Hello there!
So for those of you who read Chapter 10 earlier, you most likely have not heard my sad news: my beloved Mac decided to go swimming the other day and is completely dead. Fortunately I was able to rescue the hard drive, and I've transferred everything onto my boyfriend's laptop. Anyway, here's some additional information about the fanfic.
As you all might have noticed, the rating for La Diva Assassina has changed from T to M. This is because of not only coarse language most likely showing up sooner or later, but also because of Christine's past. I haven't decided on whether or not I will be adding some lemons to this fanfic, however if I do decide to go forward with that route, then I'll be sure to let all of you know first. My apologies for anyone who only reads T-rated fics, however if you have any concerns or questions, feel free to contact me via PM. Happy reading, darlings!
Ever yours,
Soprano in Shadow
What transpired between the two assassins during the following week could be seen as an uneasy truce. Both saw the other through an unsettled gaze, as they wrapped up the opening week of Erik's operatic triumph.
However, neither of them could see how much of a triumph they were as a pair, being too busy stepping around the other. When one would cross the path of the other, the latter would make the quickest of excuses and leave the vicinity. Flushed cheeks and guilty exchanges of looks could be seen within the apartment, enough to drive any pair of men crazy. How would the assassins be able to work with each other if they couldn't stand to be in the same room?
Erik was mortified. He didn't know what had been going through his mind when he had kissed the sleeping brunette, however he was feeling guiltier with every entrance and every scrap of physical contact he was forced to make with the soprano on stage. He felt as though he didn't even deserve to be in the woman's presence.
And so he avoided her.
Christine was confused. She wasn't sure why, but upon waking up the morning after the dinner, Christine felt as though she had missed something. And she had dreamed about the eccentric composer—horrid and naughty dreams that her papa certainly wouldn't have been proud of. She dreamt that he had kissed her. Over and over again, that same dream had repeated. Christine felt childish and embarrassed: no other man had ever dulled her senses so quickly like this…except for one other. Him.
And so she avoided him.
It wasn't the fact that she was naïve or an innocent—this career path didn't really leave much of that intact, no matter how long you were part of the Organization. Everyone within its employment had to make sacrifices for the good of mankind. Even Christine did. But no matter what clients she had been given, and no matter what sacrifices she had to make, whether or not it involved her body, the one thing she held sacred were her lips. She would never allow a mere client to sully them with their own, and in turn, Christine saw them as pure and untouched. Until her first kiss with the composer on opening night. On stage. Did that even count?
She had decided not to meet Erik for an early morning spar the next day, instead opting to hide in her room for most of the day, deciding that heaping immaturity over the situation was the best route to go. He had decided that she must have figured out why he was avoiding her, his sneak-in kiss, and so he decided to remain silent and guilty until she confronted him.
Andre and Firmin were at their wits' ends. Andre would rather have the duo at each other's necks in anger, instead of this awkward dance of avoidance. Firmin moaned that the tension would cause his hair to get split ends from all of the stress, and spent most of his time that week immersed in bubble baths as he made phone calls to various people of interest while pruning.
Until, finally, the opening week was over. Normally, operas would never even have a full opening week in one opera house—with a few operas opening per week. However, Erik Destler had the money to finance that sort of project, and that money was always returned to him and doubled or tripled with the help of a full house for every curtain. Don Juan Triumphant would now only be performed two evenings and one matinee a week, with some of the classic operas performed between those nights for the remainder of the contracted two months.
"Enough!" Andre roared at the composer who had just slunk out of the kitchen and into the library, after making contact with a disheveled but awake Christine. Apparently the soprano needed to sleep in until early that afternoon, although the composer couldn't blame her one bit. The evening before had been their last on stage together for a few days, and the soprano had been looking more and more exhausted after each showing.
"Why can't you just act like a bloody man and talk to her? This silence is childish. Neither of you has spoken to the other for the last four days, and it is exhausting—Firmin has practically become a raisin spending his hours in the tub, and it's just not attractive."
"No." Despite the composer's determination to try and find a book, Andre's persisting voice was nagging at his conscience.
"But Erik," Andre whined (and Andre never whined) switching tactics, "Christine always looks so sad. And I don't know what to do about it. She hasn't sparred at all or spoken with me about killing anyone. All she does is sit around, eat and meditate. I want my little energetic Cat back."
"No."
"But Erik." Andre stretched Erik's name out even longer this time, knowing that the composer despised childish antics, despite his own current attitude this past week.
"Dammit!" Erik shoved the book back into its place on the shelf and marched back into the kitchen. There he saw the young soprano meditating…on the kitchen counter.
"You!" the composer thundered at the brunette, causing her eyes to snap open. "You will change into some sparring clothes, grab your damn blades and come with me. Immediately." His voice allowed for no argument. "We are going to bloody spar, and sort this…this thing out between us. Andre is right. This is no way for us to act, when we're not only supposed to be in love on stage, but also outside in public. Unless you're sabotaging this assignment?"
The challenge in the baritone's voice snapped the brunette back from her earlier sullen mood, the fire in her spirit catching flame once more as she stood up on the kitchen counter, in order to tower over the angered composer. "Fine," she snapped. "Just don't blame me if I land you in the hospital, you egotistical, self-centered, arrogant… pig!" With that, the petite soprano jumped off the counter, stomped to her room, and slammed the door shut, only for her to appear a few minutes later in street clothes, a backpack and the same black trench coat Erik had seen her wearing the night they had first met.
Without another word, the composer strode to the living room and out the door with the soprano, muttering different ways to kill the composer under her breath, hot on his heels.
The door slamming shut behind the dueling pair, Andre smiled as he chuckled to himself. Those kids are going to have a blast.
…
Still muttering under her breath, Christine shrugged her street clothes off before changing into a more flexible outfit: spandex yoga shorts and a sports bra. Not only was she winning this spar, but she was going to make that damn arrogant composer regret that he hadn't taken his mask off the night before. And what was up with how he had been acting all week? The minute they were offstage, the baritone was gone, and his door was securely locked. Barely there, he was almost like a phantom shrouded in mystery. No communication. No explanation. Nothing.
"Why is it that I always pick the insecure bastards?" Christine asked herself, twisting her hair into a loose bun that would keep her hair out of the way. Who knew that within almost two weeks, she would have gone from admiring this composer from afar, to despising him, to…falling for him? Was she falling for him? Christine honestly wasn't sure. Yes, there were sparks, but there was no tinder to, so to speak, catch and nurture those sparks. And that's where Christine was confused. But she would get her answers—she wasn't one of the Organization's top assassins for nothing.
Donning a pair of lightweight grip gloves, Christine walked out of the locker room holding her daisho by the hilts, and was met with the sight of the silent baritone stretching. Clothed only in lightweight sweatpants. Christine swallowed—with no one else in the dojo, Christine could see this spar going in two completely different directions. Pasting on a smile that would smolder the heart of any man,
Erik's eyes widened for only a moment as he watched the fiery hellcat saunter out of the women's locker room, wearing barely anything. Pro: it would be a lot easier to nick her with his blade. Con: that outfit was distracting, and she knew it.
"So, Erik," the soprano purred, bringing out as much of her assassin technique as she dared, with her specialty being seduction assassinations. Despite her father's last wishes, Christine had decided that she wanted the most dangerous of clients. If she wouldn't deal with them, who would?
"Christine." Erik's tone was both distant and abrupt, as he continued stretching, letting her know that he meant business and wouldn't be distracted easily. Perfect. He might have hidden it quickly, but Christine had caught a glimpse of that wide-eyed look.
She crouched down to his level, playing with one blade's hilt, offering a smirk. "So how would you like to play this little game, hmm?"
So this is how she wanted to play? The baritone stood from his stretching, katana in hand."This spar will not end until one of us admits defeat."
If Christine hadn't been so determined to maintain her façade, she would have doubled over and laughed at how serious the man before her was acting. They were as opposite as day and night: he the stoic composer, she the seductive soprano. If they weren't so keen on fighting each other all of the time, they could have become Antoinette's deathly duo.
They could still become that.
Blades clashed as Christine had rushed forward in order to attack, not even bothering to respond to Erik. The blade of the composer's katana barely fended off the blow. Focus, dammit, Erik silently gnashed to himself.
Her feet dancing away from the attack, Christine smirked again as she crouched back into a defense pose. Angered by being caught unawares, Erik rushed forward to attack, only to be easily blocked off by Christine's longer blade. Twisting inward towards the composer, Christine thrust her shorter blade in, hoping to at least scratch him along the stomach. However, catching her distracted for a moment, Erik hooked his foot behind her ankle causing the brunette to trip.
Flipping herself back up, Christine barely had time to stabilize her own center of gravity before Erik began attacking her with intensity, forcing Christine to stay in a defensive position.
Finally, she was able to slip her own longer blade in for an attack. Their blades crossed above them, resulting in their bodies almost pressing together. Erik hissed in aggravation, as he pushed away from their pose. That was too close for comfort.
"Do not assume you can beat me so easily! I am not known as one of the deadliest assassins for nothing, Miss Daae."
Laughing for a moment, Christine glanced at his rose tattoo. Did he still not know the secret behind these roses?
"Obviously you were trained by Antoinette, but did you by any chance hear of the name 'Black Jackal'?" Christine asked, while watching him as a panther eyes its prey.
Erik stared at her for a moment before letting his katana drop by his leg, closing his eyes and reciting the information of the legendary killer by memory. "Black Jackal: Widower. Known for his quick footwork, and given the reputation of being the best assassin at the Organization. He was also known for avoiding Organization students who begged him to be their trainer, although he was known to accept only one student while he was still active. Now, his location is unknown, as he retired from the Organization early on. But what does that matter?" Erik demanded to know.
"Did Antoinette teach you nothing about the roses? They tell a lot about us, but only if you know how to read them properly. A dark red tattoo means that you were trained by Antoinette herself—only several people have had that honor. When an assassin is allowed to train others, he or she chooses their own color of the rose. That color rose is then tattooed on the students you accept, upon their first successful kill. And then the cycle continues."
Erik huffed. He didn't come here to talk about the Organization with the soprano—he had come here to spar and sort out their feelings.
"And that matters, because?"
"Because, I am the only one you will ever see who wears the dark silver tattoo. Ever."
Erik looked at her confused. Was there a purpose to this?
"Are you that dimwitted? The 'Black Jackal' only accepted one student. I am the only one who carries the dark silver rose."
"You are the 'Black Jackal's' only student? He wasted his efforts on you?" Perhaps Erik shouldn't have said that, but he was hurt. While he may not have admitted it out loud, Erik had been one of those who had begged the Jackal to train him.
"Wasted his efforts? Are you kidding?" In her anger, Christine sent her shorter blade into the air, as the blade landed right before his feet. "He was my father, you inconsiderate, arrogant... jerk! Of course he would train me above everyone else."
Erik lifted his blade up and studied the soprano before him intently. It was never recorded officially that the Black Jackal had chosen a student, although in this situation, he doubted that Antoinette would have a problem with her top assassin bending the rules.
"For someone who studied under the legendary Black Jackal, I'm surprised at your lack of… skills." Erik said. He smirked, knowing that a statement like that would most likely get a rise out of the petite brunette.
To his surprise, Christine only smiled as she brought her remaining blade up to a defensive position with one hand, and beckoned him on with the other. Encouraged by her silent composure, Erik rushed forward to spring an attack, energized by his earlier frustrations with the woman.
He should have guessed that she had been holding back.
Using his forward momentum to her advantage, Christine pivoted on her leading foot, and began a flurry of attacks aimed at the back of her pursuer. The whistling sound of her blade, left the composer in shock. Had she been holding back since Day One?
A sharp cut against his back brought Erik back to the dojo's space, as a line of blood began to appear along the back of his torso. Looking back at the brunette's victorious smirk, Erik realized that while he may have beaten the soprano before, Christine was indeed a worthy challenger.
Flipping away from the petite brunette, Erik chose to distance himself in order to study Christine further. She must have some weakness somewhere.
Still smirking at his incredulous and cautious behavior, Christine took the time to pick up her shorter blade, before once more settling into yet another pose, waiting again for Erik to make his move.
However this time, Erik was careful. He approached her cautiously, choosing this time to plan out his attacks instead of relying on his anger. He didn't quite understand why he was reacting this easily—normally his attacks were calculated, cold and precise. So what made this sparring session so different? Was it because of who his opponent was? Or was it because he was getting rusty from his lack of practice in New York?
Moving into a pose himself, Erik stood there for a moment, then did the one thing that Christine least expected. He stood back up, gave a deep bow, and walked off to the men's locker rooms, leaving the soprano watching him dumbfounded.
…
Fastening a pair of dark, washed jeans, Erik hummed an excerpt from his opera as he wiped on his deodorant. All that remained was to wait for his wound to dry so that he wouldn't have to go back to the apartment in a ruined shirt.
With a bang, Erik's front was slammed into the locker cubbies adjacent to his own, his hands held against the metal frame. The cold tip of a blade was barely brushed against his back, as it trailed up, stopping at the back of his neck.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Erik had three priorities: identify the attacker, break free and then disarm.
"I don't expect most men to walk away from a spar, just because they're fighting against a girl, Mr. Destler, least of all you. I actually thought you would give me a fair challenge. Instead? You choose to just walk away. Am I not challenge enough? Am I not worthy? Is that what this is about?" Christine's voice had traded in its normal soft and sultry tone in exchange for a steely one. Obviously, she was angry. "I want answers, Mr. Destler. I want to know why you've been avoiding me. I want to know why you've barely spoken to me, and what this distance is between us. If you have a problem with me, then I'd rather you come out and be frank about it."
Erik sighed at the first hint of her voice. He had upset her again—the one thing he had tried to avoid.
"Christine, this had nothing to do with your worthiness, in fact, just the opposite. I believe that, at the moment, I have met my match: You. I said that this spar would end when one of us admitted defeat, and I did. As for the reason why I have been avoiding you, I would prefer if we could actually sit down and put everything out in the open. However, I believe now is not the time. We do have our assignments while we're here in New York, and we might as well start now. Now please, Christine, let me go." The composer's tone was honest and direct, and the brunette knew that what he had said was true.
Feeling the lack of blade against his neck, Erik turned around to find the soprano gone. Instead, Christine had left a short stack of notecards, each with an address. Addresses that he had seen on some of his clients' files.
He understood her message instantly. They had work to do.
