Hello there!
I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been patient with my odd updating schedule, and also to everyone who has reviewed this story so far- I really appreciate it.
Anyway, apologies for that last chapter not being as long as the others- I was having a bit of a time working with the plot that I had already set. This chapter is probably the longest I've written so far- lots of drama.
Enough from me, I guess. I hope everyone enjoys this newest chapter.
Ever yours,
The Soprano in Shadow
Making her way backstage, her eyes met the golden ones of Erik Destler, and she rushed over to him as the stage crew began to construct the final set for the opera.
"How did everything go?" Erik asked quietly, trying to search her eyes and understand why she seemed so… confused.
"Something isn't right, Mr. Destler. First you were assigned to take care of my client as well, and now this. What is going on?" Christine asked shakily in return, still in shock of what had just happened.
Alarmed, Erik grabbed hold of her shoulders, attempting to try and understand as he tried to calm her down. "What happened, Christine? Tell me." Her name escaped from his lips before it had even registered.
She gazed into his eyes with her own cloudy ones as she said quietly, "He was already dead. Slashed throat. But not with a blade— it looked like someone tore his throat open with something. Like a hook of sorts."
Erik stared at the brunette in disbelief. Antoinette wouldn't pull something like this. And while he knew that little Meg was responsible for assigning him as Christine's second on this long term assignment, he knew that she would never do something to deliberately harm the person she saw as her own flesh and blood.
Which meant that the Organization was in danger. Someone was leaking information.
"I need to call Antoinette as soon as the opera is over. Miss Daae, as soon as the performance is over, I need you to 'fall ill'… It'll only be for tonight. Find Andre and Firmin— they should be at tonight's performance because of the client. Get back to the apartment and wait for me. Don't call anyone. Anyone. Understood? I will contact Antoinette immediately, and alert her. You will be safest there." Christine nodded at the sudden outburst from the eccentric composer before her.
Erik sighed, a headache beginning to form. "Now, I need you to take this out of your mind. We must get through this—the sooner we finish, the sooner you'll be safe. Can you do that for me?" Again Christine nodded, as she walked away from the masked man in a daze.
Then she stopped, turned and gave him a slight smile. "You said my name without me asking. It sounded nice… coming from you."
She left him standing there speechless, as she went to change costumes for the final act. Apparently there was room for two shocked singers backstage that evening.
…
As the leading couple sank through the trap door while the audience above gave a standing ovation, Christine turned and smiled at the young middle-aged composer.
"Well at least you got the audience reaction that you were looking for. I still don't understand why you were so worried."
"The only reason why they are reacting so positively, Miss Daae, is because I gave them their happy ending. How do you think they would have reacted if Aminta had killed herself, but not for her lover? Or, what if Don Juan only saw Aminta as yet another conquest? There would have been no plot. I needed to give the opera a happy ending so that everyone could believe in the possibility of love being that strong," Erik responded almost gruffly as if trying to avoid the topic.
It was back to 'Miss Daae', was it? Christine would almost be amused at the fact that he couldn't say her name… if only she could be amused. She was still shaken up from earlier. Yet… this man not saying her name had shaken her up even more?
Shaking her head to get those thoughts out of her head, Christine gathered her skirts up and began to walk back toward the stage—they would be sorely needed at curtain call after all, and Christine was never one to disappoint her public. Besides, she refused to think of the composer as nothing more than her partner for the next three months. And fake lover, "fake" being the key word.
Erik kept his pace slower than normal, so that he could allow her space ahead of him to think. He had said too much. He had pushed her away, without even meaning to. Mentally, Erik berated himself for not thinking before speaking. He could almost imagine poor Luciana smiling at him mockingly. Idiotic girl.
As the applause from the audience grew closer, Erik placed his hand on her arm to stop her for only a second. "You'll go back to the apartment like we agreed, right? I'll be right there in an hour or two." Erik saw the back of her head nod, and then released her, as she made her way on stage. Apparently everyone had been waiting for them.
Erik led his leading lady forward as the soprano sank into a deep curtsy, and he himself gave a bow as a formal gesture of thanking the house. Joining hands with the rest of the singers, conductor and both musical and stage directors, everyone bowed as the audience continued roaring their appreciation of the opera. Again, Erik and Christine stepped forward and acknowledged their audience.
Another five minutes in front of the curtain, and Christine was ready to be done. She was feeling too warm in even her simple country costume, and the lights were making her feel dizzy under their heat.
"Mr. Destler, I'm not feeling quite well. I think I need to head back to the apartment and lie down for some time."
The composer looked at her, and realized that she wasn't just saying this to leave the opera house—she really was feeling ill.
"Alright. Have some tea. I'll be back shortly." The composer walked into his own dressing room, as she walked to hers, in order to undress and clean off all of the makeup. However he was not in there alone.
"Everyone out. Please!" Erik snapped, needing—no, craving—to be alone. No one else needed to see this. As the few makeup professionals and assistants hurried out, Erik closed the door with a slam, and then sank heavily into his chair. He slid his mask off and stared back at the reflection in the mirror.
He was a horror.
How could that beautiful young soprano ever love him? Erik shook his head in disbelief at his own idiotic dreams, as he began wiping off the makeup he had applied earlier. Any thoughts of wanting her needed to be crushed. Now. She would never love him. Not after seeing what was under the mask. Which is why she could never see this.
The door swung open—in his haste to be left alone, Erik had forgotten to lock it. The woman of his thoughts had come barging in, barely giving the now unmasked man the time to hide the monstrosity of his face. All he could do was sit in shock and stare at the soprano's reaction in the mirror. "Mr. Destler, I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I—Oh!"
Christine looked up, and saw his face in the mirror. She stared at the part Grecian God, part… disfigured. It looked as though someone had burned his flesh off, and then mutilated what was left of it. But that was it. Was that all he had been trying to hide?
Erik watched her face as she looked at his, hungrily waiting for her to faint, or to scream.
But that never came.
"I understand now, Mr. Destler," Christine said quietly, closing the door behind her and locking it quickly so that no one else could see his reflection. "The happy ending of Don Juan was never for the audience, was it? I've performed in your works enough to know that you would never only give half of yourself for each opera just to make the audience happy. You always give them everything, whether they want it or not. That ending was for—"
"Me. Yes. I thought that maybe I could believe that there is an Aminta out there who is willing to show love for this wretched and monstrous Don Juan," Erik spat out angrily, as he sprang out of his chair, and paced menacingly towards the soprano.
She didn't even flinch.
"Why aren't you screaming? Or fainting? You certainly caused a scene at the restaurant the other evening! Why not cause one now? Why not show everyone what a monster I am!" Erik shouted, demanding to know. This girl could get shaken up because her client was already dead, but she wasn't shaken up about staring Death in the face?
Quietly she approached the tense man. "May I?" she asked quietly. Seeing him nod, she reached up and cupped the disfigured cheek of the other assassin.
"Why are you alright with this, Miss Daae?" He asked in response to her touch. He was amazed at how calm she was being. No one was ever calm. This is why he worked alone.
"When you're forced to watch your father being murdered," she responded in equal calmness, "you open your eyes to everything else in the world."
He stood there looking at her silently.
"I just wanted to let you know that I was leaving, and to ask Antoinette to call me after you have spoken to her," Christine said as she turned and unlocked the door. "Oh and Mr. Destler? You're still one of the most attractive men I've seen. Don't let anyone else make you feel anything less."
And then she was gone.
Erik sat down on the plush couch that had been housed within his dressing room, as he grabbed his mask. Pulling out his cell phone, Erik dialed the mistress of the Organization.
"Antoinette? It's me. I don't care if it's two in the bloody morning over there. I need to be on the next redeye out there. We need to talk."
…
He had never returned to the apartment, and she had never called. It had been thirteen hours since she had walked in on him, and there was nothing. No news, no explanations, nothing. The opera house had called to congratulate her on the premiere last night, and then informed her that the opera tonight was cancelled because the composer himself called due to her "illness". Which meant that he wasn't intending to return. At least not today.
Christine sat on the leather couch in the living room, waiting. Andre and Firmin had already given up trying to stay awake, and were now asleep. They would probably wake up soon, but that didn't really matter. So now it was just her sitting there. Alone.
Again.
Christine hated being alone. As much as she was a loner in the Organization, she enjoyed her day job so much, for the sole reason of simply wanting to be around others. And just when she had thought that she and Mr. Destler could maybe become friends, he disappears.
The brunette sighed as she reached into her sweatpants and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She knew exactly who to call.
…
Meg glanced at her phone and audibly gulped as she saw who it was – her best friend, basically her sister. Looking up, Meg watched the scene unfold between her mother and the masked assassin within her mother's office, as the two could be faintly heard shouting through the soundproofed office.
Her mother had sternly instructed her to neither answer nor make any calls to Christine. She watched as the call ended, and the missed call notification appeared.
An idea popped into her mind: her mother never said that she couldn't text Christine. She also didn't mention that she couldn't send any recordings to Christine either. Grinning in triumph, Meg held her phone up and clicked 'record'. This was definitely a conversation that was worth hearing.
"I don't care if I need to be there for the opera! I'll move the debut to another opera house and hire another soprano! I can't work with her! It's not like you're the one who signed the transfer! Make it can count as void!" Erik shouted.
But Antoinette was never one to be shouted at without spitting words back. "You've already started the job. I can't brief anyone else about this, and you certainly can't move your opera somewhere else. How do you think Christine would feel about that?"
"I think she'd survive," the masked composer mumbled.
"What about the event at the premiere? It's no coincidence that someone else hit her client first. She'll need you. If we have a leak within the Organization, then she needs to be kept safe in case of emergency. We don't know who we're dealing with, or who they're targeting."
The composer seethed. "I'm no one's babysitter, Antoinette! I have better things to do than lounge about in New York, killing off easy nobodies in order to keep one bloody prima donna safe!"
The sound of someone being slapped echoed within the feared Madame's office. After that, Meg could hear nothing else of their conversation as Antoinette had seen her daughter listening outside and they had lowered their voices. Shrugging, the blonde ended the recording, sending the clip off in a message to her best friend, and wandered off to find a sparring partner.
"Antoinette, she's seen me. I can't be around her. She's just so…" Erik trailed off, unable to express his thoughts. "I've been composing again in my mind, Antoinette, because of her. It's not safe. She's not safe."
The stern woman's expression softened. Was he falling in love with her? "Erik, not every woman is like Luciana. However, you are also susceptible to falling for every woman you have worked with."
"This is only the second time, Antoinette, and it's different," Erik said quietly, "when we kissed tonight… even though it was on stage, there was something there. As though I wasn't the only one who had felt it as well. I can't work well if I'm under the influence of a woman who won't… want to…you know. We both know that. I only want to be there if she wants me there, and not just some other second."
"Erik…have you even asked her if she wanted someone else?"
Erik ran his hand through his hair in frustration—that was beside the point. "Look, just send someone else to her, and I can work on my own clients alone, alright? Exactly like I'm supposed to."
Antoinette rolled her eyes—getting her point across to this man was starting to become tiresome. "Let me try and make you understand this: because of our previous Board meeting, the Organization has decided to assign specific pairs that will be finalized soon. I was hoping that the two of you could work out your differences and be good partners. No other woman is willing to work with you because of Luciana's death, and no man can deal with you because of your temper. Well, except for the de Chagny boy." Antoinette smirked evilly as she saw him wince.
"Christine or Blondielocks. Either way, you get stuck with one of them. Your choice."
…
"…better things to do than lounge about in New York, killing off easy nobodies in order to keep one bloody prima donna safe!"
Christine sat there stiff as she continued to rewind and playback that one statement over and over.
"…babysitter…better things to do…killing off easy nobodies…keep one bloody prima donna safe!"
She didn't know whether to be angry or sad.
But she was definitely hurt.
Hurt because she had tried to reach out to him, and he turned around and said this about her. Angry because he had just upped and left. And sad? Sad because he promised he would be back in an hour or two. And he had never come back.
It had almost been twenty-four hours now. She should probably try and get some sleep. If he didn't care enough about her, then he wasn't coming back. In a burst of anger, Christine threw her phone against the living room wall, causing a dent in the wallpaper, and a crack on the phone's screen. It didn't matter—she could always get another one. Dejectedly, Christine trudged past the couple playing chess in their kitchen before slamming the door to her bedroom behind her. Sleep for her would probably be best at this point for everyone.
Firmin looked towards Christine's door worriedly. "Will she be alright, Andre? We warned him not to hurt her…"
Andre shook his head. In this sort of case, he had no idea what to do. He believed that he understood the masked composer's frustrations, however neither man knew what had occurred the evening before in said composer's dressing room. "Let's just leave them for now, Firmin. We'll intercede when the time is right. We'll never let her be hurt like that ever again. Check."
Firmin moved his knight in order to protect his king from getting captured. "Maybe we should call Raoul? He would know what the best thing for her would be. He is her best friend after all."
Andre gave him a look as he moved his queen to take out the knight. "Check."
Firmin moved his queen.
"Checkmate."
Firmin pouted. "That's not fair! You won again! You always win. If you loved me…"
"No, I wouldn't let you win. Then you wouldn't get better. Chess is very good for helping one's mind grow."
"Are you calling my brain immature?" The front door being closed interrupted their petty bickering, as they both turned to see who had entered.
"Mr. Destler? I thought you weren't…" Firmin trailed off at the warning look that his partner gave him. Best not to interfere.
"Good evening, Andre and Firmin. Do you know where Miss Daae is? We have things that need to be discussed," the composer said tiredly as he fell onto the exact same spot on the sofa where Christine had been sitting. Glancing down, he saw the phone on the floor, and the phone sized mark in the wall. "Do I want to know what happened?"
Andre raised his eyebrows, as he reached down to pick up the object of Christine's earlier rage. "Why, are you going to just assume that she's being childish again?"
Erik looked at him in confusion. "What?"
Giving him another look, Andre turned with Christine's phone in hand and headed to the soprano's room, unaware that he was being followed. It would be best for her to know that Erik was back. He shook her gently, and instantly felt bad for disturbing her after she emitted a tired groan.
"This better be good, Andre. I was sleeping," Christine said flatly, not realizing that she had more than one visitor.
"I'm surprised. I would have expected you to be an early riser. Not a lazy singer." Christine froze at the sound of Erik's voice, then she was out of bed instantly.
"What are you doing in here, Mr. Destler?" she asked quietly, trying to keep her temper in check, "I don't appreciate unannounced guests in my bedroom."
"I just wanted to check and make sure you were still alive. Excuse me for caring," Erik snapped, turning his back to leave.
What he least expected was to feel the tip of a cold blade pressed against the nape of his neck. He turned around to see Christine's eyes lit with fire.
"Excuse you for caring? Really? You want to go with that? What, did Antoinette send you back here crawling, because she wouldn't let you leave this assignment?" Christine asked angrily as she pressed the blade a bit too close to his jugular for emphasis.
"What are you talking about? I've been out all day running errands—" Erik was cut off by a howl of outrage that he didn't know the soprano had in her.
"You're choosing to lie right now? Really?" Christine tried to stay in control of herself. "What gives you the right to lie? You didn't give a damn about my safety twelve hours ago, or you would have been here! And now you think you can come traipsing in here telling me that you were running errands?"
How did she know that he was lying? "You wouldn't know the difference between me telling the truth or lying, would you?" Erik sneered. "You've probably been snoring your pretty little head off since you got back last night. Prima donna all around, that's for sure."
Christine lost all sense of control just then and exploded, shouting with every fiber of energy she had left. "You bastard! Get out! Get out now!" Alarmed, the composer backed out of her room and into the hallway. She still had more of a temper hidden in that tiny body? "Don't you ever come back in here again, or even assume that we're friends. In fact, you better start watching your back now, Mr. Destler, otherwise you might find a blade sticking into it one of these days!"
Adding emphasis, she slammed the door in his face, and instantly Erik could hear Andre trying his best to soothe the crying woman. A few minutes later, once her crying had subsided, Andre came out of the soprano's room, still holding her phone, and glared at him.
"You really are a complete and utter fool, you know that? I don't know what you did, but we're not helping you get back into her good graces again. You don't deserve help." Andre walked off to gossip with Firmin, but not before thrusting the woman in question's phone into his hands. "I don't know what made her so angry, but obviously something in this was the cause of it."
Startled, Erik was barely able to manage a nod before Andre left to search for his lover. Glaring down at the phone, Erik walked quickly to his room, trying to not disturb the harpy who rested in her lair. Closing the door behind him, he flopped onto his bed, and began to explore the singer's phone. Peering through her text messages, Erik opened the most recent one then sat up in alarm as he realized that Meg had been the one to send it.
Hey Cat, not allowed to make/answer calls from you. Mom being weird. Masked cutie is here though. Thought you'd want to hear this. Stay strong, luv. xx
He took a deep breath before pressing play, and the room was instantly flooded with his own voice.
"I don't care if I need to be there for the opera! I'll move the debut to another opera house and hire another soprano! I can't work with her! It's not like you're the one who signed the transfer! Make it count as void… better things to do than lounge about in New York, killing off easy nobodies in order to keep one bloody prima donna safe!"
The recording ended there.
Erik closed his eyes in annoyance. If course this would happen to him. Silly girl. Silly, little Megan. Erik would be having words with her very soon.
However, he would have to admit: this wasn't her fault. It was his own. Although he had said those things out of anger, he shouldn't have shouted, knowing that everyone directly outside of Antoinette's office could probably hear him. He also probably shouldn't have said them in the first place.
Now he would have to make this up to her, and frankly Erik had no idea where to begin.
