A/N: Wow, I'm sorry this is so late! I'm currently sitting in my hostel room in school, typing this at 12AM hahaha. It's tough to get used to a new environment, and I don't feel sleepy most of the time. This week is another pre-written chapter, which is why I'm still able to post on time... I'm sure all of us have been waiting for this chapter though, so I hope it does not disappoint!
Masked Man 2: Ah, the reason for Erik's sudden carelessness... all will be revealed soon enough (; Thank you, I hope school goes well for me this year!
Mikazuki Okami: I love fluff too! Hmm I've never generally really tried to expand my vocab before, but I did read a lot when I was younger (no time to read now, sadly) so I believe reading extensively will definitely increase your word bank. And thank you for offering, it's really sweet of you, but I have so many pre-written chapters that I don't have any space to fit an Erik POV in any where (and no time besides to make large adjustments to what's already written)... but perhaps sometime in the near future I will! Good luck with school!
Nikki1991: I hope you had a good holiday! I wish I could go away for one!
Aria: Oooo smart. Erik's definitely getting used to human company! And thank you for the good luck regarding school! I'll try my best to write whenever I can.
Lydia the tygeropean: Nope he did not die yet!
E-man-dy-S: Thank you! (:
TraceyLynnFrame: Aww, thank you! I'm glad you enjoy the story so far. Gosh, a convention. I can never ever make it for such things because I actually live in Asia and it would be near impossible for me to fly half the world around to attend a convention ):
Thank you mxggie and MidnightQueen21333 for the favs/follows!
Chapter 42: Buquet's Death
Paris, 1897
The ballet de corps twirled and spun on the stage, their green beribboned skirts billowing out in full circles around their graceful legs, the swirling green cloth in myriad shades bringing to mind fresh spring grass in a large meadow. They carried large floral wreaths and garlands, with pink roses and other wildflowers woven intricately through the frame. Truly, the wardrobe department had outdone themselves with the costumes; the ballet de corps was a sight to behold.
But Erik's eyes were only on one particular ballerina. Her coppery hair had been drawn into a bun at the top of her head, held in place by a small wreath of rosebuds, with a few tendrils of bronze curls framing her face. Her face was alight with happiness as she danced en pointe, her legs graceful and lithe. A small smile spread across Erik's face as he leaned forward on one of the rope railings above the stage so that he could see her better. My precious little Rose.
A scuffle to the right caught his attention, but he turned too late. A fist slammed into his jaw, dislodging his mask slightly. Erik cursed and grasped onto one of the rope railings, righting his mask. His attacker lumbered toward him, a beer bottle clutched in one hand, swinging it wildly at him.
"Damned bastard," huffed Joseph Buquet, pounding forward with his fist poised for another punch. "I'm goin' to kill you once and for all."
"Disappear from my sight, you lousy excuse for a human being." Erik gritted his teeth, barely keeping a rein on his anger. "I do not want to ruin tonight's performance."
"Who cares about the stupid performance? I only want to see your blood on my hands." Buquet spat at Erik's feet, lunging forward for his neck. The two fell upon the catwalk with a thud, the catwalks swaying dangerously from the sudden weight on the wooden planks that made up its base. Erik hissed in anger, twisting a leg around Buquet's meaty one and using it to as leverage to reverse their positions, Erik now gaining the upper hand. He raised his fist and slammed it into Buquet's face twice.
"That was for Amélie," he informed Buquet coldly. "Now be gone, or only one of us will leave this place alive tonight."
He clambered off Buquet and walked away from him, expecting Buquet to attack while his back was turned. Erik pushed his hand into his pocket, readying the Punjab lasso around his fingers. One snap, and Buquet's sad life would be over.
True enough, he heard the pounding footsteps of Buquet as the man pushed himself off the ground, running toward Erik with a snarl in his throat.
At the last possible moment, Erik whirled around, his fist connecting with Buquet's nose, stunning him temporarily. Before Buquet could register what had happened, Erik had pushed Buquet around, and now stood behind Buquet, the sting of the rope taut around the fleshy neck of the stagehand. Buquet flailed, spluttering.
"I told you only one of us would leave alive tonight," Erik whispered in Buquet's ear menacingly, and jerked the rope tighter. "I meant what I said."
"Kill—Kill me! Your precious little w-whore won't be thinkin' too much of you after that, eh? Mur-murderer!" Buquet gasped for hair, his fingers grabbing at the rope helplessly.
Amélie.
Promise me… do not kill him, Erik.
You are not a murderer.
Promise me.
He could only imagine the hurt and horror in her eyes if she found out that he had killed the man anyway. He had always tried his best to keep his promises to her. He wanted to keep his promise.
In his moment of hesitation, Buquet took the opportunity to kick back with his legs, hitting Erik squarely in the shin. Erik grunted in pain, releasing the rope from around Buquet's neck. Buquet rushed forward, as Erik made a desperate grab for the man's ankles. The overweight man tripped over his own feet, falling toward the flimsy rope railing of the catwalk.
The thin length of rope, however strong, was no match for the gross body bulk of the stagehand. Buquet tumbled over the railing, off the catwalk, a silent scream of horror frozen on his face.
No! But it was too late, and Erik would never have moved fast enough to save the man.
And even then, he had to think of his plan. He threw his voice around the theatre, a sinister cackle echoing from his throat and reverberating around the walls of the room, sending shivers down the audience's spines.
It had been meant to be a frightening laugh, but Erik could only hear his own despair and disbelief in that laugh, though the audience could not tell the difference.
As Buquet's body fell to the stage below, he heard a feminine scream.
Erik's blood ran cold in his veins.
Amélie!She was dancing on the stage—she could be in danger—the falling body could hurt her as she fell—no!
He lunged to his feet as the screams from below the stage started, his eyes darting about wildly for a sign that she was safe.
XXXXX
Amélie had been dancing her heart out, twirling to the music and feeling as though she were dancing on air, when she heard strange scuffling noises echoing from the ceiling of the theatre. Before she could figure out what those noises were, a shadow had fallen over where she stood, and then her partner, the lead male dancer, by the name of Theo, had grabbed her and pushed, sending both of them flying across the stage, but narrowly avoiding the object that had fallen from the ceiling.
No, not an object.
Amélie's mouth opened in disbelief. She heard a loud cackle, the snide laughing of the Opera Ghost, echoing around the theatre. Amélie looked at the prone body more closely.
It was Joseph Buquet. A rather dead looking Buquet, his neck bent at a gruesome angle from his fall.
Amélie screamed.
She was not the only one; all the ballet rats around her were scrambling backward in fear, backing away from the body, their eyes wide in horror, clutching onto one another for support as they stumbled away. The audience was roaring in a mixture of horror and anger, demanding to know what was going on.
Amélie looked up at the catwalks in desperation, searching for him. Her gaze caught upon the white mask of the man crouched upon one of the catwalks, on his haunches, an expression of disbelief upon his face.
He saw her looking at him, and he shook his head quickly at her.
He did not do it?
She did not know. Her head was swirling with a whirlwind of thoughts and she felt faint.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please, please remain in your seats! It was an accident, simply an accident!" Andre had run onto the stage for the second time that night, followed by a puffing Firmin, who was waving his hands up and down to calm the audience. "Please! Calm down! We will resolve this problem and continue the show in half an hour! There is nothing to worry about; it was merely an accident. Please, ladies and gentlemen!"
"Are you ok?" Theo murmured to her, offering a hand to help her up as the curtains fell. Amélie stood on shaky legs that could not quite hold her weight, grateful for his support. She nodded mutely.
The stage was a complete mess. Ballet rats were screaming everywhere, and stagehands were cautiously approaching the body, cursing under their breaths. A death signified bad luck, and the theatre people were superstitious. Andre stood beside the body, running his fingers through his hair, a haggard expression upon his face.
Amélie made a dash for the door.
She ran through the corridors, shouting for Erik, not caring who heard her. Everyone was too busy screaming over the body anyway.
"Erik! Erik, where are you?" She shouted, dashing a hand across her eyes to wipe away the tears. She had seen a broken beer bottle next to Buquet's body, with blood on the shards, and her first thought had been that Erik had been hurt. It was obvious that Erik had gotten the upper hand in the fight, but what if he had been severely wounded as well? No, no, he's safe.
But where is he?
She rounded a corner and crashed into a person. She stumbled backward, looking up to see him. He gasped, and reached for her, grasping her cold hands in his gloved ones.
"Amélie!" His voice was a rasp, low and scratchy.
She looked at him with desperate, pleading eyes, begging for an explanation. He squeezed her hands.
"Let us go to the roof," he whispered. "No one will disturb us there, or hear us talking."
As she climbed the stairs to the roof, Amélie realized that she was shaking. It was the result of a combination of shock from seeing Buquet's body, fear for Erik, and frustration when she had not been able to find him. A more startling discovery was that Erik's hands were trembling.
She followed him silently to the dark shadows beneath one of the stone gargoyles on the roof. The moment they were enclosed in the darkness, he reached out and jerked her close, holding her trembling body against his. She stiffened, and Erik could have cried. She had never, not once, ever shied away from his touch.
"Amélie, please." He sounded tortured.
She took a deep breath, but she did not pull away. Instead, she slowly relaxed into his embrace, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He could feel the wetness of her tears, and his heart ached. She must have been so frightened on stage. She must have thought that he had broken his promise.
He might as well have—he had certainly thought of doing it, and that alone made him feel guilty. He felt her arms around his waist as she held him close, trying to calm herself.
"You… did not do it?" She sounded uncertain.
"It… was an accident," he said hoarsely. "I hesitated, and he ran, and fell. The fall killed him."
She did not say anything, and he was afraid that he had ruined everything.
He would throw away all his plans in an instance, if it meant that Amélie would forgive him.
"You do not believe me? Do you think I killed him with my own two hands?" He asked sadly.
"No," she said, her voice low and morose. "I believe you, Erik. I know that you try to keep your promises to me, and so I believe you. But whether or not I believe you makes no difference—nobody else will believe you. They will believe what they just saw on the stage minutes ago."
She drew back to look at him, and he saw the concern and worry in her eyes.
He shook his head. "Your belief in me matters the most to me, not the ridiculous opinions of anyone else."
She smiled a watery smile then, and he relaxed, knowing that she did not blame him. He raised a hand to smooth the tears off her face, before pulling her back into his arms again. It felt more comforting than he could ever deserve, to feel her pressed against him in a warm embrace.
Erik exhaled a long breath that he had not realized he had been holding, so afraid had he been that she would forsake him forever. "Thank you."
When he finally let go of her and she stepped back, a smile still on her face, his self-control snapped.
He pulled her back toward him and kissed her, impulsively.
It was a clumsy kiss, unpracticed and foreign. She gasped, but did not pull away.
That gave Erik all the courage he needed.
When he finally pulled away from her, his face was burning red, and his eyes were darting about wildly, as though he had no idea what was to come next.
"I should go before I am missed," Amélie said, stepping back from him. He could see that her face was equally as flushed.
She was about to walk away, when he yanked her back to his side and shushed her. He had heard footsteps, and the sound of an angry male voice. Someone was climbing up the stairs and approaching the roof, and Amélie could not be seen here with him, an unknown man.
Amélie looked up at him questioningly, and he shrugged, indicating that they should remain quiet. Silently, he hoped that the intruders would not be around for too long, for Amélie needed to get back down before somebody noticed that she was missing.
"Christine, wait! Why have you brought me here?"
The vicomte's voice rang out in the chilly air of the rooftop, and Erik's eyes widened as the identities of the intruders were revealed. The vicomte and Christine had stopped directly in front of the gap between two statues that Erik and Amélie were ensconced behind, and Erik could see the two quite clearly from where he was standing.
A/N: Dun dun dun! Another cliffie, obviously. I specialize in cliffies! Hope you all have a great week ahead xx hazel