowing the smell to accumulate. It was not until he had been walking for an hour that he realized just how far his home was from Erik's.
He walked another hour before finally trudging up three flights of stairs and arriving at his door- his open door. The light inside was on. What the devil? He knelt silently to inspect the lock, which bore a few new scratches and was slightly askew from rough jostling. As far as he knew, the landlord had his own set of keys and no need to pick any lock in the building. Yes, he was slightly behind on his monthly payments, but M. Leroy was more likely to send him a note than force his way in. I hate home invasions.
With an audible sigh, he pulled his personal handgun from the holster under his coat and called through the door: "Show yourself- better to come quietly than with a bullet wound." He nudged the door open with a toe. Then he narrowed his eyes at the woman standing in front of him with her hands up. One of her hands held a gun, the latest model Browning action. It was the private detective who'd come in asking about Erik's incident with the Russian.
His first thought was that she'd traced his connection to Erik somehow. Perhaps she thought his obstruction was highly suspicious. "Put the gun on the ground, slowly."
She did so. "I had no intention of firing, you know." As a gesture of trust, she kicked the firearm towards him. It skidded to a stop at his feet. "I am running from Count de Chagny."
"And why should I believe you?" Nadir kept his aim trained on her as he picked up the weapon. "He might be paying you generously to set a trap." The woman scoffed.
"Now he pays nothing. De Chagny wants the phantom's bounty money to start his political career. I am here to warn him." The ex-policeman said nothing and held his pistol steady. "What, you want proof?" Slowly, to ensure he saw, she pushed her coat sleeves up her forearms and undid the buttons of her cuffs. Around her wrists, dark and irritated, were bruises from a violent grip. "I gained these (and the gun) escaping from his hired muscle."
Still, Khan was skeptical. "Why would you want to warn someone you know was a criminal?" Not everyone appreciates Erik's potential for good like I do. She might just be angling for information on his location.
"Because I do not want a corrupt man in power. I have an inkling that Europe will descend into chaos sooner rather than later if the count gets his campaign. I realize, of course, that the phantom's antics may have killed a few people in the past year, but better a few than thousands in the grip of war."
…I need a drink. At last, the daroga lowered his guard and put his gun back into its holster. "That is a very convincing argument. Besides, I happen to know that the phantom is retired." He strode over to his understocked kitchenette and opened a heavy bottle of armagnac. "Det. Moreau is your name, if I'm not mistaken?" He poured a small amount of the dark liquid into a glass and knocked it back with a hiss.
"Yes, and if L'Epoque is correct, your name is M. Khan, former daroga of Mazenderan." Det. Moreau eyed the brandy. "I could use a bit of that. May I?"
"By all means," the Persian said, and handed her the whole bottle. She took a generous swig and set it back on the countertop with a muted thunk. "I'm sorry to say that if you wished to warn the phantom through me, I do not know where he is and therefore cannot carry the message." The detective frowned at him, grabbed the bottle, and took another swig.
"You mean to say there is no way to contact him?" This time she did not put the bottle back down. Nadir shook his head and leaned back against the counter.
"Even if I did know where he was, I could not tell you- for safety reasons, you understand." She did; if the count got his talons into her and tortured the information out of her (no, she did not put torture past that evil man), all was for naught. "I have a vague idea of where he might be, however."
"And where is that?" Clearly the woman was exhausted. Nadir thought it might be polite to just put off the search until morning, but Erik's safety and possibly the fate of the world took priority over sleep.
"He mentioned something about a train."
…
Erik was not on a train. That was the genius of it all. Using the ill-gotten valuables retrieved from beneath the opera, he had bought a car under the name of M. Lefevre, who had set out for Germany earlier in the year. The retired opera manager had paid him well over the years. He might as well extract one more benefit from the name.
That car now sat in a rotting warehouse, waiting for its owner. He lay on a pallet in the same warehouse, staring at the dusty rafters above. The familiar pang of loneliness was only lessened by one thought: Christine was safe. Still, he missed her.
He missed her bright smiles and unfettered laughter. He missed her bold remarks and gentle chiding and the music they made together. They'd been working, rather flirtatiously, on a duet from Mozart's Don Giovanni. Since her 'lessons' no longer pertained to actual performance, he simply delighted in teaching and learning the music for the sake of it.
Là ci darem la mano… 'I'll give you my hand.' Despite his playing the role of the Don, it was Christine who had given her hand, offered it freely and without hesitation. She had offered the same hand he'd placed a gold band on months prior. Now that hand was scarred. With love so intense it ached, he recalled how fascinated she'd been by her missing nail. The fire that brought them together burned away the nail of her ring finger. It was suiting, really.
If it was the last thing he did, Erik swore to himself that he'd slip a ring onto that ruined finger. Then she will give her hand, and for whatever time we have left, we will be together in the light. I might even put on a bit more weight. People in love tend to do that.
As if to reiterate his mind, his stomach grumbled. Caring for Christine forced him to eat regularly. Now he was left with all the hunger and none of the motivation. As a safety measure, he'd packed away weeks' worth of dry rations and canned food. None of it compared to a home-cooked meal.
Caring for Christine forced him to do many things. Even from the beginning, when she still believed in angels, she forced him to care- to hope, to love, to weep, and then to let her go. When she again found herself under his protection, she forced him to acknowledge that he did still hope, and love, and weep. She forced him to reveal himself and his whole soul as she did in return.
That same force she wielded now pushed the bellows of his lungs in breath and stimulated the beat of his heart. I shall indeed give her my hand, my heart, my all- only let me live through this last trial, and we will be together forever.