Those Eyes That Burn
xxx
Erik heaped curses on Raoul de Chagny's golden head as the Vicomte sat immured comfortably in his box, waiting for his student to emerge in all her glory. He uttered a stream of epithets aimed at the three gendarmes guarding Box Five and the four more placed strategically at the theater's entrances. Erik hunched in the dry darkness of the mirrored torture chamber under the landing and pondered his options. The orchestra's music bled through the walls and he faintly heard the boom of Piangi's stage laugh. Christine was due on at any moment! He had to be there. It was a necessity, like the need for air.
He could force his way into the theater. Not deadly force, of course—much too messy and troublesome—but to simply tighten his Punjab around a fat neck until the unfortunate gendarme slipped into sweet Morpheus's embrace . . . No, that would not do. He promised the Daroga, and Minette. It was his own blighted luck that his few friends were afflicted with such nagging consciences. Erik grinned into the darkness. It was a wonder why they tolerated his moods.
While Erik would have vastly preferred to walk across the Populaire's marble floors and plush crimson carpet like any other respectable patron of the opera, he was forced to use his considerable powers of stealth to slip from one tunnel to the next, worming his way into the narrow passage above that gaudy chandelier. The natural acoustics of the theater allowed him a perfect vantage point. Christine's voice was a drink of water after an eternity of choking dust and rasping sand. Sublime perfection. His spirit quickened within him, yearning to reach out and embrace its mistress.
Erik froze.
Something was wrong.
A terrible sense of doom hovered over him, a jagged fear bordering on panic. Erik kicked open the door onto the catwalk above the theater, eyes fastening on Christine's slender form drowning in the Countess's frivolous costume. The crystalline purity of her voice warbled, soaring up and up . . . then shattered into winking shards. Erik moved without thinking, the image of Christine's body sprawled like a limp doll across the stage burned in his mind. His insides were a confused muddle, a palpitating heart, a lurching gut, lungs that couldn't take in enough air.
Christine! Christine! Christine!
Dimly, he heard the orchestra grind to a halt and the nervous murmur of conversation. Erik exploded through the hidden door on the ground floor and started in the direction of the stage only to be halted by a sharp prod in the ribs. A faint click raised the hairs on the back of Erik's neck.
A pistol.
"Hold it right there, Monsieur, if you please."
Damn!
"You must have mistaken me for someone else," Erik rasped, wiggling his Punjab into his waiting hand. The gendarme grunted.
"Not likely. Not many masked madmen wandering about. Now let's see your hands."
Erik made a show of lifting them, choosing the second where the gendarme reached for the crude restraints to burst into action. He twisted away from the pistol and let the Punjab fly in one smooth motion. It snagged on the bill of the man's cap, but a quick flick and twist settled it in perfect position around the man's throat.
"Your timing is absolutely rotten, Monsieur," Erik muttered, almost apologetically.
The gendarme's pale eyes darted this way and that, searching for help, yearning for the breath to scream. He was young, and strong. When he raised his pistol, Erik snatched it out of his weakening grip, tightening the Punjab by a fraction. Any tighter and Erik just might crush his trachea. Precious air was failing to reach his brain. Erik watched in a remote, clinical fascination as the man's skin rapidly progressed from red to purple to blue. At last, the gendarme crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Erik retrieved his lasso and turned, his cape flaring dramatically behind him. Urgency gripped him, a frantic voice in his ear.
"Halt there, Sir." snarled a smoke-thickened voice.
Erik could count on one hand how many times any living being had caught him by surprise, and all three of those occurrences had been when he was a young and fumbling novice in the ways of stealth. This, unfortunately, marked a first in Erik's rather eventful life. The screaming urgent voice escalated in volume.
Christine! Christine! Christine!
The sound that hissed from behind his clenched teeth was unrecognizable as human.
For the second time in one night, Erik turned on his heel to face his opponent, grasping for equanimity. A captain and four gendarmes arranged themselves in a wary circle around him. Erik noted with an acerbic flattery that the Vicomte had spared no expense in arranging for his arrest. He glanced wryly at the unconscious man at his feet.
"The officer and I had a . . . disagreement," Erik drawled, pouring all of his hate for humankind into one brutal glance, enunciating the words with grim relish.
The captain shuddered visibly and stammered a little when he spoke, "Y—You will accompany us to the managers' office, Monsieur Rousseau. Now." Erik's jaw and teeth ached from clenching, a cramp gnarled his left fist. He could not incapacitate them all without killing them with nothing but his Punjab and the dagger hidden in his vest. A gentleman did not carry saber or pistol to the Opera, after all. There was no need to add profligate murder to his growing list of sins. He forced a gracious nod, resisting the savage howling voice with a titanic force of will.
"Of course." Even the beauty of his voice had deserted him; the phrase emerged in a hoarse rasp.
The gendarmes tightened around him. None dared touch him, or even look at him. Did they think madness was catching? Erik was not in the mood to delight in their stupidity, not when Christine lay lifeless on the stage, beyond his reach. The urgency in his bones and organs without blessed relief of seeing his soul's mistress whole turned its desperate, jagged energy inward until Erik yearned to leap out of his skin. He wanted to snap necks, scale buildings. A low snarl rose in his throat, but he choked it down. The best way to assure the world that he was sane was not to make inarticulate animal noises under his breath.
André and Firmin were waiting, smug smiles painted on their fat faces. The force of Erik's hate was a living thing, mauling and howling in him. He saw again the laughing faces beyond bleak iron bars, pelting him with stones, greasy bones, shards of glass. All eight men filed into the managers' office. The captain made an expansive gesture to the chair and Erik simply stared, stubbornly defiant. The captain shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat.
"Ah, well. Monsieur Rousseau, I'm certain you are aware of the warrant of arrest posted against you?"
"I was not, Monsieur. What charges are laid against me?" the words cracked like the lash of a whip.
No matter how desperately he sought the cool, detached center of himself, he could not erase Christine's slender body swallowed by her costume, he could not contain with wild, screeching fear the shred his nerves. The world without her was unfathomable, a desolate void. The captain stroked his iron grey mustache, sweat darkening his high navy collar.
"Insanity, Sir," he whispered with quiet delicacy. Erik uttered a sharp bark of laughter.
"Insanity? A difficult charge to prove. How can one define what is rational and true within another man's mind? Enlighten me, Captain. What titillating evidence is there against me?" The captain waved a hand to encompass the two managers.
"I have the testimony of these men. They say that you threatened them with bodily harm. They say you admitted to years of extortion and terrorism under the name O.G. and," the captain paused and pulled a small black book from his coat.
"'Acted with unprovoked, unreasonable violence when your wishes were respectfully denied.' Does that sound about right, gentlemen?" the captain asked. Both voiced their agreement. Erik's gaze darted to Firmin who touched his throat discreetly, no doubt remembering the grip of his Punjab. Erik's thorny, violent mood wanted to watch the pulse in the presumptuous manager's throat slow as the lasso squeezed . . .
Erik threw his considerable force of will around these fractious, wild emotions, seeking the role he needed to play. He had masqueraded as a man for so long, he could speak and act like a gentleman even when he wanted to spit and curse and kill.
"I can assure you that I did no such thing, Captain. I am a humble composer. I simply told these esteemed gentlemen that my student and I would seek employment elsewhere if the management mishandled the casting after the success of Hannibal.
Perhaps I overstepped my bounds in my zeal for my student's success, but no harm came of it, certainly no permanent damage. The managers André and Firmin certainly have not shared their concerns with me. As to the unfortunate misunderstanding of this Ghost character, I can assure you, my finances are perfectly legitimate."
Erik reached within the depths of his coat. Six pistols swiveled in his direction. He blinked innocently at the captain, who motioned for his men to lower their arms. He pulled the perfectly harmless folder from his coat and handed it to the captain.
"You may peruse these at your leisure, Sir. The copies of my financial ledger, including the thousands of francs I have spent in patronage of this Opera House. I am hurt and offended that the managers would ever-"
"Wait just one minute! We both know that you've been bleeding us dry ever since we bought the Populaire! For the sum of twenty thousand francs a month!" Firmin blustered, shoving a gendarme aside to peer over the captain's shoulder.
"Is that not your signature, Monsieur?" the captain said, the rap of his finger on the piece of paper making a sibilant whisper.
"Of course n-" Firmin started to say, then broke off, eyes wide and jaw swinging uselessly. He gave such an accurate impression of a dying fish that Erik almost laughed. Instead he faced his accusers.
"Under our emperor's law, is it not illegal to hold a man without evidence?" he asked the captain. The man's drawn, pale features bleached to the hue of old bone at Erik's words, his Adam's apple bobbing. He coughed.
"Ah, yes, that's true, Monsieur Rousseau. But I must take you into custody after you assaulted one of my men. I do hope you will come quietly."
xx
Hours of teeth-gnashing, fist-clenching rage and stifling the insane impulse to snap every male neck within sight left him drained. The tedium of successive bribes to grease the rusted cogs of justice left his bank account drained as well. Erik shoved his way through the throngs of people outside the gendarme station and hailed a brougham cab. Being trapped in a rolling box would do little to improve his mood, but it didn't matter. He had to get to Christine as swiftly as possible.
The chill of autumn's wind ruffled his hair and stirred his cape as he flew from the cab, tossing a few of his remaining bills over his shoulder. He ducked around the corner of the building and slithered down the drain grate Minette had urged him into the night he escaped from the gypsy fair. A flight of stairs and a loose panel released Erik into his own realm, the twisting tunnels that had been his playground and domain for almost two decades. The only thing that barred him now was Minette's door and it was purely symbolic. Minette had made it abundantly clear that the door was always open to him, especially after the Buquet fiasco damaged little Meg. Erik froze as he heard the low murmur of an unfamiliar male voice from within.
Whose is that voice? Who is that in there?
It took Erik a handful of minutes to circle back outside, crouched near a small, dirty window. Through the warped, grimy glass, he saw the outline of Christine's form, the dark spill of her curls on the pillow. His eyes welled in passionate gratitude.
Alive. Thank God!
Erik leaned his forehead against the cool brick, exhaling in joint-loosening relief. Good, Minette and the doctor were tending to her. Now all he had to do was wait until . . .
The man spoke again and the ground crumbled into nothing beneath Erik's feet.
The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.
Raoul de Chagny's lean form sat hunched in little Meg's bedroom, crouched over Erik's protégé. God, Erik's complete and utter focus had been for Christine. Erik widened his gaze and saw the shine of the boy's golden hair through the window, a sliver of yellow light spilling over their joined hands. Raoul's voice softened to a husky murmur, though Erik could not make out the words. He leaned forward and . . .
Erik stifled a wounded cry as the indistinct blobs of color through the glass ordered themselves into a kiss.
A kiss.
He watched for a small eternity, the faint ghost of hope thinking that perhaps she was still drugged, that he'd stolen an unwilling kiss. Madame's crisp voice shooed Erik's golden rival, and with the dreadful clarity of life's awful moments, he saw Christine's slender hand grasp for de Chagny. Christine's speaking voice was perfection to Erik, as mellifluous as her soaring soprano with rich, whispering low tones. He could pick out her voice from among thousands.
"Don't go. Stay with me, please. I'm afraid."
Erik felt as if he'd supped on broken glass. Afraid. Afraid of the mad Phantom coming to steal her away from her golden lover. He cast one last longing look at the porcelain curve of her cheek, the rich chocolate spill of her hair.
"I gave you my music . . ." the words emerged in a garbled rasp, choked with tears.
Oh Christine.
XXX
Christine's lips were slack and unresponsive beneath his, but Raoul relished even this stolen kiss. She was so beautiful, pale and fragile like a sleeping cherub without the heavy stage cosmetics. His poor darling, drugged! A fierce, righteous anger pounded through his veins. He would find whoever was responsible and see them brought to justice!
Raoul exhaled a low breath, the anger mellowing into tenderness as he looked at her. He stroked the white velvet of her cheek, marveling at its softness. Could it be her mad professor—slipping her a tonic to bind her ever deeper in his thrall? Philippe's warning rang in his ears.
Stay away from this Erik. He's dangerous.
Dangerous, yes. But he styled himself as Christine's teacher. He would not harm her on purpose. Raoul was mildly surprised that Monsieur Rousseau had yet to make an appearance. Perhaps the gendarmes he hired had deterred him. This was the opening he needed, space away from his suffocating presence to purchase freedom for Christine!
"Monsieur." Madame Giry's censorious voice floated over the warm air, broken only by the soft exhalation of Christine's breaths. He turned to find her in the doorway, a cupped palm shielding the soft glow of a candle. Golden light bled through the sieve of her fingers and warmed the pale skin to a red hue. The shadows cast by the candle made the Madame's face look ancient and unfathomable.
"She needs her rest, Monsieur. You should leave now." The firm candor that she shared with her daughter was faintly refreshing after the sycophantic managers and cooing aristocracy. There was something to be said about blunt honesty. Raoul bestowed a parting kiss on Christine's hand and his heart leapt to his throat as she stirred, fingers tightening and a whimper escaping her lips. A slight frown marred her brows.
"Don't go. Stay with me, please. I'm afraid . . ." Raoul longed to reassure her, but the Madame was implacable.
"You may visit her when she recovers. Now go," she hissed, grasping his arm to propel him forward. Raoul submitted to her urging, carrying the image of his sleeping angel close to his heart.
XXX
It was just as it was when her father died. She woke from a drug-addled snarl of frightening nightmares to a world changed. When questioned, Carlotta's maid admitted to drugging the gargling glass, but only in the attempt of scaring Christine away from the lead role.
Carlotta blustered and ranted and raved in her maid's defense, but the managers—at the threat of losing Raoul's patronage, and not any concern for Christine's well-being—had no choice but to dismiss the pudgy woman. Christine herself suffered no harm beyond several days spent in a drugged stupor, during which she waited patiently for a visit from her Maestro. Had it been her wishful heart thinking he had been there? Was it that fickle heart that called out to him, fearing his disappearance?
He didn't come.
Days, weeks crept by. And still he did not come.
A deafening sense of finality eddied around her, pain as if a part of herself had been severed. His rejection of her years ago paled in comparison. Then at least, she held some vague whisper of hope at his forgiveness. Now . . . she had failed her Angel, shamed her Maestro. And the lover who kissed her with such blinding passion . . . he had simply left.
He was truly gone. Vanished like a wisp of smoke in the wind. The cozy lair beneath the Populaire was dark and empty. After days of browbeating, she at last persuaded Madame to guide her to his lair. Oh, that tangle of dread and hope that carried her down the five levels separating their worlds! In the end, hollow agony resounded like a gong through her. She had stood on the bank of the lake, peering through the holes of the portcullis hungrily. The light of her lamp revealed the wall—the wall that had once held countless pictures of her as naked rock, yawning like an open wound. Christine wept then, crumbled into a sodden heap, knee-deep in the frigid lake.
Even as the effects of 'Mother's' opium faded from her system, Christine still felt as if she wandered through a dreamworld. Christine felt smaller, paler, a shadow of herself. The fey, vivid creature that defied Reyer and dared to seduce a Phantom was gone. The managers had tactfully removed her from the role of Countess, consigning her to silent simplicity of the pageboy. Not that the managers lost a cent in demoting her. The Opera Populaire was experiencing a revival of sorts, fueled by the whiff of gossip and scandal. For her part, Christine was pathetically grateful. How could she explain that her voice wilted without the presence of its master?
Through the blank grey slag of depression surged a hot rush of confusion and anger.
Where did you go now? Why did you leave me again? Why?
Why?
Her only consolation in this time was Raoul. Her childhood sweetheart, he courted her with unflagging gallantry and charm. Rides in his phaeton through the Bois, companionable strolls through the shopping districts, salons and parties at the de Chagny townhouse. With him, she could dance and laugh. The love that sprang in her heart for Raoul was sweet and simple and wholesome. Christine basked in it, took shelter in the comfortable refuge he offered.
Only her dreams tortured her.
His voice, his hands, his mouth . . . God, the vividness of memory and imagination left her drenched with sweat and trembling. Christine fisted her hand in the damp lawn over her heart, cupping the ripe weight of her breast.
Erik.
Not only her voice's master, but her body's as well. It rejoiced under his touch, regardless of her gallant white knight's words of devotion, of her own bloody will. Christine buried her face in the damp pillow and bit down until she tasted the fluff and grit of down. Six weeks had passed since the night of Ill Muto. When would these feelings cease?
"Raoul," she whispered into the chill of a November night, an attempt to banish the looming ghost of her teacher and sometimes beau.
It worked.
Anchored by the unflagging love of her childhood sweetheart, Christine felt her heartbeat slow beneath her palm and the gray misery that crept upon her in these unguarded moments ease. Damn him and his black moods, his consuming pride, his mysterious past and the thrice cursed mask! Christine's hot gaze glared out at the sleeping forms of the other ballet rats.
Hear me, Erik? I hope you never come back!
XXX
The Persian was there. Minette glimpsed his somber black-clad form through the gaily colored cluster of Parisian high society gossiping like old women about the scandal at the Opera. As Minette slipped through the crowd, she was repulsed but not shocked to find that most of the gossip was of a rather malicious bend and was directly solely at her young Swedish ward. Aristocrats were always sneakily vicious in their gossip, poisoned lies whispered behind the flimsy protection of a fluttering silk fan.
"Monsieur!" she called after the broad line of his retreating shoulders.
After his inquiry about Erik, Minette had made a point to study his habits. A season ticket holder at the opera—the cheaper seats on the floor, not a box—the Persian arrived on time, rose only to stretch his legs during intermission, then left after the final bow. Quiet, tidy, and utterly mysterious.
The foyer was nearly deserted, save for the attendants dressed in their crisp, pseudo-militant finery. The rap of the Persian's cane struck the marble tiles of the central landing with a delicate ping.
"Monsieur!" Madame said, her voice reverberating off vaulted walls. At last, he turned, his swarthy complexion sharply contrasted by the silver in his hair and mustache. There was more silver there than in their previous meeting, a small voice noted in dismay. The Persian's sable eyes softened and a faint smile touched his lips. He made a courtly bow.
"Madame Giry. A pleasure, as always." Minette waved a terse hand as if to physically discard his polite words.
"Where is he?" she said without preamble. The momentary confusion that clouded the Persian's angular face cleared with a wave of—what was that? Fear? Worry?—as he darted forward and grasped her arm. His breath smelled pleasantly of coffee as he leaned close to whisper, "Perhaps we should continue this conversation away from prying ears, hmm?"
Minette flushed. This man had a talent for making her foolish and flustered. Minette nodded and gestured toward an alcove beneath the staircase. As the red velvet curtain swung closed, Minette observed that perhaps the alcove was a trifle small. Little larger than an upright coffin. This unwelcome thought sent a brief shiver up her spine. The Persian adjusted his cravat as if it were choking him, clearing his throat.
"I don't know where Erik is. I haven't seen him in weeks. I had thought he would make some sort of spectacle of himself when the little Daae fell ill-"
"She was drugged. And her name is Christine," Minette put in tartly, mind whirring at Erik's absence.
Where was he?
The Persian exhaled a deep breath.
"Forgive me, Christine. I am Nadir Khan, by the way, Madame. In all the back and forth between us, I quite forgot to tell you my name." He made an abortive attempt at another bow. Monsieur Khan was tall, of a similar lanky height as Erik, and consequently, she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Minette offered her hand.
"Minette Giry, a pleasure." He pecked a delicate kiss on the back of her hand. When he released her, she discreetly wiped her hand on the folds of her dress to erase the maddening tickle of his beard. A cold feeling settled in her belly. Day after day, watching Christine fall deeper in love with the Vicomte, day after day knowing only Erik held the key to her soul.
"Erik would visit me at my home with some regularity . . . until six weeks ago, that is. I don't know what the devil he's up to now. I was hoping you knew."
"Merde," Minette muttered, startling a choked laugh from the Persian—Monsieur Khan.
"No, I have no idea where he is."
That knowledge stretched between them, laden with all that couldn't be said. At last, Monsieur Khan shrugged.
"He couldn't have gone far. Not when his heart beats here."
XXX
Don Juan devoured him in a wild-eyed frenzy. Unspeakable music flowed from his ravaged soul, ink-stained fingers scribbling across the page.
The red ink looked like blood.
It was blood; his heart's blood ebbing from the wound she left in him.
That cruel, feckless little child! She knew of his love, she knew and had stomped on it with both delicate feet. Was it spite? Oh, her and her boy must've shared a merry laugh recounting his pathetic affections, the feeble overtures of his twisted, self-flagellating love! Perhaps they snickered behind their hands at the differences in sensual skill. Erik slammed his hands on the pianoforte's keys at the sudden vision of Raoul and Christine twined in a de Chagny bed.
A vicious, gnawing rage ate a hole in his stomach. Or maybe that was the brandy. How long had it been since he'd eaten? Erik dismissed such a trifling thought. It didn't matter. Music was his sustenance. He denied himself morphine to urge his body into a writhing agony to match the one that engulfed his soul. Even sleep offered him no solace. No, image and sensation and inarticulate longing were given free reign there. Christine. Always Christine. Her voice raised in song or sitting quietly, those haunted dark eyes staring into the past. Her slow, shy smile, the taste of her mouth. God, he was obsessed. Sweat dewed on his brow and made the mask itch and chafe. Erik tore off the mask and slammed it flat on the bench beside him.
Don Juan Triumphant.
It had begun as a mockery. His Gypsy master Javert had made a caustic remark that the Devil's Child could draw more skirts than Don Juan himself. In his typical style of self-mockery and storyteller's liberty, Erik had christened his opera so with himself cast as the lonely and tragic Don Juan. And his Aminta . . .
Aminta had chosen her golden-haired lover.
He would show them. At the masquerade, he would show them all what it meant to anger the Phantom of the Opera!
XXXXX
A/N: Poor Erik. Raoul has a talent for getting in the way, doesn't he?
I love, love, LOVE hearing from you guys! Feed my review hunger! I'll definitely have more time to write now that it's summer!
FieryPen37