A/N: Oh my gosh, you guys. I'm so, so sorry. I meant to post this a week ago, when I got back from New Orleans. Dang it all. I wrote it on the bus going down there.
An idea for this chapter came from a critique done by Shellbell-san. Thanks so much! I love getting constructive criticism because I get so many good ideas from it, more often than not.
Brishan stared out the window of the train blankly, his thoughts having no rhyme or reason. They formed little, disconnected fragments of nothing, tumbling around for a second or two and disappearing.
Slowly his gaze cycled around the compartment, resting here and there in an unfocused sort of way until they came to rest on the drawn, wan face of Meg Giry. She was huddled up against the side of the compartment as far away from either man as she could get. Her hand clutched tightly over the bandage covering the word inscribed into her arm. Dried tear tracks coated her cheeks and a few leftover tears sparkled in her eyes yet. Her vacant stare was that of a broken person numbed by pain and any multitude of other things. His breath caught slightly in his throat.
Good God, what had he done? She was probably no older than his youngest sister and looked a bit like her too. He'd broken her, snapped her innocence brutally in two when he'd tortured her like that. Even though it was no fault of hers, the word written in scarlet letters on her arm would be plaguing her with grief. A strong surge of regret flooded his body like he had stepped beneath a fast flowing waterfall.
He was no stranger to girls having their lives turned inside out and shattered. The younger sister he'd thought about before had looked at Brishan like the very sun and moon had risen and set within him. She was a sweet, quiet little girl, so different from the other rambunctious children in their family. Being so much older than her, he had had a chance to get his head on mostly straight by the time she was born. Maybe that was why she was drawn to him so. He'd adored her and spent nearly every moment trying to make her laugh, a pretty, bell-like tinkle that made him smile just to hear it.
She had been so good and innocent, but like any other thing, that came to an end. Gypsy boys were known for many things, subtlety not being one of them, but a fondness for girls and alcohol were two things they could be notorious for. One night there had been a party and the beer flowed freely the whole night. As a result, many people were either ripping drunk and staggering about or passed out over the nearest available surface. His sister had managed to avoid the worst of the party by hiding in a friend's tent, but the parents made it clear she was not welcome to stay the night. So, she began the walk home.
On her way there, she ran into Brishan and two of his friends. Brishan was in a foggy haze of booze that hardly permitted him to stand up straight, but the other two were in the raucous throes of intoxication that made one feel as though one owned the world and everything must bend to one's will. And woebegone were those who did not.
"Out by yourself so late at night?" they'd slurred at her, leering in a twisted way. "You really shouldn't do that, someone could take advantage of that pretty little body." Their hands reached for her, grabbing at her chest and skirt, pulling her far too close, close enough to smell the foul beer on their breath.
"Brishan!" she'd cried over and over. "Brishan, help me, please! Don't let them do this!" But the young gypsy boy could not think sufficiently well enough to intercede. He watched in a dazed stupor as the other boys pulled his screaming sister away, unable to lift even one inebriated finger to stop them from tugging her innocence out of her weak hands forcefully and without so much as a by-your-leave.
The next morning, fighting through a terrible hangover, Brishan ran through the camp yelling for his sister. Terror flashed through his mind as he searched wildly for her. At the edge of the camp he found her wandering aimlessly, her eyes glassy and her dress ripped in telling places. With a cry of distress, he'd taken her into his arms and held her tightly, whispering a thousand apologies in her ear. She remained despondent, hanging limply in his embrace.
No matter how many times he tried to gently cajole what had happened out of her, she would not speak of it, her now weak and fragile sounding voice quickly changing the subject to something completely unrelated. Unfortunately, word traveled faster than the blink of an eye and soon he was hearing a clearly edited version of what had taken place that night. Apparently, the general consensus stated that his beautiful, naive sister had presented herself to the two young men and asked for the... attention she received. Brishan may not have had all that much education, but he had certainly not been born mere hours before. He knew when a woman's clothes were so vandalized and she refused to speak of what had happened, a man—or in that terrible case, two men—had taken advantage of her.
She grew sad and distant, hardly speaking to anyone. And then, perhaps a month after the incident, Brishan woke one morning to find her gone, vanished without a trace. She had up and run away to escape the shameful, false reputation the community had garnered for her.
Well, almost without a trace.
While frantically searching her room for some indication as to where she had gone, he found a small envelope addressed to him in her handwriting. Instead of giving him an idea of where she was, the note simply said, Forget me, please. I love you, my brother.
He never had forgotten, and never would.
He looked up, squared his shoulders, and stared Gaston Rosseau straight in the eye. "I'm done helping you," he announced boldly.
"What?"
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Madame Giry tapped her fingers up and down the armrest of her seat on the train nervously, her lips still in that tight white line of when she'd first read the note from Gaston. Nadir kept his concern hidden a little better, but in his mind he was pacing a hole in the floor. It seemed he couldn't make up his mind about who to worry about first. Juliet, Meg, Erik... Well, why not all of them at once? He was good at multitasking.
"We'll get her back, don't worry," he murmured to her, his fingers twisting around themselves, betraying his fear.
She nodded once, looking out the window as though she might spy the other train, miles and miles in front of them, carrying her daughter and a madman closer to Normandy with every minute. "I trust you, Monsieur Khan. Who I do not trust is Gaston, and it is he who holds my daughter s life in his hands."
"Gaston is crazy, no mistaking that," he said. "But, unfortunately, he is smart. Very smart. He knows the power of using a cared about person for ransom."
"He's using that knowledge to his fullest advantage," the ballet mistress acknowledged grimly. "He already employed it once before, beneath the Opera House. He failed that time and he will not be eager to do so again." He paused, remembering too late how tactless that might've sounded. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I did not mean—"
She cut him off with a flick of her wrist. "You were only stating the facts. It means we need to work that much harder. You have sent word to Erik and Juliet, I presume?"
"Of course," Nadir nodded, glad Antoinette was fairly good at keeping her head in a crisis. "They're both capable people, I'm sure they can handle themselves in this. And Erik won't let Gaston anywhere near Juliet." There was a mutually understood implied, He'll kill him first.
"I know, and for that I'm grateful," she replied. "I just hope he won't do anything especially stupid and get himself fired into harm's way." There was yet another silent, implied thought. In other words, I hope he doesn't go and get himself killed.
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It was Erik who received the telegram this time.
"May I help you?" he asked amiably, making no move to hide the mask. Enough people had seen him with Juliet to know he was simply the music teacher with the mask, not a cause for alarm.
The telegram delivery boy nodded, holding out a cream envelope for him to take. "Telegram for you, sir. From Paris, I think."
Erik snagged the edge of his composure and yanked it back by the tips of his fingers to avoid blanching in fright. "Yes, thank you," he murmured, accepting it with a hand he was trying valiantly not to allow to shake. "I will not need to send a response." He dismissed him with a single nod of his head, closing the door and leaning against it with a long sigh. He opened it quickly, like drawing a sliver from skin. The telegram was soon crumpled in his nervous hands.
He knows. Meg is with him. He is coming. -NK
He threw the envelope down with a choice swear word. He held nothing against Meg. Gaston would have surely employed methods of extracting information that would be nearly impossible to resist. Every moment from then on would be uncertain, tense, and filled with worry.
"Damn you, you bloody psychopath," he growled. "Damn the day you set foot in my theatre." He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and pulled his hat on his head, trying not to run and create a scene. Juliet. He had to get to Juliet and warn her, protect her. Gaston would not get her this time. He would sooner die than see that happen.
He reached the house and pounded on the door with a closed fist. To his dismay, it was André Leroux who answered the door. "What do you want?" he snapped in dry irritation. "We were having lunch, you are interrupting."
"If you'll pardon my bluntness, Monsieur Leroux," Erik said, his fingers twitching slightly in an attempt to remain calm, "I believe what I have to say is slightly more important than your midday meal."
The older man opened his mouth in outrage, but a sound in the entryway distracted him. Juliet appeared over his shoulder, a small frown creasing her otherwise unlined forehead. "Hello, Erik," she said. "What brings you here? Please, come in." She stressed the last two words, edging around her father to take Erik's hand.
"Bonjour, Juliet," he said, stepping into the entryway, sidestepping André. "This telegram is what brings me here." He handed her the paper, not daring to take her into his arms comfortingly when her face whitened and she swayed where she stood.
"Mon dieu," she whispered. "Why now? Why?"
"What have you said to my daughter?" André demanded in anger, stepping between them and putting a protective arm around his daughter. "You've upset her," he accused.
"If you would take but a moment to listen, Monsieur," Erik said, refusing to allow his low regard for the man to cloud his temper, "you will understand it was not me who upset her."
He lifted his chin, arms akimbo. "Very well. You have a minute."
"I'm sure Juliet has told you of the man, Gaston Rosseau, who has a vendetta against the both of us. This telegram was from a friend of mine informing me that, regrettably, M. Rosseau has discovered our whereabouts and is presumably on his way here." Erik bent his head, trying not to see the terrified look on his love's face.
He went a dark red hue of infuriation. "You've brought danger to her! Is there anything you have done but cause trouble?" he cried, throwing his hands up in the air.
Erik froze, looking anywhere but Juliet's face. "No, no I don't suppose there is," he murmured. Nothing he had ever done in his life had ever ended in anything but disaster.
Juliet looked at him acutely, probably guessing exactly what he was thinking. "Papa, if you will excuse us, Erik and I clearly have much to discuss." When it looked like he was going to protest, she said, "Papa, Erik saved my life once before. I am confident he could do it again if necessary."
With a stiff nod indicating he knew he couldn't stop the two even if he tried, he extended a hand in the direction of the sitting room, gave Erik an icy cold look, and disappeared up the stairs. Juliet took his hand with an apologetic squeeze and led him to sit down.
"Erik," Juliet whispered quietly, her fingers twisted tightly together. "I'm scared." For her to go as far as to admit her fright meant she was so scared she could hardly function properly.
He got up to sit beside her on the sofa, an arm wrapping around her waist gently. "I know, but it'll be okay. I promise you." She leaned into his arm. He felt his heart sink. As much as he wanted to protect her, he wasn't sure he could do an adequate job.
"I hope Meg is okay." Her arm wound around his shoulders. "And you, are you okay? I'm only partially referring to Gaston, you know." She looked up at him, a hint of her normal, see through a person like a pane of glass, personality shining through a little. "You've done at least one good thing in your life."
Erik scoffed, a disbelieving noise at the back of his throat. "And what would that be, mon amour?" She rolled her eyes at him, placing a hand on either side of his face.
"Well, for one thing, I wouldn't be here if not for you," she said. "And you teach music to a lot of children who are a lot happier because of it. I've heard their parents say they've never seen their children so enthused about practicing."
Erik felt a small smile fighting for space on his face. "In all fairness, Juliet, all of those things have happened recently. It's taken me a long time to even think about doing good."
She smirked at him. "I must be a good influence, then," she said, stealing a quick kiss. "But I think you've a lot more good in you than you think, mon ange."
"A very good influence," he affirmed. "I'm sorry to change the subject, but we do need to speak about what should happen now. Because, as you know..." He trailed off, not desiring to bring Gaston up again.
"I know," she sighed. "We'll have to be on alert. I assume Nadir and Madame Giry are on the way?"
He nodded. "It would make sense."
"Gaston and Meg will get here first, but they'll get there soon after and we can have four minds working together," Juliet said.
Erik held her more tightly against his chest. "But Gaston will have been here for nearly a day by then. He may not be mentally balanced, but he is highly intelligent and very resourceful. I fear he may act before then." Even if they had two more people helping them, he wasn't sure they could be entirely safe.
She threaded her fingers through his decisively. "Then we'll be ready."
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"What?" Gaston repeated, staring at Brishan incredulously. He allowed his shoulders to rise and fall carelessly. "What do you mean, you're done helping me?"
"I mean I'm done, Rosseau. You heard me," he said slowly, like he was speaking to a child. "You want revenge, fine. I can see that. I don't care for the Devil's Child any more than you do. But for God's sake, man! Do you see this girl?" He gestured angrily to Meg, who was looking at him with a combination of distrust and surprise. "I don't know what sort of a demon was possessing my brain that allowed me to agree to hurting her like that. Why would you want to do that? Do you see her? I can only hope she will forgive me for the pain I've caused her. If she does not, I cannot say I would blame her."
"If you've forgotten, I hired you for this." Gaston's voice was a low, menacing purr.
"Yes, and I am my own employer," Brishan shot back. "I decide my own terms of work, and I don't believe I like the terms of service in this particular job. So I retract my services. I'll give you the letter bearing my signature so you can get the help you need from my family, but that's as far as I go. And since I was the one to get the information from Miss Giry, I'm taking her with me. I'll return her to her mother. We've done quite enough damage to her." Meg's blue eyes stared up at him, the first glimmer of hope sparkling from within their depths.
"I can afford to let you go, but the young mademoiselle stays with me," the singer's eyes simmered dangerously. Meg, seeing and hearing this, wilted back against the side of the train, fear streaking its way across her face once again. His face dared the gypsy man to challenge him.
"Why? You've got no more use for her," Brishan said adamantly.
Gaston rolled his eyes like he thought he was being exceedingly thick. "I've still got to get the Opera Ghost, haven't I? And I can't do that without a bargain of some sort."
Brishan threw his hands in the air with disgust. "You're obsessed! Why are you letting this man take over your life?"
An ugly snarl distorted Gaston's face. "I'll tell you why. He killed my brother and my closest friend. He also corrupted the mind of a woman I thought I could marry if she loved me."
"You've told me all of this before," he said. "Didn't you tell me you also had the chance at revenge? Perhaps that is fate telling you it is not meant to be."
Gaston looked positively murderous. "Do not tell me what my fate is," he hissed. "I have known it since my brother was found hanging from the rafters of the Opera Populaire. The girl stays with me. Unless of course, you would prefer she was, regrettably, injured still further than she is now. If this does not bother you, try to take her. Go ahead."
Brishan had a brief, intense struggle with himself. It was not worth the injury to her. At least if he left her with Gaston, there was a good chance he would leave her unharmed until an exchange could be made. "... Mademoiselle Giry, I hope you can forgive me for leaving you with this madman. You do not deserve to feel any more pain." He gave her his most apologetic look, not daring to touch her and possibly frighten her. "And you," he snapped, rising to his feet and looking down at the still-unimpressed man, "you are still nothing more than an overindulged schoolboy. If the Devil's Child must kill again, I can only hope you are the next victim." He strode out of the compartment. He would be staying in another part of the train for the duration of the ride.
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One day later, quite late at night and under the cloak of blackness, Gaston, Meg, and Brishan arrived in Normandy. Brishan stalked icily off and vanished into the inky darkness. Gaston clutched Meg's arm tightly. Under threat of further harm, he had managed to get Meg to tell him the address of Juliet's father. At that point though, he wasn't looking to get the onetime prima donna back. Not yet, anyway. He was much more interested in finding out where the Opera Ghost was residing.
"Hurry up," he barked, yanking on the girl's arm sharply. She let out a quiet cry of pain.
Once at the house, he situated Meg with her hood over her face with stern instructions not to say a word. He was banking on M. Leroux answering the door. Juliet would, hopefully, be in bed or out for the night. Thankfully, it was the older man who answered.
"May I help you?" he inquired, pressing a fist into the small of his back.
Gaston adopted a well-meaning, innocent countenance. "Yes, I was wondering if this was the residence of mademoiselle Juliet Leroux?"
He nodded. "It is. I am her father. She is out tonight, however."
The singer arranged his features in an expression of disappointment. "Oh dear," he said. "There is a question I'd have liked to ask her. I suppose I'll have to come back in the morning."
Monsieur Leroux hesitated. "If you'd like, I can take a message and tell her when she returns."
Gaston smiled easily. "Oh, would you? Merci, Monsieur. Could you ask her if she knows where Erik lives?" He forced the name he remembered Juliet calling the monster by out of his mouth. "He's a mutual friend." He could hear the truth stretching so far it was splintering.
The man suddenly looked as though he had bitten into a lemon. "Ah yes... I could tell you now, if you've got a moment."
Gaston fought down a grin of satisfaction. This was working better than he could have hoped. "Could you? Thank you ever so much."
Monsieur Leroux imparted the address to him and the two left, Gaston dragging Meg behind her as though she were a rag doll. "Come on, move," he growled. "We aren't done tonight."
He looked at the coordinates on the letter, walking quickly in the dim lights with one hand still on the girl's arm. The gypsies were about a mile away from the outskirts of Normandy. He hailed a cab quickly and ordered it to go about a half mile away from the camp.
The cab driver looked at him as though he'd gone quite mad. "You're sure, Monsieur? Hardly anyone goes there in daylight, let alone at night."
"Of course I'm sure," Gaston said imperiously, in a tone which discouraged further discussion on the matter.
When they were dropped off, they made fast tracks to the camp until they reached the edge of it. Gaston stationed Meg on the farthest outreach of the borders with the orders not to move an inch from that spot. However, he only got a few steps from where she was before a group of opulently, yet raggedly dressed people appeared out of seemingly nowhere and had him held in a tight grip, a knife pressed beneath his chin, exactly above his jugular vein.
"Well well, what have we here?" An older woman cackled. "Who's this rich boy? Does he think he can just waltz in our camp when he chooses?"
"Of course he does," a man with long, greasy brown hair sneered. "He thinks we'll just hand him our money on a silver platter, just like his whole life was."
"No, no," Gaston hastily attempted to placate the angry people. "My good people, I am not trying to rob you, and I give you my word on that."
An older man gave a humorless laugh. "He talks even more richly than his clothes suggest. Educated by the finest tutors were you, my fine young sir?" The last three words were laced with sarcasm thick enough to be heard a thousand miles away.
He fished rapidly in his pockets, looking for the letter Brishan had given him. "I bring a letter from a man I'm sure you're all familiar with. His name is Brishan."
Gasps echoed around the group and Gaston felt the blade make a small nick on the skin of his neck. The letter was snatched out of his hand and he flinched, feeling his pulse kick up a few notches. "How did you come across my son?" The older woman from before hissed. "He is supposed to be in hiding right now."
"I met him in Paris, he offered to help me with something, but he was forced to leave and move locations," he panted, sweat beading on his forehead.
The woman ripped the envelope open and scanned the letter rapidly. Gaston watched her eyes whiz back and forth across the paper. Soon, she looked up. "This is my son's handwriting. He says you know how to find the Devil's Child?" Her voice lowered to a hushed whisper.
"Yes, and I can help you get the revenge you seek," he affirmed, feeling like the conversation had at last turned in a favorable direction. "You see, I have a few scores of my own to settle with him."
"He killed my brother as a young child, and heaven only knows how many more lives he's taken since then," she spat venomously.
"He murdered my brother and one of my dearest friends," he said, feeling the knife lower from his throat. The death grips on his arms loosened.
"He's crazy, an absolute terror," the old man growled.
"Which is why I would like to get revenge on him," Gaston was eager to get to the real meat of the plan. "And I know you do as well. But, as you know, he is very cunning and resourceful. I don't believe I can do it by myself. I know where he is, I can take you to him and then you may pay him back in kind as you will."
"When we finish with him, he will be begging for death," Brishan's mother snarled. "And I will be more than happy to grant it to him."
A/N: Review? :)
Also, my sister (wholocked12) and I are working on a Sherlock collaboration. (Is this considered self-promotion? … Yeah. Oops.) It's called "The Other Side of Love." Check it out? :)