Hello there,
My apologies for this chapter taking its time... I've been interning, sleeping and, ultimately, procrastinating. I really hope that all of you enjoy this chapter- while I did procrastinate, I did put a lot of passion and depth into this chapter.
I also wanted to say that this chapter marks the beginning of the "M" rating. For those who were reading this when it was still rated T, and are continuing to read this, I just wanted to say thank you for all of your support. Also, this chapter is rated for some light lemon situations: I would advise you "T" readers to avoid anything in italics until you see a set of rather famous words. You can read the standard text in between italicized moments, but you have been fairly warned.
Lastly, don't forget to review! Review, review, review! It makes me happy when I read what all of you have to say about what I've written, whether it's good or bad.
Have a wonderful remainder of the week, darlings!
Ever yours,
Soprano in Shadow
Christine lounged against the leather seat smiling coyly at the man seated next to her, as the limo made its way up Broadway from Chelsea. Her dark curls had been replaced with fiery flat ironed, and already, the soprano was hoping that this encounter wouldn't last too long. The man sitting next to her was middle-aged, athletic… and also the main man behind the recent attacks on Manhattan's MTA system. He was also apparently quite attracted to redheads and professional cheerleaders—both in the forefront of her current disguise.
Apparently he wasn't as attracted to anything, from what Christine could see, other than his beloved Blackberry. Ever since she had conveniently bumped into him at his local lunching spot- a family owned French bakery- he had done nothing except talk business the whole limo ride uptown on the West side of Central Park. They should be approaching his large apartment in approximately two minutes, the normally brunette woman guessed. Deciding that this… situation needed to be given a little bit of heat, Christine began to watch the taxi dotted street while allowing her hand to creep up onto the salt-and-pepper-haired man's leg, stopping mid-thigh. His response into the phone was cut short when he turned to look at her for a moment (as if she had just magically dropped from the sky and landed on the leather seat), before squeezing her hand in response and continuing his conversation.
So much for that trick.
Christine closed her eyes, beginning to think through several initial plans, before going through each of these and forming a backup plan for every scenario she could predict at that moment. The secret to the assassin's success in this business was not being beautiful, but being a strategist. She saw herself as the type of woman who could make any man believe that he held power over her, when in reality she could pull any of the strings that came attached.
Men were her playthings. Not in a sexual way by choice, but they were easy to control once a woman discovered how to make them sing. And while it may have been the assassin talking right at that moment, Christine had to admit that this was the way she preferred men. She wanted to be in control. Otherwise, a man could easily wreak havoc and cause more damage than any woman ever could. She may have been jaded, but Christine also had the reasons and the experience to be so. No man could ever be trusted, and so she would rather play with their hearts than give them hers.
The image of a certain masked man popped in her mind, and the brunette huffed in annoyance, causing the businessman to look at her questioningly. Smiling in the way that could make her seem like a placated cow, Christine waited for the businessman to continue his conversation, before allowing her mind to delve into that train of thought. Erik was as uncontrollable as he was reliable, and while he had run away from his duties once before, Christine had to grudgingly admit that he had returned. Did that mean he could be trusted?
Erik had mentioned that he wanted to speak with her once they had taken care of their separate responsibilities, but was that because he honestly wished to speak with her, or because she had held him at knifepoint? The businessman next to her coughed for a moment, before resuming his conversation once more.
The businessman.
In all honesty, Christine had completely forgotten her client's name, something that she had never managed to do before—she blamed Erik for that. The limo pulled to a halt alongside an apartment complex complete with a doorman. Christine wondered if in the time it took the driver to step out of the vehicle himself and open the door, she could shove the Blackberry down the businessman's throat. The soprano could tell already that her patience was wearing thin—this would have to be a quickie.
The driver opened the door allowing the now redhead to step out onto the ever bustling sidewalk with the businessman close behind. Pretending to be unsure of where to go, Christine moved to the side, in order to allow the businessman a chance to lead the way. Following him into the building, Christine wasn't the least surprised to discover that the building itself was pre-war, a feature that a man like him could easily afford. The man's constant talk of price negotiation was causing the redhead to curl her hand into a fist, as the elevator slowly took its time moving upward to the twenty-third floor. Craving to punch the man and then stomp on the mobile until it crumbled to pieces, Christine opted to brush off invisible dust from her revealing little white dress—yet another outfit styled by Andre. The elevator proclaimed its arrival with a short ding, and the pair reached the door of the sole apartment on the floor: his. At least the assassin wouldn't have to deal with any nosy neighbors.
Finally, the businessman ended his phone call, once Christine had made herself comfortable on the grey couch. The apartment had been decorated tastefully, albeit a bit too minimalist for the soprano's colorful tastes. Lacking the warmth normally found in other professionally decorated apartments across the city, Christine could automatically tell that this apartment was rarely used for entertaining…at least in the "social, clothes kept on at all points of the event" sort of entertaining.
"So, you're a Dallas cheerleader, hmm?" The businessman asked smugly, and already Christine knew two things: the man was originally from Brooklyn by the sound of his accent, and he really didn't know how to multitask.
Fluttering her eyelashes, Christine put on her best Texan drawl as she stood up and closed the short amount of distance between them. "That's raht, sugah. But Ah just wish that y'all could meet mah friends back home. We c'ud have so much fun," she said pouting, while running her fingers across his suit.
Looking decidedly bored at her attempts to seduce him, the businessman stepped away from Christine for a moment, and motioned to a darkened hallway. "Go and find the bedroom. I want you ready by the time I get there," the impatient man snapped, before heading over to his bar and pouring himself a glass of some vile liquid.
Christine added in some extra sway to her hips, knowing that the man was admiring her from behind, as she walked through the hallway, until she finally located what looked like the master bedroom. Slipping out from underneath the dress, Christine spent a moment adjusting her matching mint colored lingerie, and the vial of poison that she kept hidden within her obnoxiously pushed-up bra, before wandering about his bedroom. Noticing a doorway open, Christine discovered the businessman's bathroom. Turning the light on, Christine walked over to the mirror and pulled out the vial of poison. She would have to act fast if she wanted to get this over with. Unscrewing the top of the vial, Christine poured a small amount onto a few fingers, before dabbing it on the sides of her neck, and in the valley between her breasts, before deciding to stop there. The poison needed to be fed to him orally, and from the looks of him, Christine doubted that this man would go any lower than her belly button. Returning back to the bedroom, Christine looked around once more, trying to find some personal object that could help her remember the businessman's damn name. Spying an envelope lying on his dresser, Christine skimmed the front of it for a name. Martin.
How…utterly boring.
The sound of a man clearing his throat caused Christine to turn around and face the busi- no, Martin, and offer him a sultry smile before making her way over to the bed.
"So, Mahtin, what are y'all doin' all the way over ther'?" Christine asked, dropping her voice down a pitch in the hopes that the businessman would be encouraged.
…
The woman fell from Erik's arms—her mouth fixed in a silent "Oh" and a bullet hole right between her frozen shocked eyes—and landed on the bed with a soft "fwoosh". Erik smirked as he began to get up from his place on the bed, and proceeded to look for his clothes. Finding all but his boxers, the composer scowled at the inconvenience of this whole assignment: he was not one to ever walk in public while going commando. Erik had too much pride for that. Instead, the masked man began to crawl on the floor, his hand reaching underneath the bed. Feeling cloth material on the carpet, Erik hurriedly pulled them out, only to discover a lace thong, belonging to the now late extortionist, instead of his dark blue boxers.
Huffing in annoyance, Erik opened the briefcase that lay beside the bed, and tossed it in—it was probably wise to not leave any sort of evidence lying about. Moving the thong to the side, Erik stared wistfully at his black mask, already feeling naked enough as it was. It didn't matter that he was already unclothed—without the safety of his black mask, Erik didn't feel like the arrogant composer who had taken the operatic world with a single opera. It didn't matter that he had a flesh toned mask on his face in order to hide the monstrosity. That mask always made him feel uncomfortable, as though he were looking in a mirror, but seeing another man instead of his reflection. Either way, the baritone would have to wait until he was clear of the hotel before switching masks, in order to not be recognized.
This was all Antoinette's fault. Erik cursed the older woman, as he finally found the missing boxers that had been tossed unceremoniously on top of a lamp shade. So what if she was right about Erik's mask being a dead giveaway? Although, according to the dead woman before him, he was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen.
Practically purring, the woman licked her lips as she circled an unclothed Erik in order to gain a better view. "I have never seen such physique on a man before! Perhaps after today, we could see each other more…regularly, hmm?"
"Whatever you desire, ma'am," the assassin responded smoothly, his rich voice sending tingles up the woman's spine, all the while glaring at the briefcase that had accompanied his assignment. If only he could distract the woman in order to grab his gun. This woman, Melinda Beaufort, was well known for extorting a large sum of money from the government—so large, that the Oval Office had called the Organization, instead of its own men. Like her appetite for money, this woman's hunger for men was insatiable, and she was also known for funding quite a few pleasure businesses. Erik knew why Antoinette refused to replace him on this long term assignment: his methods were effortless, quick and clean.
"Well, why don't you show me what you can do, and if I'm impressed, then I'm sure you'll be justly rewarded by me. I'll give you a moment to… gather your thoughts, shall I?" the blonde asked, as she looked pointedly at what hung between the baritone's legs.
After that most awkward moment, she had soon died, not realizing that the one moment she had given him had been her destruction. Smirking at the memory, Erik began to put on the rest of his clothes. This was why he was such a useful tool to the Organization—he didn't care how he killed, or who. All that mattered to him was that his life and reputation as a composer was never tarnished.
…
Christine hissed in appreciation at the harsh spray from the showerhead. Leaning against the glass door, the brunette was enjoying the hot water, as it washed out the red dye from her hair. It was good to be a brunette again. Not that Christine was abnormally vain—she just enjoyed being her own natural self, instead of changing how she looked to impress others.
She always needed a scalding hot shower after dealing with a client. It helped her believe that she could somehow cleanse herself and wash away the emotional blood that came with the job; while she may be doing good in the world by ending the life of someone bad, killing was still killing. And too much of it could cause even the nicest of people to go mad from the guilt and the nightmares.
Which is why Christine sang. She sang to forget about what she was trained to do, and she sang to help forget the many faces of those she had bled.
Closing her eyes, she had but a moment of peace before flashes of this afternoon came to haunt her, the face of the man she had killed rushing towards her, the skin rotted away in seconds to reveal the skull and tissue beneath.
Letting out a short scream, Christine opened her eyes as she collapsed on the shower tiles, her body scrunched up in a fetal position. Panting heavily, she scrunched her eyes shut once more. Give or take a few minutes, and the nightmare would be over. This always happened after every client. So locked away within her mind was Christine, that she didn't even bother to hear the scuffle outside of her bathroom door.
…
Christine.
Erik sat up the instant he heard a scream, albeit short, before following his instincts and rushing to where the sound had come from. He didn't realize that he had forced himself into the soprano's bedroom, or that he was about to break down the bathroom door. What he did realize was that his subconscious was responding in a way that it never had before. For once it wanted to help someone.
"Mr. Destler!" Andre exclaimed, as he and Firmin appeared at Christine's doorway. They too had heard the scream, although they were less concerned for her, and more for the masked assassin.
Feeling helpless, Erik once more tried to force the door handle, but to no avail.
"She's in trouble! We must…must help her!" Erik said frantically, almost clawing at the door.
"Mr. Destler, you need to let her be. She locked the door for a reason."
"No! Christine! Cannot lose… must… help…" Neither man could understand Erik's broken phrases.
This time Firmin tried his luck. "Erik, Christine always does this. This happens after every client. You need to let her be."
Slowly, Erik regained his senses as he finally listened to what the two older men were saying.
"Let her be, Erik."
But there had to be some way that he could help her.
And so he closed his eyes and sang.
…
Try as she might, Christine knew that she would have to live through the experience once more, but instead of the actual ending, the nightmare would transform into something more ghoulish.
"Do you like those?" Martin asked her, his expression turning dark with hunger, watching from above as Christine could only look back helplessly. The businessman had never said anything about bondage!
Hiding her fear, the redhead only smirked. "Ah'm up for anythin' that's fun, darlin'!" Internally, she groaned—why was it that she always ended up with the odd ones? Here she was thinking this would be a quick kill, when in reality this was taking much longer than expected. He hadn't even tried to touch her body, only admiring the view as she was tied up in leather bondage cuffs. She needed to get out of this demoralizing position, and find a way to gain control of situation.
Offering a cold and sinister smile in response, Martin turned towards his dresser, only to return with his glass of whiskey as he took a sip admiring his handiwork.
His words were drowned out, as his form twisted and turned until it became the form of another man entirely. Him. The demon that appeared and turned every dream she had ever held dear into ash, blood and tears. The man she had given her heart to, only for it to be crushed into piece from being stabbed in the back.
The man walked over, chuckled coldly, and hissed into her ear, "Now, Christine, didn't I teach you to never let someone else take advantage of your weaknesses?" The next thing she knew he was forcing his lips onto her own, as he crawled on top of her body. Trying to fight against the taste of whiskey on his breath, Christine bit his lip hard, only for him to offer a cold smirk before sending a trail of kisses down from her jaw line to the area between her breasts, as she cried out, begging him to stop…
Christine screamed again, gripping her head in her hands as she begged out loud to whatever God was out there listening—begging for this nightmare to end. No matter if it was a man or a woman; their form would always change halfway through and change into him.
Tears flowed from her eyes as she shuddered, trying to block out the vision that had come to her. He was dead. He had to be dead—no one could have survived that fire all of those years ago.
Minutes later, as her sniffling began to subside, Christine could dimly hear the sound of a man singing, slowly soothing her broken soul.
"… truth isn't what you want to see.
In the dark it is easy to pretend
that the truth is what it ought to be."
Barely realizing what she was doing, Christine stepped out of the shower, not realizing that water was still pouring from the showerhead, and also raining down onto the bathroom floor. Entranced by the voice that had broken her mind's curse of a nightmare, Christine moved forward slowly, not really realizing what she was doing.
"Softly, deftly, music shall caress you;
hear it, feel it, secretly possess you."
Turning the door handle, the door opened with a click, revealing her savior in the form of an arrogant, yet eccentric masked composer. Erik.
"Open up your mind; let your fantasies unwind,"
Erik continued singing, not realizing that she wasn't wearing anything besides dripping water, only able to stare into her eyes. Her skin was white, as though she had seen a ghost, but at least her breathing had returned to normal.
"in this darkness which you know you cannot fight:
the darkness of the Music of the Night!"
That was all he had been able to compose so far. And all of it had been because of Christine.
As though a spell was broken, Christine collapsed onto Erik's shoulder as she began to cry once more.
"Thank you, Erik," the petite female whispered into his ear between tears. Erik could barely manage a nod in response, so struck by how broken and small she looked. Neither of them realized that Messieurs Andre and Firmin had fled the scene.
…
Sitting cross legged in the living room on her favorite sofa, the soprano closed her eyes, enjoying the hot liquid that was crashing down her throat, burning on the way down. Sighing in happiness at the hot chocolate, Christine opened her eyes, only to find the still ashen-faced composer sitting opposite from her and watching her anxiously, as if she might collapse again.
Silence hung between them before Christine, after licking her lips, spoke. "We should talk about everything."
Silently, Erik nodded once, still observing the brunette. Despite the emotional mask that Erik was trying to wear, Christine could tell: He was coddling her. She had gained enough experience from her two contacts to recognize it.
"Well, do you want to start, or shall I?"
"I could begin, if it'll help take your mind away from everything else for a while," Erik responded, a little too quickly. Christine stared back at him, amazed. If she had known that he could be anything like this, Christine doubted that she would have acted so horribly when they had first met. Nodding, Christine scooted back from the edge of the couch before getting back into a comfortable position.
"I guess everything points back to my childhood," Erik began slowly, trying to formulate an outlined story to tell her. It was all true; however, he wasn't quite sure how much truth he should reveal. "My… mother, Madeline, would probably never receive the 'World's Best Mother' award, but I could never really blame her, what with how I looked. Every time I would request to see her, she would make sure that I was wearing a mask first. I remember when she gave me my first mask—it was more a piece of cloth, with an eyehole cut out, but then the masks she bought were better. I wouldn't call her shallow, but I would call her fearfully vain. She was always watching me when she thought I didn't notice, but she never once told me she loved me, nor did she ever hug me."
Christine let out a small gasp before taking another sip from her mug. How horrible could she have been?
Erik continued his story, his eyes becoming glassy from the memories. "I was told she committed suicide, but I never found her body. From what I could piece together, after borrowing some police files, Madeline's body had washed up on a beach that was close to where we lived—both of her wrists were slit. I had woken up the morning she had first disappeared, and it was weeks before anyone thought to check her house. Right about then was when I first began to compose. Madeline used to throw things at me, never hitting of course, if I went anywhere near the antique piano from her father—she said that she didn't want me to 'spoil it for her', although she had no musical knowledge whatsoever. So when she left, I began to try and play the melodies that were always running through my head, picking out the notes I always heard.
"A friend of my…of Madeline's, named Nadir Kahn, was the one who found me, probably when I was around eight. But instead of running away and spurning me the way that my mother had, he adopted me. He was the one who paid for a private tutor, and when I became interested, he also began to train me in self-defense, then martial arts, then finally he taught me how to spar. I consumed every single piece of information he was willing to give me during the three and a half years I lived with him. What I hadn't known, was that Nadir and Antoinette have been long time old friends, and while she had never met Madeline, she knew exactly what I was capable of, thanks to Nadir. While Nadir trained me, I trained my mind: teaching myself composition and also masking my emotions. When I reached the age of twelve, Antoinette agreed to let me in early for training. I completed the training program with Antoinette as my trainer and mentor in nine months—I was addicted, and could never stop learning, training or conditioning my body. At that moment, Antoinette made the decision to not let me into the field at such a young age, and I was originally so angry with her decision. While I had finished training so young, Antoinette did not believe that I was mentally ready to take on assignments—if I had become an assassin that young, her theory was that I would only become a cold-blooded killer. And so she paid for me to have college professors in the subjects I really loved. Until I reached the age of eighteen, I immersed myself in everything musical: theory, history, technique and composition. Obviously at this point I realized that I was a prodigy—you most likely have read the PG version of my history online," Erik added at the last minute, receiving another nod in response.
"When I turned eighteen, I began to compose and sketch out ideas for Don Juan Triumphant, and Antoinette allowed me to turn my full time "college" education into part time, and to take on my first client. For the first nine years, everything was perfect, and I was doing everything that I was trained to do. I composed during the day, and killed at night. And I was working by myself, which was an added bonus. But then it went horribly wrong. I was supposed to meet a second for an assignment, but he never showed. Angry at Antoinette for even thinking that I needed a second to take someone down, I decided to take the foolish route, and take the client on. Apparently I really needed to learn a lesson, because I woke up in the hospital the next day with almost everything damaged. My body was bandaged from head to toe; both my wrists and both my legs were in casts; I'm not even sure if anything hurt really, but there was an IV bag hanging over my head, dripping something very powerful into my right arm… I found out later that the amount of morphine they were pumping me with should have killed me. Through the fog of unconcern in my head, I heard a doctor somewhere say, 'It looks like a burning building fell on top of him… or maybe like he fell out of one. His entire back is covered in scar tissue. I doubt he'll make it through this.'
"But I did. It took me close to a year and a half to get out of that hospital bed, and it took the rest of the second year for me to return to the Organization, but somehow I did it. Antoinette refused to allow me back in the field for quite a few years, instead making me assist with the training program. When she finally did, she made me agree to one stipulation: I had to work with a contact.
"Her name was Luciana," Erik said, before taking a deep breath. "She barely spoke any English, instead choosing to communicate with me through her native Italian—I had earlier learned the language privately with my university tutors. She was twenty-four years old when we met, and instantly we had an unspoken agreement: she never asked about my mask, and I never asked why she left her native country. Over the next few months, we gradually began to fall in love. Not passionately—I was always too scared to be rough with her—but gently and courteously. I believed her to be the one woman who was created to love me, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, she would be able to see past the mask and see me for what I truly was. And I believed that if she could still profess her love to me, then it would symbolize we were meant to be and I would propose. I set the scene on the rooftop of my apartment, with candlelight, a violinist and a master chef to create the most exquisite meal. I wanted to bring in as much perfection and beauty as I could for that evening in order to make that moment perfect—and I even hoped that the beauty of that evening could reflect onto my face.
"The moment was perfect: the sun was setting, the music was my own compositions written solely for her, and I had the box clutched tightly in my hand. I professed my love to her, and when she responded, I said that I wanted to share with her the truth behind my mask. Eagerly, she asked me to remove it. From this day I still believe that she thought I was just being eccentric—as though I hid part of my face at all times in jest. But when the mask came off, she realized that this was no joke. For a moment she was silent. Then she screamed, backing away from me. She was so flustered, and so disturbed by the grotesqueness of my face, that she…" Erik trailed off, gasping for breath as tears began to roll down his cheeks from the memory of that dreaded evening.
Christine watched him as he struggled with continuing his story. "Would you like me to speak?" She asked quietly, wondering how one person could suffer this much pain.
Erik shook his head. He needed to say this himself. "She ran screaming blindly, and… she… fell over the guardrail and down…" He choked, unable to finish his sentence. "I killed… I killed an innocent. For once in my life… Now you understand why at the restaurant I was… so flustered, I wanted to tell you… I just…"
Quickly, Christine set her mug down on the coffee table between them, as she hurried to close the distance between them. Sitting next to him, she began to rub his back as he once more mourned the death of the woman he had once loved. Now Christine understood why he had run away to Antoinette after opening night.
Moments later Erik's tears subsided. He realized that he was mourning the loss of the woman he had loved, while being comforted by the woman he…was acquiring feelings for. "I'm sorry," he croaked out, feeling guilty at what he was doing. "I didn't mean…"
The soprano cut him off right there. "Don't think about apologizing for mourning your past. We all need to do that sometimes." Christine chewed her lip as she pondered her options before finally asking, "Would it help you if I told you my story?"
Erik paused before slowly nodding, his curiosity overcoming his sorrow. He wanted to know why she had become so cold towards men in the past despite her warm and affectionate personality.
Christine closed her eyes for a moment before she began. "My mother, one of Antoinette's closest friends, died when I was six. From what I've gathered she was a member of the Organization, and when she died, my father fell apart. Andre and Firmin, who have both always been such close friends of the family, took care of my father, and Antoinette actually took me away for the first three years after my mother's death, and raised me like her second daughter—at the time, Meg was about six months older than me. I still don't know how she managed to raise both of us while running the Organization, but…"
Christine trailed off at the sound of a knock on the door. Alarmed, the assassins began to creep toward the door, ready to take down whatever enemy stood behind it. Motioning for him to stand to the side in order to initiate the first attack, Christine unbolted the door before opening it, only to stand there in surprise for a second, her eyes wide.
"Ra- Raoul…"
