Author's Note: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. No officer there's nothing in the basement. That's just my cat playing the organ.
47
For the next month, Kayla spent all of her time in the opera house, walking almost continuous laps between the dorms, the stage, the ballet studio, the dining hall, the lair, the costume department, the ballet studio for a second time, and the stage once more. She was now essentially leading every department besides the orchestra, and Madame Giry, only slightly resentful at the intrusion of her authority, had decreed that Kayla attend ballet rehearsals. The last time she had even attempted dance of any kind had been when she was five – social dance in high school did not count – and it was far harder now than it had been then. Erik finally removed her stiches on the first of February, the bright pink stripe proud as a battle scar. Every opportunity since then was an opportunity for Kayla to reassert herself as physically equal to her crew, though she felt like a duckling next to the dancers of the senior corps. She fell into bed each night with every muscle aching, joints cracking in protest.
Not that the builds, rehearsals, or any other Don Juan related activity had been a cakewalk for any of them; the entire opera house was a mess of nerves. Christine backed out of the performance almost every week, breaking down in hysterics every single time. Kayla was always called in to deal with the fallout, which generally ended in an impromptu game of tag with Raoul, who had yet to catch her again but was still always in earshot of the numerous insults she was able to throw back. So incensed were they at the numerous attacks that in retaliation, Jamie and the rest of the junior set crew had taken it upon themselves to torment the Vicomte in any way possible. The core of their plan involved extending their flirtations to both Christine and Kayla, a scheme with which the members of Team Daäe and Team Abbots were all too happy to comply. Often flirtations happened simultaneously, resulting in a mental standoff as Raoul seethed over his inability to stop them from tormenting his unaware fiancé or his fiery wished-she-was-his-mistress.
In the third week of February, Kayla went to bed during a snowstorm, only after Jamie and Clemens had taken it upon themselves to physically remove her from the sewing machine and drag her back to the dormitory. The scaffolding of the set had been completed that day, spiral staircases and all, much to Marius's relief.
Kayla glanced over at the young soprano's bed. Tousled chocolate curls were visible from under the white quilt. She appeared to have calmed down after her outburst of the morning, during which Kayla and Raoul had screamed at each other over whether Christine was to stay at the Populaire or be taken immediately to the de Chagny mansion, while the cast watched as intently as if they were meant to imitate the passion of the row.
Meg's golden head was visible from the next cot over, the curve of her back rising and falling rhythmically. Kayla surreptitiously pulled out her phone. 2 AM. She was definitely not getting paid enough for this. Maybe she should talk to Erik about negotiating a raise.
Fair wage or not, she was able to forget the opera just enough to drift off to sleep.
"Kayla? Kayla…"
A whisper broke through Kayla's tumultuous dreams like a runaway locomotive. She moaned softly.
"Kayla…"
With a tremendous effort, she cracked one eye open. Christine was standing over her, a black cloak wrapped around her slender form. A bouquet of blood red roses was hanging loosely from her hand.
"Ugh… What's up, baby?" Kayla groaned, draping her arm across her forehead exhaustedly. It was still dark; she could barely see the young soprano.
"I was wondering… well, I was hoping that you could go somewhere with me."
It took a moment for Kayla to put the pieces together. "You woke me up to visit your dad's grave with you?"
Christine shuffled nervously. "I just… I didn't want to go alone."
"No, don't be nervous, you're fine… why me though? Why not Raoul, or Meg?"
"Raoul's being so sweet, and he cares so much, but he needs rest. So does Meg."
"And what about me? No rest for the wicked, eh?"
"I'm sorry…"
"No, no, I'm teasing. I'll come. Are you sure you want to wait though? I'm not dressed, and I don't really have… well, graveyard appropriate attire."
"It does not really matter, but Meg has a black cloak. She won't mind."
"Kay, cool." Reaching under her pillow, Kayla pulled out her phone and switched on the flashlight before leaning over the foot board and rummaging through her trunk.
Christine gasped. "What is…?"
"Hard to explain. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies as far as this goes…" In record time, Kayla slipped into her jeans and a loose black shirt she had stolen from Erik's wardrobe during some ill-advised skulking. Christine seemed amazed.
"You can dress so quickly!" she whispered enviously.
"The perks of dressing like a dude." Kayla tugged on her boots. "Cool. Le'go."
Kayla was on edge as she and Christine tiptoed past the sleeping Vicomte, down the stairs, and through the stark and silent halls of the Populaire. Exiting through the stage door, they walked across the courtyard to where a groggy looking driver was stumbling out of the stable door. "I need to go the cemetery," said Christine softly, handing the man a small purse that jingled. The man's unfocused eyes brightened as he hefted the bag in his palm. "Yes, mademoiselles," he agreed gruffly, trotting into the stable and leading two black horses out towards an open air carriage. Christine looped her arm through Kayla's and wandered aimlessly along the wall, stopping at a carving of an angel. Her doe eyes gazed at it dreamily. Kayla, meanwhile, was panicking.
What happened to not getting involved you ridiculous child now you're going to screw up the whole story now what holy sHIT I heard a thump oh crap it's him he's not going to like this Oh my god this is happening its really happening stay calm stay fuCKING CALM
Christine finally pulled her attention away from the angel and led the way towards the carriage. A hooded form obscured by a billowing black cloak sat on the tongue of the carriage, reins in hand. "To my father's grave, please." The figure turned, showing a strip of pale cheek and one green eye, before nodding and setting the horses in motion.
Kayla turned back to watch the opera house, spotting Raoul's stricken face watching from the window. He looked truly anguished.
She reflexively flipped him off.
The wheels bumped and jolted on the country road as they left the city. Fog settled over Paris, battling the slowly brightening sky. Christine stared out at the trees, her eyes unfocused and contemplative. It was completely and utterly silent, without even a birdsong to cut through the stillness.
In sleep he sang to me…
For the first time in a very long time, the haunting melodies rose unbidden in Kayla's mind.
In dreams he came…
A peek out of the corner of her eye showed that Christine was mouthing the familiar words. Kayla stifled a sigh of annoyance. Could her stupid head just forgo the creepy background music for once?
The voice that calls to me…
The figure that Kayla knew without a doubt to be Erik sat unmoving on the driver's seat, the long folds of black making him more of a spectre than a man.
And speaks my name…
An involuntary tremor wracked Kayla's body, and an image of Raoul of Raoul on a pure white horse rose unbidden before her eyes. Galloping through the trees, leaping over fallen logs, hooves pounding rhythmically through the dead leaves.
Damn these men and their hero complexes.
The drive to the cemetery took a much longer time than Kayla had expected. It was a bit of a shock when the horses halted before a tall cast iron gate. Kayla hopped out first, offering her hand to Christine, whom, wearing a dress, took a slightly longer time to descend. As she stepped down and headed towards the graveyard, Kayla sprang forward and grabbed the hem of Erik's cloak. He turned his shadowy face towards her a cold and bestial gleam in his eyes. "Just… be careful, kay? Just keep in mind that I'd prefer if neither of us died." Her tone was hushed and light.
Erik stared impassively at her. Just when she thought he was no going to respond at all, he nodded. She released his cloak and he twitched the reins, setting the horses into motion. She jogged after Christine, ignoring the hungry way his gaze remained fixed on them as they slipped through the gate.
A white layer of snow covered the ground, and frost wreathed the graves in delicate spirals. The air was thick with foreboding. Kayla walked next to Christine as the soprano walked between the monuments, as if in a trance.
"You were once my one companion,
You were all that mattered,
You were once my friend and father,
Then my world was shattered…"
Christine's voice adopted an ethereal quality, complementing the silence rather than shattering it.
"Wishing you were somehow here again,
Wishing you were somehow near,
It only seemed if I just dreamed
Somehow you would be here
Wishing I could hear your voice again,
Knowing that I never would
Dreaming of you won't help me to do
All that you dreamed I could…"
They walked through the silent graves, overshadowed by giant crosses and tall angels with wings outstretched. A number of the angelic carvings had their hands over their faces. Kayla winced. Not today, Moffatt. Not today.
"Passing bells and sculpted angels
Cold and monumental
Seem for you the wrong companions
You were warm and gentle
Too many years fighting back tears
Why can't the past just die?"
Turning a corner, Kayla's eyes scanned over the wide, snow covered avenue stretching out between the tombs, with the surprisingly elaborate Daäe crypt rising mournfully at the end.
"Wishing you were somehow here again
Knowing we must say goodbye
Try to forgive, teach me to live
Give me the strength to try
No more memories, no more silent tears
No more gazing across the wasted years…"
Christine stepped at an almost ceremonial pace towards the monument, sinking onto the stairs once she reached it. The bouquet of red roses fell, forgotten, from her ivory hands.
"Help me say goodbye…
Help me say… goodbye!"
Kayla stood a number of paces behind Christine, afraid to break the fragile moment, a moment, Kayla had to remind herself, which was meant only for Christine.
A warm orange glow emanated from the Daäe crypt as the metal doors slowly swung open. Christine, head bent, grieved on the cold stone steps, oblivious.
"Wandering child; so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…"
Christine, dazed, slowly lifted her gaze to the brightening tomb, while Kayla, despite her better instincts, moved closer to her young friend.
"Angel or father? Friend or phantom? Who is it, tell me?"
"Have you forgotten your Angel..?"
"Angel, oh, speak. What endless longings echo in this whisper?"
"Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my fathering gaze…"
"Wildly my mind beats against you, yet the soul obeys…"
Rising slowly, Christine stood, entranced. The ghostly voice sang, each note humming with emotion. A single tear rolled down Kayla's cheek. Damn if that man can sing.
"Angel of music, you denied me, turning from true beauty!"
"Angel of music, I denied you, turning from true beauty!"
"Angel of music, don't reject me, come to your strange angel..."
"Angel of music, I won't reject you, come to me strange Angel!"
Their voices overlapped in perfect harmony, tending chills running up Kayla's spine, and a twinge in her gut that she told herself was not jealousy.
"I am your Angel of music…"
The Phantom's voice deepened, taking on a seductive, vaguely demonic tone. Christine ascended the stairs dreamily.
"Come to me, Angel of music…"
A hoarse yell hit Kayla's ears from behind, and she dove out of the way, skidding across the icy stone as the Vicomte on his white steed galloped toward the crypt. "Knulla dig, du skitstovël!" Kayla yelped.
"Christine, no!" Raoul grabbed his fiancé, the brunette struggling against him.
Kayla dragged herself to her feet and sprinted over, looping her arms over Christine's shoulders and shoving Raoul out of the way. "It's okay, c'm'ere, baby, it's all right," she cooed as Christine snapped awake, looking around in confusion.
"Papa," Christine whispered.
"It's all right, hon, breathe, I'm right here," Kayla soothed, rubbing the soprano's back.
"Christine, whatever you believe, that monster, that thing, is not your father!" Raoul whipped out his sword and thundered up the stairs.
"Crap. Come on, babe, we're moving," Kayla chirped, gently pushing the young soprano closer to the shelter of a monumental angel as the Phantom leapt from the crypt roof and the illusion cracked.
Rapiers clashed as the two combatants surged together. They danced through the grave stones, Raoul always on open offensive. The Phantom slid about like a shadow, seizing every opportunity to gain advantage. Kayla could not help the chuckle that escaped her as the Ghost swung his cape right across Raoul's face. Christine watched the battle, enthralled by the sing of metal on metal.
The fight seemed almost choreographed, each blow landing with perfect precision, though the blades did not strike either opponent. They darted around the graves, evenly matched, despite the Opera Ghost's air of a cat playing with a mouse. Abruptly, drops of crimson freckled the ivory song; first blood. Raoul yelled and staggered back, clutching his arm. The Phantom bared his teeth in a triumphant snarl. But in merely the time it took Kayla to blink, the Opera Ghost was falling, and the nobleman was leaping upon him, sword outstretched.
"Raoul, no!"
Christine, with more daring than Kayla had believed her capable of, darted forward and grabbed her fiancé's arm. "No," she repeated, throwing a pitying glance at her teacher. "Not like this."
Erik's lips drew up in an angry growl, green eyes flashing. Okay, note to self – pity tactics are not appreciated.
Raoul stared down at the Opera Ghost, rapier outstretched and chest heaving. Blood dripped in splashes of crimson down his white sleeve. With a sigh of exhaustion, he lowered his blade. Christine tugged at his arm. "Not like this," she said again.
Raoul nodded sharply and drew her over to his white stallion, which, miraculously, had not moved during the battle. "Kayla," he said firmly.
Kayla backed away a couple of paces. "In case you haven't noticed, your horse seats two. I'll walk."
"Do not be stubborn, Kayla," Raoul snapped. "You are not safe here."
"What? With Monsieur Rapier-Happy over here?" Kayla scoffed, jabbing her thumb at the Opera Ghost, who was still struggling to his feet a few metres from her. "I'm safer with him than I'll be with you. I'm a neutral party, remember? I'm Switzerland."
Raoul made an exasperated noise. "Kayla…"
An arm of iron wrapped around her waist. Kayla shrieked. Christine screamed.
"Yes, run along, Vicomte," Erik snarled, his voice purring in Kayla's ear. "She will come to no harm from me." The statement was given no confidence by the cold steel raised to her throat.
"No! Kayla! I will not leave you alone with that monster!"
"You've got sweet eff-all of a choice there, buddy," Kayla wheezed, trying not to move so as to avoid slicing her own trachea on Erik's sword. "Who's more important here? Me? Or your fiancé?"
Blue pierced blue, one pair anguished, and the other cold as steel. With a groan of defeat, Raoul lifted the soprano onto the horse. With a final longing look at Kayla, he swung into the saddle behind his fiancé. "No, Raoul, no, please, we can't leave her." The nobleman ignored his passenger's protests and spurred the horse forward. "Raoul, no! Kayla!"
"Such loyalty," Erik purred. "So… touching." The blade at her throat was icy.
"Jävla helvete, Erik! Were the theatrics necessary?!"
The pressure on her larynx vanished, though the arm around her waist did not. His arm stayed fixed as he practically dragged her through the graves to a narrow gate on the far side, where the two black horses were tethered to the carriage the girls had arrived in. Wasting no time, the Phantom drew his sword and sliced neatly through the leather straps, releasing the two animals. Neighing and tossing their heads, the horses skittered forward. From an artist's perspective, they were gorgeous beasts. From Kayla's current mind set, they were demonic.
"Dude?! What's the story?!" Kayla squeaking, eyeing the prancing hooves with distinct mistrust.
The Opera Ghost did not respond. Giving no indication that he had even heard her, he tightened his grip around her hips and swung her up onto one of the horses. Kayla flailed.
"Sweet lord! Erik, I can't ride!"
The horse chose that moment to rear.
Kayla screamed. The horse screamed back. With catlike grace, Erik leapt up and grabbed the bridle, bring the animal back under control. The Opera Ghost stroked the horse's head, murmuring softly to it until it calmed. Kayla, still clinging on, was shaking. Still hanging onto the halter, he led it over to the second horse, wrapping the second pair of reins around his wrist. Without any further warning, he swung up onto the horse, sitting down gracefully right behind her.
In the split second it took for him to mount, she had hoped that she would at least feel some muscle. Unfortunately, he was wearing at least five layers, and all she could feel was fabric.
His arms, however, wrapped around her sides, weren't bad at all. Neither were his legs, which were pressed against hers.
The horse's body jolted underneath her as Erik steered their mount along the twists and turns of the isolated road, darkened by the shadows and tall trees. Without the inconvenience of a carriage to drag behind them, the horses moved much more quickly, and it seemed like mere minutes before the Parisian skyline rose before them. "Um, not to alarm you, but is riding right through the city the best course of action here?"
Erik's chest shifted strangely against her back, almost as if he had laughed. "If one thing can be trusted, it is the ineptitude of Parisian police." The comment was muttered, warm against Kayla's ear and sending vibrations down her spine. Kayla choked.
A couple of blocks from the opera house, Erik swung off the horse, lifting Kayla after him the moment his feet touched the ground. Kayla resisted the urge to kiss the cobblestones as she was safely separated from the shuffling animal. Erik slapped a gloved hand against the horses' flanks, and they trotted off down the street. "I'm… I'm assuming they know the way home?"
Nodding almost imperceptibly, the Phantom grabbed her arm and pulled her towards a building of slate grey stone. Pulling a key from somewhere in the depths of his cloak, he leaned forward and twisted it into an iron wrought grate in the bottom of the wall. He held open the grate for Kayla and waited for her to squeeze through before slithering into the tunnel himself. Their walk through the labyrinth was dead silent, punctuated only by Kayla's shaky breaths as they followed the tunnel deeper and deeper with neither hesitation nor explanation on the part of the spectre. It was only when she found herself stepping through a door and into the lair that Kayla realized how far the Phantom's excavations truly extended.
He walked toward the organ, pace slow, measured, and predatory. He stopped by a small table, staring at it intently. Then, with a roar of pure rage, he threw out his arm and sent the items crashing to the floor. Gripping the table by its edges, he lifted it and hurled it against the wall, where it shattered like matchwood.
"Dude?! What the hell!?"
He yelled again, sweeping a brass candlestick to the ground with a loud clang.
"Erik! Breathe! What's going on?!"
He prowled forward and sank onto the organ bench, fingers immediately flying over the keys with a dissonant melody. Kayla could see his shoulders shaking.
"Is there anything I could do?" she called over the musical clamor. No response. Cautiously moving forward, she paced tentatively towards the Phantom. She stopped beside the instrument, watching Erik's furious face, eyes shut, brow furrowed, and the right side a white blank page.
She immediately had Mumford & Sons stuck in her head.
Quite a substantial amount of time passed before he finally stopped playing. His head drooped loosely forward, but whether from exhaustion or despair, Kayla could not tell.
"Is there anything I can do? Show you some cat gifs? Play some music you'll hate so much you'll feel better? Summon Lucifer to kill the fop? Or Crowley?"
His shoulders jerked up violently. Kayla frowned.
"Dude. I don't know if you're laughing or crying, and it is concerning to my soul."
Lifting his head slightly, Erik's green eyes glistened at her from under the layer of porcelain.
"So… crying, then?"
The Phantom made an amused sort of choking noise.
"Both? Merciful heavens, the indecision is killing me!"
Shaking his head, Erik stared down at the keys, lips twitching.
"Well, make a decision. Summoning Satan will take some preparation. I'll need matches. And spray paint."
Erik almost chuckled. "You are a strange one, aren't you?"
"I'm in good company. 'We're all mad here', my sister would say."
"Though this is a less pleasant sort of Wonderland."
"I'm pretty sure Lewis Carrol was high when he wrote that, so I think we're entitled to take liberties."
She reached into her cloak pocket and frowned. "My phone's in my trunk. If I had my phone we'd totes look at some gifs. And this is Meg's cloak I'm wearing. Should probably return that."
"One would think I would be used to your strange dialects by now."
Kayla struck a pose, leaning dramatically against the organ. "I'm always a novelty."
Erik finally laughed. It was as deep as his voice, smooth, musical… and sexy. Kayla fought to contain her blush. "You could never be anything but a novelty, my little magician."
The fight to control her cheek colour instantly failed.
"Well," Kayla said, rubbing at her cheeks and searching furiously for a change of topic. "I hate to mention this now that you're actually calm, but you know the Vicomte's going to be a total dick about this, right?"
"The fop is a weak little boy. He will not beat me."
Kayla snorted. "Men. Everything's a competition with you, isn't it?" She nudged his shoulder with her fist. His glance at her was confused.
"I am not a man."
"Right. I think your laugh just now proved that wrong. Chicks and monsters don't sound that good."
His smile brightened uncharacteristically.
"They're going to do it. Perform your opera, that is. And… just be careful, 'kay? Raoul's going to have a go at being a tricky bastard. And you can't kill Piangi, f.y.i."
"I already gave you my word I would not." He sounded offended.
"Right. Forgot about that. I'm overtired. What with trying to make your opera perfect and all."
"Your devotion is appreciated."
"Shut up."
Author's Note: My gosh. This was a monster chapter. 11 pages. I usually average about 6.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favourited, followed, etc. And to Guest and Guest for their reviews. I love you all.
I've started school, so updates could be sporadic after this... but my first fiction writing class is tonight! I'm super intimidated, to be honest. Hopefully it'll be fun though.
I wish all the best to everyone back in school. Study hard, kids!
Hugs and test cheat sheets,
Tierney