Track Down This Murderer
xxxxx
A damn inconvenience, spending his night looking for a suitable place to dispose of a body. After long minutes of deliberation, with the stink of Buquet's voided bowels permeating the air, Erik at last seized upon the tenuous form of a plan. He heaved Buquet's dead weight upright, fashioned a noose from thick, coarse stage rope, and strung him up in the flies. One of Buquet's signature liquor bottles was easy enough to recover and plant at his swaying feet. To the rest of the world, Buquet was a sad drunk who committed suicide. Only three people would know any different. Sick and weary in a way he hadn't been since his years in Mazanderan, Erik retreated to cold tranquility of his home, remembering wistfully the day he had sworn to never again trouble himself with the human race.
XXX
'Erik saved my life.'
The words followed Christine through the Populaire's winding corridors. They chased her into her dressing room to the gilt-framed mirror, a half-formed intention hardening into iron resolve. If he wouldn't come for her, then she would just have to go to him! She would throw herself to his feet and beg his forgiveness. She would lure him with music. He could no more resist the beckoning of her voice than she could his. They were bonded through music—he had said so himself!
The sun had risen and the Opera House was quiet still, but she knew it would not remain so for long. After such an opening as Hannibal had been, the staff was still basking in their success. The new management, eager to exert their authority and impress their rich patron, had ordered rehearsals and sold out the theater for another week. By all rights, Christine should be wading through Elissa's part, sharpening the finer points of her character.
The night they met face-to-face at last, Erik had pointed out a mechanism to open it . . . her trembling fingers felt along the cold edges of molded flowers, her own face staring back at her wild-eyed and sleep-tousled. Her index finger bumped a small lever. It took much grunting and cursing and for one wild instant, Christine considered throwing the vanity stool through the cursed mirror, but at last there was a rusty sigh as it unlocked.
Cold, damp air curled around her ankles, like creeping chill of an icebox. Christine uttered a hoarse cry of triumph, only to have it wither into an inarticulate grunt of effort as she tried to push the mirror on its runners. She heaved and wiggled and shoved until the aperture was wide enough to slip an arm through. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on something solid within the tunnel, breaking several nails and digging into a soft bed of moss. Christine seized the hard shape of an iron sconce, braced her back against the mirror, and pushed with all her might.
At last, she succeeded in prying the mirror open. Giddy with the accomplishment, Christine armed herself with a shawl, sturdy shoes, and a gas lamp. With a steadying breath, she forged into the realm of night, seeking an audience with its king.
XXX
The violin uttered a discordant squeal under Erik's fingers. Sleep had long deserted him, and he sought to lose himself in music when a knot of unease gripped his stomach.
"Christine," he whispered.
Had that boy made an untoward advance? The thought blew on the smoldering embers of rage remaining from Buquet's heinous offense against the little Giry, coaxing a kindling flame. The urge to kill was stirring from its long hibernation, tingling in his fingertips. Erik cast out his awareness, seeking the inner knowing, to the portion of himself tied in bondage to her. Erik tensed. She was close!
Jagged fear roiled in his belly as if he'd swallowed broken glass. Many of the tunnels were fitted with traps to discourage any who dared wander into his realm. They weren't Cerberus or the River Styx, but they were effective.
A shudder raced through him.
Effective. The thought of Christine caught in any one of those traps chilled his very bones.
xx
The wavering glow of her gas lamp swayed like a demented firefly. Relief sluiced through him. She had made it to the staircase at least without incident. Erik pressed a loose stone and melted into a cramped passage, working his way up the rusted rungs of a ladder to the approximate level Christine was on. He emerged behind her with a soft sigh of air swirling through the folds of his cape. God, two more steps and she would have gone down a trap door!
"What in God's name do you think you're doing?"
Christine uttered a sound that could only be classified as a squeak, and dropped the lamp, which promptly sputtered out with a petulant crack of glass. In an utter blackness so complete that he was certain she could not even see her hand before her face, he listened to her breathing pattern quicken to soft, panicked pants, pale hands stretched out as if to embrace the dark.
"E—Erik? Are you there?" she quavered. Erik waited in the stillness, as time drew out like a blade, punishing her. It was cruel to let her gasp and stumble in fear, but he was rapidly ceasing to care.
"Erik? Erik!" the music of her voice was lost on a shrill, desperate note, fraught with pleading.
"I am here, child," he whispered. The catch of breath could have been relief or a sob, Erik could not tell which.
"Why didn't you answer?" the uncertain warble in her tone inexplicably irritated him. Was she afraid he would attack her? Had he proven to be such a monster? Maybe her thrice-cursed Vicomte had warned her against the perils of a demented masked man's temper! Her shoulders shook underneath the dubious protection of her shawl and Erik viciously stifled the impulse to wrap his cape around her. Her comfort was now the concern of the bloody boy, not him.
"A simple experiment, child. Don't trouble yourself over the details." He threw his voice into her right ear. Christine pivoted in the dark, hands outstretched as if to grasp his sleeve. Her fingertips rapped the stone wall hard and she uttered a soft cry of pain. Curse his traitorous heart! That fickle organ urged him to grasp that delicate hand and kiss the abraded flesh.
"You force me to repeat myself: What do you think you are doing? Have I not warned you of the dangers of traveling the tunnels unaccompanied? Some are outfitted with traps—you could have been injured."
Christine's arms wrapped around herself, her cloud of tousled curls obscuring her expression. She presented such a thoroughly forlorn portrait that sympathy wormed its way through the layers of hurt and anger.
"I suggest you return to the upper world. You don't belong here," he said, more gently.
"Erik, wait!" she shouted, correctly interpreting the silence as a signal of his intent to leave and not merely a lapse in conversation. He sighed audibly.
"Why are you being so cruel?" she demanded, the hitching cadence of her breathing suggesting tears. Her words were kerosene on a fire.
"Cruel? Any cruelty I learned, I learned from you, my dear. Allow me to explain cruelty to you! Imagine if you can, a teacher. He and his pupil have spent many years pursuing her rise to fame in the theater. Many long years of sacrifice, of discipline. And picture this same teacher, arriving at the moment of their triumph only to find her gone! Not only gone, but whisked away on the arm of a rich aristocrat who would not even know her name had it not been for her teacher's instruction!" the volume of his voice steadily climbed, until he was shouting at the top of his lungs, the bellowed words bouncing back at him in mocking echoes. His gaze was fastened unerringly on her face, but in the dark he could discern little of her expression, save for the shudders and hiccups as she wept.
"I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry," she said thickly. Christine swiped the tears away with the back of her hand. How he hated her tears! Even when she was a child, they struck him straight in the heart.
"B—But . . . why didn't you come for me? Why did you send Madame Giry with your rose instead of bringing it yourself? I thought I had disappointed you." Erik reeled, grasping for something, anything to say. He was passionately grateful for the lack of light. It offered a degree of anonymity, like the interior of a confessional, allowing him to say things he would not have the courage to say under the weight of her soft brown gaze.
"Disappointed me? Did Madame Giry not relay my message? I said I was pleased with you!"
"Yes, she said so. But why didn't you come?" her soft query was gentle and tentative, like a small child asking for a biscuit before dinner. That fateful night, Erik had been gathering rose petals to carpet the gondola and the surface of the lake. His preoccupation with beauty and perfection for the arrival of his queen had made him late.
A fatal mistake, it seemed.
"You hardly gave me time. The Vicomte must have been very . . . persuasive." The last word he laid thick with insinuation, and the echo of an unanswered question. Why would she be seeking him out if she had the Vicomte waiting? Pity and fear were not strong enough motivators. She stomped her foot and the sound of her shoe heel rang in the dead air.
"That isn't fair! You and Madame both! Do you truly think I'm such a . . . a loose woman?"
"You are very young. You think and act without spite, and you expect the world to do the same."
"You give me too much credit, Erik. I came to apologize for my thoughtlessness. It was your triumph as much as mine. And I wanted to thank you . . . for what you did for Meg. She is very dear to me." Erik narrowed his eyes.
"I've killed better men for less than what Buquet attempted. Do not thank me for murdering a man, Christine. I will answer for his blood sooner or later."
She recoiled as if he had burned her, the pallor of her robe and gown a faint blur in the dark. Erik's jaw fired at the rash words. He had an eerie talent for pushing her away when all he wanted to do was draw her near.
"You saved Meg's life. I will thank you for that if I wish," she said frostily, with the sort of tidy dignity that reminded him of Minette. It rested on his tongue that rape did not equate death, of the body at least, but he refrained. An innocent like Christine was surely oblivious to the subtleties of such abuse.
"Suit yourself. You have unburdened your conscience. Now leave me in peace." His hand rested on the loose stone.
"Erik, please," she whispered.
"What is it?"
"Do—does this mean that you don't want me as your pupil anymore?"
Erik suddenly felt very weary, as if his bones had been filled with lead. God help her, she was so young and innocent.
Was he any different than Buquet, slavering after a morsel of succulent beauty, scourged by the agony of desire? The thought sickened him. If he was a better man, he would let her go . . .
All the beauty drained from his voice, leaving a rasping husk.
"No. Some bonds are not so easily severed. We begin again tomorrow."
XXX
To be the object of Erik's derision was a terrible thing. His scorn radiated like a throbbing heart of ice, chilling her to her very bones. She followed the dark shape of his shoulders through the meandering tunnels back to the surface. He did not offer his hand, even when she tripped and fell to her knees in a filthy puddle. Fresh tears welled in her eyes and she bit them back viciously. What had she expected him to do? He was a man of particular pride, a man of intense passions—who had been scorned and rejected since before Christine had been born.
The mirror loomed, a portal to a mundane world of rehearsals, catty fights between ballet rats, and the leering weight of Firmin's oily gaze. While a part of her longed for the comfort this world offered, she also wanted to stay with Erik. Scorned or not, his presence was sustenance to her, his voice like a drug.
Erik opened the mirror with a swift jerk, pulling his cape tight against his body. A curt thrust of his chin was all he offered. Faint sunlight streaming through the mirror highlighted the dark semi-circle of sleeplessness under his eye, that stormy eye that blazed with so many shades of emotion. Her throat burned with guilty tears. If she threw her arms around him, would he push her away? As if you would have the courage, sneered a voice in her head.
"Angel?" she whispered.
His head snapped toward her, the duality of his masked and unmasked sides intensified by the filtering beams of sunlight. The light danced along the smooth surface of his glaringly white mask, and made the unmasked side a sight of breathtaking beauty. His visible brow crouched low over his eye, his mouth thinned to a disapproving line. Christine plunged forward before any more cruel words spoken in his heavenly voice could crush her tenuous courage.
"A—after the production tomorrow night, the managers have ordered a week-long furlough before Ill Muto. I—I was wondering if . . . if I could . . ."
"If you are asking if you may spend time with the Vicomte, save your breath, my dear. Your time is your own. I don't care."
"I-was-wondering-if-I-could-stay-with-you-at-your-home-to-practice-for-the-new-role!" The words emerged in a jumbled rush, completely oblivious of Erik's brutally casual sentence. Erik's scowling face settled into a blank mien. He stepped into her dressing room and gestured for her to join him. She stepped obediently into the dressing room, instantly grateful for the warm sunlight spilling in from the windows.
Erik exploded into motion, closing the mirror and locking the dressing room door before Christine had finished settling under a coverlet on the chaise lounge, shivering. Erik folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the vanity table. His still, watchful posture reminded Christine of a large, deadly feline. If he had a tail, it would be twitching idly now. The absurd thought made her smile, and Erik arched a brow.
"Now what is this nonsense you're saying?" he asked gently. The color of his eyes had softened to the gentle hue of the sea on an overcast day. Christine took heart in this.
"Not nonsense, Maestro. I . . . I simply said it would be easier if I stayed at your home with you. To rehearse the new part."
If it was possible, his eyebrow climbed higher, the corner of his mouth curled in a faint smile.
"Easier? I was unaware our present arrangement was so onerous. What spurred this request?"
Guilt, she thought, hope . . . longing. Heat tingled in Christine's cheeks and she cursed her delicate complexion that revealed the slightest blush. The logic of her plan was flawed, but she knew that if she didn't do this thing, he would slip away from her. If not in body, than hiding behind that habitual wall of icy poise, his heart as blank and stern as the white mask he wore. His scrutiny thrilled and excited her.
"I . . . I want to prove my dedication, Maestro." Some of the deadly tension eased from Erik's posture, though his expression remained unchanged.
"What about the Vicomte?" Christine prickled under the mention of Raoul. In the short span of his reintroduction to her life, he had caused discord between teacher and guardian alike!
"Raoul has been nothing but kind to me. He is a childhood acquaintance, nothing more." Erik uttered a derisive sound in his throat, but made no comment. Long minutes of silence stretched the air taut as Erik considered. Christine waited with bated breath, all of her hopes pinned on whatever words fell from those full, sculpted lips.
"Very well, Christine. If . . . if that is what you want, then . . . then you may stay in my home over the furlough." A wide smile split her face, her heart aquiver with joy. The hesitance of his speech puzzled her. Erik did not strike her as a type of man who would doubt a decision once it was made. She swore she would not give him cause to doubt her ever again.
"Thank you, Maestro!"
His smile was a shadow, a mere token tilt of lip.
"I doubt you will be thanking me once we begin practice. But you must go now, Christine. I'm sure the great La Daae is very much in demand today."
"Yes," Christine said weakly, dropping her gaze to the pattern of roses on the thin coverlet. Erik was far too clever not to notice her hesitance.
"Christine?" Erik asked, his tone sharpening, "What is it?" the anger in his voice was potent and she was stunned by its raging fire possessing him. She squirmed on the chaise.
"Oh Maestro, please don't be angry. I'm sure they mean well . . ."
"What has happened?" Each word was enunciated with such scathing clarity that the babbling words pouring from her lips abruptly stopped.
"La Carlotta. The managers gave in to her. I am to be her understudy tomorrow night."
"Those fools!" Erik bellowed, fists balled, eyes boiling in a hurricane of rage.
"I will rectify this mistake." The deadly calm of his answer sent a shiver up her spine.
"Erik, please. The Opera Ghost will only cause further discord. I beg you; meet with them, face to face." His fingers fluttered up to touch the mask.
"Yes, I believe you are correct, my dear." A bitter smile twisted his mouth.
"Perhaps the horror of my true visage will be more effective than silly ghost stories."
XXX
He could hear the murmur of André and Firmin within the confines of Lefavre's small office.
"Did you hear about the scene shifter . . . um, Buquet, I think his name was?" André was saying.
"No. What happened?" Firmin replied.
"The poor man hanged himself in the flies. Another of the shifters found him this morning."
"Damn," Firmin muttered, the clink of glass suggesting that he was pouring himself a drink, "That's just what we need before a production. The crew will probably credit the damned ghost with this! We need to get a gendarme in here quick, get an article in the Époque, just so there is no suspicion."
Erik smiled slightly at Firmin's apt appraisal of the situation. The man had surprising acumen. He made a mental note to keep a close eye on the older man. Erik mustered the frayed ends of his patience and smoothed his hair. A gentleman must look presentable while issuing threats. His balled fist defied his intention and slammed with deafening force on the flimsy wooden paneling in three crisp knocks.
"What the devil?" said Firmin.
"Who could that be at such an ungodly hour?" André wondered aloud.
Erik waited, listening to the hesitant, staggering taps of Firmin's shoes as he made his way across the office. A fastidious sniff alerted Erik to the managers' activity. Up late drinking brandy are we? Patting themselves on the back while they ruin Christine's career!
A fresh surge of anger raced through his veins and this livid expression was the first Firmin saw of him as he opened the door. His square, pointed face paled, his mustache twitching as he slowly took in Erik's form and puzzled over his presence. Erik could almost hear the cogs turning in Firmin's mind. Erik brushed past him, sweeping into the office. André who sat with his feet propped up promptly stood, spilling his cognac on his shirt.
"Good evening gentlemen," Erik said with cool, banal civility, as if greeting old business acquaintances.
"G—good evening, sir," André stuttered, his piggish eyes fixed on the mask.
"Excuse me, but may I ask to whom am I speaking and why have you chosen to call on us at-" Firmin's quick glance at the clock confirmed his sense of outrage, "Eleven o' clock in the evening?" Erik smirked.
"I am Erik Rousseau." The two managers shared a dubious glance, then Firmin's gaze dropped to the desk, to a sheaf of sheet music. His bloodshot eyes flew wide.
"E—Erik? As in Monsieur Erik the composer?"
"The same. Though you might know me better as O.G."
"Y—You're the . . . ah, you're . . ." André stuttered.
"The Opera Ghost?" Firmin finished.
"Yes." Erik allowed that percolate for several minutes, measuring their shock by the blood ebbing from their faces, the greenish tinge to their skin.
Erik folded his hands behind his back and made a show of casually perusing the books on the shelves. In fact, he swiped the letter opener from the desk and held it ready. Devilish delight sluiced through his veins. As much as he enjoyed his capacity as Opera Ghost, watching the two mangers trip and stutter was far too much fun.
"I have come to inquire about your casting choices for tomorrow evening. I noticed that my student has been miscast."
"Miss Daae?" André clarified, tugging at his sweat-stained cravat as if it was trying to strangle him. Erik fastened his gaze on the diminutive manager, sensing a vacillating fear growing in him. Indeed, the man squirmed under Erik's gaze, clearing his throat.
"Very astute, Gilles. Yes, Miss Daae is my protégé. Imagine how very upsetting it was to discover that she has been denied the role of Elissa, especially after her success upon the opening of Hannibal, not to mention that the role was given to Signora Guidicelli—an Italian cow who is seasons past her prime! Can you explain that to me gentlemen?" His tone struck the perfect balance between icy politeness and pure menace. Judging from André's slight shriveling against the wall, perhaps the menace was laid on a tad thicker than he meant to.
"We can see how that would be very . . . ah, very upsetting, Sir," André said with an obsequious little bow.
"Excuse me, Monsieur Rousseau. May I have a moment to speak to my associate?" Firmin asked.
"Of course."
Erik waved a hand between the two of them, but made no move toward the door. Firmin jaw flexed, choking on words, but instead of voicing a potentially dangerous sentence, he simply hissed at his partner in an undertone. Erik's ears were keener than most and made out most of the conversation.
"What are we supposed to do? . . . the man is clearly quite insane . . . operas fetch a fine price . . . who is this Daae . . . with both the patron and the composer . . ." Erik's jaw fired at the mention of the Vicomte and he turned toward the managers, a picture of gentlemanly attention. Firmin smiled tightly at Erik, while André looked ready to vomit.
"The Signora has proven most unwilling to relinquish her role as the leading soprano, Monsieur. I'm sure you understand." Erik's smile was razor thin.
"I see. Very well then," he murmured.
He struck with lightning's ferocity and precision. The letter opener flew true, pinning André's cravat to the wall. His Punjab lasso arched, a thin, deadly black snake, landing gracefully around Firmin's fat neck and tightening the barest of fractions. André immediately began blubbering and bleating pleas for mercy, while his partner eyes bulged and lungs scrabbled greedily for air, despite the minimal pressure exerted. Erik leaned one shoulder against the wall near where André was pinned, motioning with one gloved fingertip for silence as Firmin choked and gasped at the end of the Punjab. Give a man enough rope to hang himself, Erik thought with grim humor.
"Dignity, Messieurs. Dignity. Now, do I have your attention? If so, nod." Both men nodded distinctly.
"Excellent. Now listen carefully: If that squawking Italian diva takes the stage tomorrow night, you gentlemen will never see another opera penned by my hand, nor will you have the singular pleasure of hearing the voice of my protégé. I'm certain our talents would be better appreciated in any opera house on the continent. In fact, I've heard La Scala has a position open. But, you see, gentlemen, your hubris has put me in a terrible position. For while I cannot allow the insult against my star pupil and myself to stand, I also am loath to remove her from the Opera Populaire, where she has spent many happy years. Can I count on you, good Messieurs, to rectify this mistake?" Erik's glacial tone sharpened.
"If not, then . . ." he let the sentence hang ominously, allowing their imaginations to create a suitably disastrous outcome.
"Do you have an answer for me?"
Erik left the managers' office in a curiously buoyant mood. Christine was returned to her rightful place in the limelight, with a slight nudge by her Phantom, of course, and what was more, she . . . she wanted to be with him. In his home. For an entire week.
There was so much to do!
As Erik pressed the stone and leapt into the mirrored torture chamber, he composed a mental list of all that he needed to accomplish. His cache of food was dismal—a trip to the grocer's was in order. Sleeping arrangements . . . Christine would have his bed, obviously . . . Erik permitted himself a brief moment to imagine her there, chocolate curls fanned across the pillow, her ivory skin a stark contrast to the vivid scarlet sheets. Erik smirked as he felt a twinge of arousal race through him. A thin cot in his storage room would seem very lonely with his Angel sleeping a few steps away.
God, this was madness! Christine with him alone, for an entire week! A brilliant frisson of happiness bubbled through his veins. Hmm, it was very cold in his home. With some work, he could divert some of the furnace's heat down the cellars. His mind chewed busily on the problems and solutions. So much to do and so little time to do it!
Xxxxxx
A/N: Read and review! Thank you everyone who has hung on with me! More to come soon!
Merry Christmas!