Chapter IX
It was really a pity. A pity at how blind these people were, that they did not see a criminal on the stage of the concert hall, a creature, rather than a young cello prodigy, something capable of far more horrible things than hitting the wrong note.
But, even as Raze stood before some of the most prominent figures in the local government, taking a bow, Peter clapped. No expression shown on his face, as Raze took a seat, carefully folding his tails out of the way as he settled the gleaming, auburn-colored cello between his knees, raising his bow. The instrument matched his hair, pulled back into a careful braid at the back of his neck. The concert hall sat in breathless silence, as he tested each of thick strings, and at last began to play.
"Bach!" Walter whispered in delight, "He's playing Bach, Peter!"
"I know, Walter," Peter replied quietly. He only continued to watch Raze, unheeding of the cello suite the flowed through the air, as if enchanted. Peter plucked absently at the stiff collar of his own tuxedo, swallowing. No, he'd made a mistake. This wasn't Raze, Raze wasn't capable of such music, and Peter had to look away as he shuttered, wishing for the sweet tones to stop before they killed him.
"He's quite talented," Walter admitted.
"He's disgusting," Peter whispered. He paused, as his eyes came to rest on a sight that chilled him with fear.
Nina Sharpe sat in her private box overlooking the hall, and her fingers absently perused the pearls draped around her neck as she watched the stage, seeming slightly bored. Peter dropped his gaze as her eyes swept over the audience, praying that she had not seen him.
"Walter," Peter whispered, jogging his father's elbow. Walter snapped his attention away from the concert, and Peter covertly motioned to the box. Walter looked confused, and twisted his head to look up, "No!" Peter hissed, "She'll see you!"
Their eyes locked, and Nina's face went blank. Walter returned his attention to his son with a slight shrug, "Not my type," he murmured, and looked up at the stage again
Peter slapped his hand over his eyes, and grabbed Walter by the elbow, attempting to rise, "Come on, we have to get out of here-"
"Sit down," Walter hissed, forcing his son back down.
"Walter, we have to-"
"You do not simply leave in the middle of a recital, it is the height of rude. This isn't some sort of tawdry matinee, and I will not permit you to make a fool of me."
Peter sighed with agitation, "Walter, that's Nina Sharpe. She works for Massive Dynamic- you know, the people we stole from?!"
"I know full well who she is!" Walter snapped, "Now be quiet as stop embarrassing me!" Walter crossed his arms across his chest, indicating that the argument was over.
Peter sighed, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips, "Unbelievable."
Only a few minutes of unbearable melody had passed, and Peter felt panic welling in his chest as he watched the exits slowly fill with police, the light of his hope of escaping dimming, "Walter…" he croaked dryly, tugging on the sleeve of his father's tux jacket, "Please…"
"Excuse me?" someone asked, bewildered, and Peter jumped with surprise, dropping the stranger's sleeve. Peter looked around in shock, as Walter had disappeared.
There was a horrible screeching noise, and Peter looked up. Raze had stilled in his playing, and his bow arm trembled as he lowered it from the cello. He coughed softly, and looked up. A tiny hole marred the glossy surface of the instrument, and crimson seemed to blossom on the white breast of his shirt. Raze let the cello fall with a clatter, and dropped from the stool, sprawling on the stage.
"No!" Peter exclaimed, and the theater when black. Walter had killed the lights.
xXx
Raze lifted his hazy eyes from the floor, the world seeming to slur as blood filled his lungs.
Damn it. They've ruined my cello.
It hurt. But he'd experienced worse pain before; he sometimes traced the scars as he lay in bed at night, unable to sleep, to escape from his suffering. Perhaps this would kill him- he was loosing blood fast…pain wracked his body in a spasm, and he contracted on the floor, blood escaping the corner of his lips as he coughed, choking.
Nina.
He felt arms pull him up, and lift him from the floor, and he blinked, trying to regain his senses as he was rushed back stage, behind the thick velvet curtains. He was again lain out, as his jacket was pulled open and his bowtie stripped away. He turned his face away with shame as his shirt was torn open, his awful scars in full visibility, and his bangs fell over his face, hot with sweat, "Don't…" he managed, raising his small hands to stop Walter's touch, "I'm a freak…"
Walter frowned, shaking off Raze's grip and continuing to pack the wound, blood staining his hands, "I remember you, Georges Von Thürer. The moment I heard you play, I remembered you; a German cello prodigy, with a very rare, and very fatal aging disorder. Belly said you'd died. What happened?"
"He saved me," Raze answered, "William… he gave me another chance. The bastard."
"How?" Walter asked.
"He reversed it, with the Methuselah."
Walter's eyes widened, "The Methuselah was a failure. The reversal of genetic aging… a mockery of immortality. He couldn't possibly have… but you…"
Raze wheezed softly, "Trust me, I know why it failed. Do you know what it is like, to be trapped in this timeless body forever? To never know what a man would know? Time stops- it is a nightmare that I can never awaken from. Over and over, my body rips itself apart, killing old cells, cells that the disease feeds on… but it's there forever. It will die when I do."
Walter's face softened. The cloth against Raze's rapidly rising and falling chest was completely saturated with blood.
"And I won't be saved by you, old man. You're one of the perfect people, like her. I could never- nn!" he bared his teeth, quaking as another wave of torture racked his small form, "I hate you. I hate old people, because all they do is die. She'll forget me and die, she hates me."
"Who?" Walter asked softly.
"Nina," Raze whispered softly, "She sends me flowers and lies. She's so perfect."
"You love Nina," Walter said, softer still.
"Ich sterbe, Sie alter Dummkopf," [I'm dying, you idiot,] Raze muttered, falling back to his old tongue as his life faded, "Spiel rüber." [Game over.]
Walter bit his lip, "Just hang on. Hang on, you little brat, you're not finished yet."
Raze snorted softly, "Nah, I'm done. If it's this easy to kill me, it was only a matter of time. Here," he pushed a slip of bloodstained paper into Walter's hands, looking up into his face, "Ich-Ich wünsche, daß es unterschiedlich gewen sein würde." [I-I wish it could have been different.]
Walter smiled softly, whispering, "Ich, auch." [Me, too.]
Raze's glazed eyes widened with a childlike glee, "Sprekken ze deusche?"
Walter nodded, feeling a shiver run through Raze's body, "I'm not sure where I learned it, actually."
Raze coughed, smiling faintly as a rivulet of sanguine crossed his delecate chin, "Ich sollte etwas ähnliches von Ihnen, alter Mann erwartet haben. Ich bin erhalte nicht, wie Sie ganz altersschwach zu sein froh. Ich würde mich töten." [I should have expected something like this from you, old man. I'm glad I won't get to be all decrepit, like you. I'd kill myself.]
Walter's brows knitted in disapproving admiration, "Ich erwarte, daß Sie wurden, [I expect that you would,] and yet you still manage to be such a booger. Why is that?"
"It's in my blood. Being a relentless bastard, regardless of the circumstance. Well, that, and-" he seized up in pain, "that, and the disease…"
"Shh," Walter said quietly, smoothing his calloused palm over Razes clammy forehead, "Rest."
Raze smirked defiantly, "Was auch immer."
[Whatever.]
xXx
"Walter?" Peter whispered, squinting around at the stage tackles and ropes, "Walter, where the hell are you?!"
"I'm here, son," came his reply in the dark. There was a faint shifting, and Peter felt the silk of his father's lapel against his outstretched hand.
"Walter, we have to get out of here. Raze was shot, and-"
"I know. This way." Peter followed his ears, climbing deeper and deeper into the ropes, down a flight of creaking steps, and to the door of the green room. They pushed open the door, and Peter suddenly found himself pinned by the throat, high on the wall.
Edgar barred his teeth, "Where is he?!" he demanded, "What have you done, Bishop?!"
Peter choked.
"He's dead," Walter replied simply, "Raze is on the stage; where it started, where it ended."
Edgar squeezed threateningly, and Peter squirmed, his vision sparkling "You're lying," he growled.
"You'd want him to keep living, such as he was?!" Walter snapped, "You are even crueler then your late master."
Edgar paused, and dropped Peter, slamming through the door to the stage steps. Walter helped his son to his feet, and Peter massaged his throat, swallowing and coughing, "Let's go," Peter wheezed, pulling off his bowtie. Walter paused, his sights set on a vase of a dozen red tulips. He managed to pull off the message card and stuff it into his pocket as they hurried out.
Outside the opera house, sirens blared. Peter looked back and fourth, slinking in the shadows to avoid the bright, flashing lights, "She's set the armada on us, boy," Walter said.
"Yeah. This way," and they ducked into an alley, running past the discarded wooden props. Peter stopped, and Walter nearly ran into him, as Peter considered the midnight purple street cycle before him, observing its speedy curves, "Okay! Get on!" Peter slung his leg over the bike, tossing Walter the second helmet as he set to rewiring the machine.
"A motorcycle…?" Walter questioned in disbelief.
Peter kicked the engine to life, tightening the buckle at his throat, "Is there a problem?"
"No," Walter said shyly, tracing the design on his own helmet with his fingertip, "It's just that… this is all quite exciting. I've always wanted to ride a motorcycle."
"Then get on!" Peter hissed.
The clutch was a bit stiff, Peter realized ,as the bike roared down the dark alley, then burst out, into the street, and he tipped it sideways in a sharp turn. The speedometer needle climbed on the tiny consol before him, and he shifted, the motorcycle jarring slightly. Walter's face piece clipped the back of his helmet a bit, and his father's arms shifted around his waist. Peter saw now that his interlaced fingers were soiled with dried blood, but not have time to question as he slipped through traffic, headed toward the tunnel.
xXx