Chapter 16: Kidnapped!

Ciara had heard the somewhat amorous couple's discussion. It confused her instead of clearing her thinking; why would Philippe imprison that girl's father, and was it so awful that she was willing to forever scar Philippe's face for her sense of justice? Surely he couldn't be doing something quite so heinous… Or could he?

Her troubled thoughts returned. This important thing he had to do had taken much of his time for several months. It was entirely possible for him to convert a warehouse into a prison and fill it with his enemies in that span of time. Why would he do such a thing? Did he want to take this M. Erik prisoner too? If so, why was he more important than the girl's father? She had never heard him mention an old man.

Was this some huge misunderstanding that he had failed to explain to her? She certainly hoped so. He said he would tell me when I caught M. Erik. He keeps his promises, especially promises to me. He will be glad that I brought him the man, and be pleased with me. And then it will be good again, and we might be together as couples are. She hung onto this desperate hope even as she lay half-awake on the couch, surrounded by his scent and his coat. It made her feel safe. Her fears slowly drained away, though not completely.

There is an explanation for this. There is an explanation for everything. She slowly became aware of a hand at her waist, a large, warm hand- Philippe's hand. He seemed to have fallen asleep next to her- or had he laid himself next to her after she'd fallen asleep? She did not know, and at the moment, did not care in the least. It was peaceful to be held by him, unlike their usual contact of locks, holds, and painful blows. She listened to his breath sweeping over her shoulder, unseeing eyes closed, for it was less tiring and less irritating for the useless orbs of tissue to be protected.

His heartbeat was steady and relaxed. Perhaps he was tired and needed rest more than he needed his own bed. She knew she should rise, and wake him as well, but it was too comfortable in his arms for logic and will to take over. Even a slight hunger could not entice her to rise. Unfortunately, because it was late in the morning, Philippe rose first and left her feeling quite cold. He thought she was still asleep. He walked, running his hands through his hair in the quiet.

I cannot tell her. She would become like me, eaten alive from the inside out. It is better for me to go down the path of revenge than her. He looked at the piano where they'd had so many of their conversations. She's asleep. I can tell her, or rehearse how I will tell her what I feel. Slowly, quietly, he strode over to the instrument and took a seat. Then he looked back to make sure she was not feigning sleep as she often did if she felt lazy and didn't want to move. She appeared to be sleeping, and her breathing was steady.

Ciara, he played, but stopped for a moment. What could he say to his best friend, practical sister, and one love? Yes, even though he had learned at a brothel and was not untouched or pure in any way, his heart was hers. It was a frightening thought. She controlled him and didn't know it. I do what I must for your benefit, so you will not have to suffer under all the wrongs people have done you. I know that you are, at the moment, quite unaware of what they do because you are different, or what was done to make you different, but still I do what must be done- what is just and what these people deserve. I- He stopped when he heard her stirring, stretching her thin self with a soft, round-mouthed yawn. It was best to address her directly now that she was awake. Good morning.

He turned around and saw her pacing towards him with an amused smile, eyes opened. She looked as if she was not blind at all. Sometimes he had to remind himself that she was, and couldn't read like he did. Indeed, it had been a long time since he had read her a story or played music for her. She pulled her mussed white hair out of her face and sat next to him. Good morning to you, too. Am I to attempt the capture again?

No, not today. Today, try and find M. Erik alone, or when he is most vulnerable.

Is that all? I found that out yesterday. Philippe smiled to himself. Of course she would think ahead of him.

When is he at his most vulnerable? Ciara placed her hand over his, not knowing quite why she desired the contact. To her joy, he did not mind the light touch.

He is most vulnerable when he is with the woman Christine Daae. I could catch her, and if you would be so kind as to have a carriage waiting at the entrance, I could take her with me. He will follow her.

You are sure? Will you be safe? His concern was touching, but she needed none of it. Retrieving one woman would be easy and easier still when she did not have to hide. In fact, it was necessary that someone see the kidnapping.

Yes, and I will be quite safe. You need not worry for me. I know exactly what I'm doing. He was tempted to say that she did not know what she was doing, and he did; however, he refrained from revealing this fact. It was essential that only he know, or Ciara would become consumed with revenge for her own satisfaction. It was better to shield her from the pain.

I know you do. Come, we will ride there together.

…

Nadir sighed. Anna's condition had not deteriorated, thank goodness, but neither had she gotten any better. In fact, now she was talking in her sleep, and hardly noticed his presence when he helped her with normally private activities like changing and washing. He was slowly becoming attached to his seat by her bed, and his back hurt from leaning forward at all hours.

"How are they doing?" It was Christine outside, asking about Anna and him, bless her. Erik's voice came floating through as well.

"Nadir is fine, as healthy as ever, but worried; Anna's condition has stabilized, but she's no better. It's up to her to fight the sickness." He stepped through the door. Christine called through to him.

"They will live, I'm sure. I'll meet you later, on the roof." Then she walked away, shoes soft on the wooden floor. Erik looked back at the closed portal for a moment and smiled.

"Over here, lover boy. Someone else needs you too, and a great deal more urgently," Nadir announced, placing his hand over Anna's feverish one. The masked man turned around, a half-smirk on his face.

"Would that be you, Daroga? I highly doubt you need me for anything other than the occasional nagging session." He set Anna's dose of medicine and her soup on the desk, as before, and handed Nadir a bucket of cool water so he could mop her forehead and face with something cleaner than the water from the day before. He didn't notice the mock venomous look that was shot his way for his comment. "You should take a few drops of the medicine every now and then, since you're likely carrying the germs as well. It would prevent the spread of the fever."

"No." Erik turned around and gave his friend a curious look.

"Why not?" Nadir had kept his eyes down, on the redhead's sweating, burning face.

"Anna needs it. If I take any, she might not get all she needs." That was all the explanation he needed.

He wants her to recover. He might even love her. "I'll feed her the medicine today. Go have your date with the lady," Nadir said. "Don't worry about us." The composer nodded his thanks to his old friend and couldn't get out of the room fast enough. The Turk man smiled knowingly. Love never waited for anything, least of all other errands.

Erik hurried to his borrowed dorm and burned his clothes, as was his routine. His wash was rushed, but he made sure no bit of skin was left unclean. Christine could not catch the fever from him. He would not allow it. Perhaps she arranged the meeting on the roof for the view of the city. This is, after all, one of Paris' tallest buildings. The thought made him smile. This would be their first truly scenic time together.

He practically ran up the five flights of stairs to the roof, only just pulling on his black leather gloves. When he reached his destination, he heard it in terrifying clarity: Christine's scream for help.

…

Erik watched the train clank and heave as it headed for Europe with the pale, pregnant woman. She had first exhausted herself by futilely trying to claw his eyes out, then been pulled away by his guards to be shipped back to France. It had taken a few months to sort out the train schedules and go through the paperwork involving safe passage, but now it was resolved, and she was on her way home.

He wasn't supposed to be at the train station at all. No doubt Nadir would be waiting for him back at the palace or the troops' training grounds.

The last few cars rolled by. Perhaps it is time for a change of scenery. I always wanted to see my parents' crypt. He took a running start and snagged the railing of the caboose, knocking over several people as he went. The train station and the Ottoman Empire faded from sight.

Erik wove his way into an empty baggage compartment, the one closest the passenger cars, and settled down to wait.

It was about daybreak when an agonized scream tore through his murky, bloodied dreams. A cry rose up from someone else's throat: "Get a doctor!" The woman must be giving birth. He crossed into the passenger car and hid behind the door, ear pressed to the wall to listen.

As the hours trickled by, the cries were weaker, as if the mother had little energy left. He received the distinct impression from the desperate dialogue that she would die despite the doctor's assistance. What do I care? I killed her father, and there is nothing else that needs doing. He was about to cross back to his place in the baggage car when the door to the passenger compartments opened.

"Sir?" A boy, younger than Erik and obviously the doctor's assistant (by the blood at the edge of his shirt), tugged at the edge of his coat. Of course. His height and covered face made him look like a man, not a young teen. "Sir, if you can help us in any way, please... There is a woman in the next car, and she's dying, and every experienced person has tried to help her." Erik considered this for a moment. My assignment was to kill her father, not her child as well. Perhaps it is only logical to complete the assignment. If word spreads that she and her child died, the French may seek compensation, he reasoned. He turned around and strode silently into the car.

The woman was too weak to even notice his presence. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing heavier than it should have been. The doctor, too, barely noticed him as he approached. In fact, the man looked to have given up, his head buried in his hands. The boy went over to comfort him. "Doctor, I brought help. He will help us."

"No, he cannot. Don't you see, boy? She's dying; she is in God's hands now." Erik ignored the quiet, sad conversation and checked the woman's pulse, then pressed gently at two points- one between her index and thumb, and another near her shin. There was no change. It must work. The lady was crying again, a slightly stronger yell of pain. He pressed the points again. The doctor rushed to his side, flustered face suddenly hopeful.

"Quick, Mme. Daestro, push! You will not die today!" he shouted, almost to himself. "The baby will not die today!"

Several more minutes, and the child's head was showing. The rest of the birth would go smoothly. My work is done. War is avoided. Yet he still could not drown out the tiny spark of pride- he could do a little good, bring a life into the world rather than extinguish it.

He stayed in the baggage car for the remainder of the trip, listening vaguely to the sounds of mother and child together. The baby girl was a quiet one, and cried very little, so he always found restful nights, unlike the ones back in the sultan's palace. Sometimes it struck him as odd that the baby did not cry at all times, but perhaps she got along well with her mother. Then again, he knew next to nothing about infants…

At last, the day came when the train pulled into Paris' train station with a bang and several long, loud whistles. He watched for the mother and the baby with the baggage car's door opened just a crack. They were making their way out onto the street. The pale woman was easy to see by her dark dress and light hair as she quickened her pace. Her daughter's face was covered by the blanket. It reminded Erik of his mask for a moment, but perhaps she only wanted to protect the little one's face from the sun.

He eventually lost sight of her in the crowds, and closed the door, once again shutting himself into the darkness.

…

"Erik!" He scrambled to reach the roof, but he was just a moment too late. The kidnapper, a lithe-looking individual with a black veil over her face, drew a razor thin blade from her hip and held it at his beloved's delicate neck. She dragged Christine slowly towards the stone railing with careful, methodical steps. "Erik, help me!" The knife nicked her skin as she screamed her throat ragged for him. A droplet of her blood leaked onto the metal.

Erik slowly reached for his lasso, only to find that the strange, black-shrouded agent put more pressure on her weapon as he did so. He gritted his teeth, finding himself helpless. The tall, unknown female hoisted Christine high over her shoulder, and he could see that her hands had been bound. She did not have the opportunity to draw her whip. There they teetered, one too terrified to move, and the other holding her so very effortlessly that she reminded Erik of himself with some of his past victims. Good God above… For the first time in his life, he found himself praying, and with great urgency, no less. Save her.

The soprano was also currently praying for her life and desperately confessing should she die of a cut throat or the five-story drop below. She couldn't decide whether to close her eyes or keep them open for fear. If she spoke, she would disturb the delicate balance and most certainly make the both of them topple over to their deaths. Our Father, who art in Heaven… Her heart thudded in her throat, almost stopping her breathing.

The strange, near-inhuman being had tied her hands and thrown her whip aside almost before she had known what was happening. This person, obviously working for the duke, had been upon her, waiting, before she had ever heard the crunch of footsteps on ice or pebbles. I have been captured by someone as skilled as Erik, or better. The thought paralyzed her.

Erik could only watch in horror as the agile kidnapper took a deliberate step backwards and fell so quickly that she disappeared- so quickly that Christine disappeared as well. He heard her whoop of fear as she fell, and ran forward. The person had tied a rope to one of the statues as an anchor, and slid down it with one hand onto the roof of a waiting carriage. Fool! You should have never left her alone! They had this all planned! He took note of the direction the carriage had gone. His suspicions were confirmed; they were heading for Philippe's mansion.

Christine felt the thud of her landing knock the wind from her lungs and cut her shriek off. Immediately, she struggled to her knees and attempted to kick out at her captor, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then, amidst the crowds of Paris that didn't notice, the carriage door opened and the girl was yanked unceremoniously inside.

She immediately righted herself on the cushioned seat and struggled against her bonds, but the odd woman, completely covered in black that covered every inch of skin, tied her feet and shoved a gag into her mouth. No more screaming now; any more fighting would be useless. Still, her wrists squirmed in pain and rebellion against the situation, against the unfairness of it all. Her bright blue eyes narrowed in hate, and she kicked at the carriage's wooden door. I want out! Erik, you must find me!

Slowly, the thin limb of her rather intimidating kidnapper snaked forward with index extended. The finger, thin even with the leather glove around it, wagged slowly at her. The glint of steel showed again as the knife was drawn and placed across black-wrapped, almost skinny legs. Erik…you must find me.

Erik was plotting to do just that. The carriage was exactly the same as all the other cabs, so there was no use following it. He already knew where it had gone. He descended another five stories down to his armory and slipped a pistol into each pocket, packets of poison up his sleeves, and a dirk to his side just to be safe. Then he ascended through the tunnels to where he knew Marcus had gathered the people he knew he could trust to devote themselves to bringing his Christine back.

…

Ciara tried to discern what the woman Christine was feeling- anger, yes, but there was no sweat of fear, or quickened breathing of hysteria. She found that she rather respected the girl for this- or was it she who was the girl? She has seen and done so much more than I have. She has experienced love.

She considered the cruelty of what she was doing for a moment. Was it really right to take someone away from the one they loved, and to use them to lure the other? Of course not…but it was for Philippe, the one that she herself loved. Surely that motive deserved some credit. But what is Philippe doing this for, exactly? He played when he thought me asleep this morning- he said what he did was for me. How? I must be connected to M. Erik somehow…has he done me wrong? I do not recognize him from long ago…

She decided it was best to wait and find out why Philippe was doing what he did. I trust him. He would do nothing that hurts me.

The coach slowed gradually, and stopped. There was a soft rustle as Christine leaned to look out the window. "Ngh amm ee hrrr?" She got no answer. "Trrr ee!" she demanded, kicking out and struggling against the ties about her feet. She does not like to be the victim. I wish I could somehow tell her: I cannot speak, though I understand. She will know why we are here soon enough, and so will I.

Ciara undid the rope at Christine's feet and took her by the arm. She would not escape. They walked to the mansion's door together, up the stone steps and into the front room. Her captive was confused by her silence and the almost gentle way she led her, instead of hauling her roughly. Once inside, she held up her hand in a silent command. Wait. She lifted the black hood from her face and heard Christine's gasp.

She is so white, and her eyes are red…do I look upon a strange demon, or is she simply different, as Erik is with his mask? She must be different- otherwise she would have treated me badly. Christine took the oddly colored individual in. Her hair, as white as the ice outside, was tied back into a tight braid, not a strand out of place. The black she wore only served to make her look paler than death, and blue veins showed through her translucent skin. She was beautiful- but beautiful as a weapon is, beautiful like dew on the sharpened edge of a hunting knife.

A plinking of piano keys distracted her for a moment. In the next room was the duke, as imposing and tall and wealthy as she remembered. He turned around and addressed her: "Christine Daae, it is a pleasure to meet you. Was your journey comfortable?" Then he smiled a fake, white-toothed smile, but there was something missing from his face. The cruelty that had been present at the opera was gone. "Oh, forgive my rudeness. I should not have spoken when you cannot at the moment."

He walked towards her. "You should know that you are not my true target." Her eyes widened in horror. Erik. No. "You know now, though, do you not?" What could he possibly want Erik for? He is a composer and a singer, not a political enemy! "Ciara, ungag her, please."

The pale person, Ciara, eased the gag from her mouth to let her speak. She noticed that she did not yank harshly at the cloth. It occurred to her that aside from pulling her into the carriage, the white-haired individual had not abused her in any way, even when she put up a fight. Cruelty is not natural to her, and the way she leans towards him, standing tall… What is it between them? Then she looked a Philippe again. "Damn you."

"Such rough language for a lady, my…" She strode towards him and glared fiercely. "I have all the trump cards here- you cannot win in my world. It is only fair, considering M. Erik's past."

"Past? He owns the opera. What more is there to tell?" As angry as she was, her curiosity was bubbling up. What had Erik done in his life? When she was just a foot away from him, she kicked out. The hard ball of her foot struck his shin. It frustrated her that he only hissed and did not cry out in pain. Suddenly, she felt herself roughly dragged back by the white hands. Strange…she is hard on me only after I offend her employer.

"Ciara, be careful with the delicate lady," he said, taunting the soprano, "she is bait, and must be in good condition in order to lure our catch." At his word, the callused hands loosened their grip, but still held her back.

"Damn you," Christine spat again. "You deserve hellfire for all you've done."

"Take her upstairs, to one of the guest rooms. She deserves a special place, don't you agree?" Ciara wordlessly (as always) nudged at the brunette and pointed her towards the stairs. It took nothing less than a shove to budge the determined girl from her place, and several more shoves to get her to ascend the stairs. She was silent as well, refusing to scream or show any sign of fear. The blind one was impressed with her fortitude against the circumstances.

As they rounded a corner and entered the first room on the left in the well-lit corridor, the soprano contemplated the relative gentility with which her guard was treating her. It could certainly be a lot worse. She could be where her father was.

Ciara, her name is Ciara. She does not speak, for some reason… She watched, curious, as the tall, thin woman deftly locked the door. She doesn't look at whatever she might be doing, as if she knows where everything is automatically. How many times has she done something like this? Is she hired, or…does she live here, with Philippe?

She sat herself down on the bed and looked out the thick-paned window. What should have been the courtyard was covered by what looked to be thick canvas membranes. The drop from her window to the covering was only about five feet. Perhaps I can escape to another room, and from there, out to the city again… That hope was quickly dashed as her captor retrieved a key from her necklace and locked the shutters, which had openings enough to let light in, but not enough to reach through and smash through the glass. She decided to test the waters.

"Ciara, why do you work for the duke? Can't you see that what he does is wrong?" The enigmatic female, who had disappeared into the lavatory to set up a whatever materials her prisoner might need, immediately turned around and strode past her to the writing desk at the left of the large bed. She did not glance down to find the paper and pen, but grasped them- she already knew where they were.

Christine heard the scratch of the pen against the paper. So it's not that she refuses to speak…she cannot. It took a few minutes, but she was obviously writing very little; the strokes were long and careful. The singer stood and watched this mysterious person write. Then it hit her. She is blind as well! She must have memorized every object's placement…perhaps this is why her eyes are red?

At last, the paper was handed her, and she scanned the words with something like shock. The writing was messy and shaky, but the meaning was quite clear. The gestures and attitudes in the exchange downstairs suddenly made sense and came together in one flash. She was almost ashamed of herself for having not realized it before.

She looked up at the blind girl, with her abnormal coloration and strong, steely build, and her silence. The red eyes blinked at her, almost as if they were indeed seeing eyes and could register the surprise on her face. She read the sentence over again, just to be sure that she had seen correctly. Then she swallowed back a lump in her throat. "You love him."