A/N: Been staring blankly at the word doc of chapter 10 because Erik is proving to be difficult once again. Sooo...might as well update. Thanks to Wheel of Fish and LeticiaMaree and those who have hit the follow/favourite button. You're keeping me going when I've wanted to give up a couple of times in the past week.
This chapter marks the last of the setup stuff. For the following three chapters (probably more)Erik and Julianne will be stuck with each other.
Chapter 7:
It felt like a hangover or at the very least like the concept of a hangover he had formed in his mind. He couldn't lay claim on ever having experienced one. Alcohol could be delicious, of course, but he had felt it lacking something that would intoxicate him sufficiently. And, similarly to most foods he had tried in his time, he found it to grow quite sickening after a while. His opiates tended to linger as well but faintly, perhaps owing to years of regular usage.
No, this was something quite different.
His tongue and throat felt like sandpaper, his eyelids heavy and sore and his limbs seemed to dangle uselessly off his body as if they didn't quite belong to him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, cautiously twirled his foot, then his wrist, trying to develop a feel for his body again. White, hot music suddenly throbbed through him, made him yelp in surprise for he had almost forgotten what had caused him to wake up on his sofa in this disoriented state.
What day was it?
How long had he been absent?
He sat up sharply, his eyes roaming across the room in search of a calendar, in search of something that would tell him how long this black-out had lasted. But of course there was nothing, just darkness and the never-ending sameness of this prison he had inadvertently erected around himself.
Annoyance surged through him, strong enough to block out the hateful music. To think he may have given that woman the idea she could have bested him! It was so appalling a notion that even the thought of a triumphant, surprising return that would crush all her hopes, was not enough to fix it. He had lost his footing, she had made him lose it and was now helping another pathetic, conceited woman to victory. But she wouldn't win, not this time. She'd succeeded in making him look a fool once, he would not make the same mistake twice.
With some effort he pulled himself into a sitting position, regretting this decision instantly when the contents of his brain seemed to lurch sickeningly from one side to the other. Little white orbs and other unfinished shapes danced before his eyes and he shifted his fingertips to his temples as if to steady himself.
Unaware of her master's struggle, Ayesha leapt onto his lap and pressed her face into the hollow between his ribs. He petted her absent-mindedly but she impatiently swatted his attempts away and presented him instead with a disgruntled meow.
"You're hungry, I know," he rasped, scooping her up under her belly and gently placing her down onto the floor.
Still unsteady on his feet, he staggered towards the cabinet that housed her food and presented her with a tin of caviar. Pacified, she began to purr and just for a moment, while listening to the sweet sounds she produced, he felt optimistic that all hadn't been lost.
Then the alarm resounded around him, splitting his head in two once more.
Cursing loudly and angrily, he reached for his cloak and the cat-gut hidden within its folds and strode out of the house. The blurred vision that overcame him once in a while only served to fuel his anger. Whoever dared disturb his peace would not receive lenience!
He climbed up the slick stone staircase that connected the western side of the house with the Rue Scribe, struggling all the while since his feet still refused to move by the fluent rhythm they usually followed. But the alarm hadn't resounded from the nearby torture chamber, giving him no choice but to make the treacherous trip.
Erik spotted the pale man before he ever saw him coming. He was clearly lost, fumbling along the wet walls in an attempt at finding the right path. Under different circumstances Erik might have seen the humour in this but today he was not in the mood for games.
"You are trespassing, Monsieur," he informed him coldly, "and I'm afraid that is punishable by death."
The noose wrapped itself around his neck with lethal accuracy. The man's hand flew clumsily upwards but found he could not escape. The more he jerked, the angrier the rope bit into his skin.
"Monsieur…please…" he choked out, "you did not…attend…the arranged…I saw…"
Ugly retching sounds filled the air and impatiently, Erik loosened the lasso somewhat.
"You're making a spectacle of yourself and it repulses me. Speak now, if you must, I suppose even a dying man has a right to some last words."
Hope stirred up by the opportunity to explain himself, the man sucked in a big gulp of air, choked on it and coughed violently for a few seconds. Then he continued hoarsely, "Your courier contacted me. I have brought everything you asked for."
"And more, it appears," Erik remarked grimly, "I don't recall inviting you to my house."
"Monsieur, please," the man was begging now, tears of desperation pooling in his eyes, "you did not arrive and I've always known you to be punctual. I grew…concerned…especially after the courier told me that somebody had been asking questions about you. I tried locating the passage you-"
He did not have time to scream. The noose cut short his life so quickly that any last, remaining coherent thought he may have had, vanished in a series of gurgles.
Erik didn't blink when he removed the lasso and the body collapsed on the floor in front of him. He appraised the rope with silent focus, feeling for any rips or weaknesses that would render it less effective. When he didn't encounter any, he pocketed the weapon and stepped over the corpse in front of him.
His head felt clear at last and as his lungs filled with delicious air, his whole body seemed to relax, dispelling any lingering aches that had previously inhabited it.
Madame Doucet.
There was no doubt on his mind. Who else could have made Madame Giry break her vow of silence?
Madame Doucet.
Pestering him at every turn. A year or more without the delicious act of killing until she had come along. Now it would be impossible to stop. The fresh kill sent tingles of pure pleasure through him, akin to the excitement he felt when he pressed a new needle into his skin. The rush was nearly the same.
Of course, he'd have to dispose of the man eventually, the sewers were crawling with enough rats already and God knows he didn't need to attract even more of Nadir's attention, but for the time being there were more important matters to attend to. Such an easy breach of his private domain was unforgivable.
His mind frantically considered the sly tactics the man might have applied to gain access but, truth be told, he did not think him smart enough to figure out something so complex. He flexed his arm absent-mindedly and when that did not help chase the returning ache away, he rubbed the tender spot around his elbow where his tendons were protesting. Blood was staining his palm once more, so focused had he been that he had forgotten all about his injury.
The evening air then felt like a cold shower, clearing his mind of the lingering, greedy thoughts the murder had stirred up in him. And clarity was what he needed if he wanted to detect the flaw in his system that had enabled the merchant to stroll into his domain.
Or so he thought.
Because, in fact, the entrance was much too obvious for those who knew where to wait. The stone panel that acted as a switch had become washed out by age. Not only that, it also showed visible marks left by fingertips applying pressure. He doubted that any passers-by would possess a keen enough eye to notice it, but he couldn't take the risk. Tonight, after the Opera and cloaked in darkness, he would have to return and repair it.
But for now, he re-directed his steps towards his house, picking up the bag of goods the merchant had dropped, the one he hadn't noticed when he had first encountered him. The morphine he kept wrapped up on his sofa, the fresh tins of meat he deposited in the usual cupboard and after a quick wash, he put on some of the new hand-tailored garments. He had an Opera to attend, after all, and a lady to meet. It just wouldn't be right to turn up in any old frock.
The orchestra was tuning by the time he appeared behind the wall of box 5, the indistinct sounds just enough to mask his footsteps. Not that he expected the regular occupants to pay much attention to anything like that, but he was almost certain that Madame Doucet would, that she was waiting for him, perched on his chair, cloaked in that air of detached superiority.
His plan was reckless, he knew, but if she was so adamant to see him then by God she would!
His long fingers operated the lever that pulled up the marble lookalike and allowed him access to the box of red silk. He had expected her there, of course, and still the sight of the strict bun made him clench his fist by his side. Temptation whispered to him to dispose of her then and there. He wouldn't need his lasso, he could just wrap his fingers around her neck and squeeze until all life was forced out of her. Bearing Nadir's wrath would be a minor nuisance and there was no-one else that would miss her.
Moreau was too afraid of him to meddle, would make her body disappear one way or another. Mousy little men like him always found a way to hide their sins.
And who else would care?
Her husband was under the ground already and thus far there had been no mention of children.
His heart ached suddenly; a soft, small tune rang in his ears. He couldn't be certain. And what was to become of the child if he was wrong? Another innocent soul out on the streets, vulnerable and exposed to all the ugliness the world had to offer? No, he couldn't have that young person's blood on his conscience.
His hands withdrew slowly from the vicinity of her neck and with a quick touch of his frock, he composed himself.
"You are beginning to try my patience, Madame."
She didn't startle overtly but pushed the palm of her hand into her thigh.
"But perhaps that is your intention."
"A box is there to be used, Monsieur, and an opera is meant to be heard."
He almost admired her for the composure she displayed, keeping her eyes fixed on the stage and resisting temptation to turn around and see if he really was there.
"This is my box, Madame," he hissed into her ear, delighting in the shiver it created, "and I do not wish to hear this abomination of sound."
Her palm pressed into her thigh once again before releasing its hold altogether. He watched the delicate curve of her neck as she swivelled around in her chair. Her lips parted when she caught her first glimpse of him but she quickly recovered and closed her mouth.
"I hope you aren't disappointed," he remarked menacingly.
"I am not certain why I'm surprised that a man like yourself would hide behind a mask," she spoke softly as if trying her best not to disturb the performance with unnecessary sounds.
"Careful now, Madame, you don't find me in good spirits."
She took a step closer, sizing him up with her dark-blue eyes. Everything about her was dark, but measured and calm, unlike the outburst he had witnessed the other day.
She stopped in front of him, far too close to be socially acceptable, and suddenly seemed at a loss of what to do next. An instinctive armour of taunting or dismissive words usually came easy to Erik, but in this moment he found himself just as captured by the determined indecisiveness she displayed.
"We are an opera house, Monsieur, and you don't appear daft to me. We must make money. As I have stated before, your wage demand can only be met if we reach a target of ticket sales. I am not Monsieur Richard or Monsieur Moncharmin. Thankfully, I am not poor but I cannot possibly afford the 20,000 francs you ask for. And quite frankly, I refuse to comply with such an arrogant demand. If you truly wish, I am prepared to keep this box empty for your use…as a demonstration of good-will between us, if you wish. But if you truly hope to be paid, performances must take place and you must offer some skill to warrant it."
When she had ceased to talk, he broke into sickening laughter that reverberated from the walls around them, drawing irritated whispers from the boxes nearby.
"You have quite the nerve, Madame." His bony fingers closed around her wrists and tugged her close enough to bridge even the small gap between their bodies. "Making my trusted Madame Giry waver, endangering her, spying on me…"
"I suppose we have that in common, Monsieur," she responded pointedly though the tremble in her voice betrayed her.
Dismantled by the abrasive attitude of the woman, he grabbed her harder, fingertips digging into her flesh, and began dragging her towards his secret passageway.
"If you think I'm just going to follow you, you are mistaken, Monsieur!" she snapped angrily, digging her heels into the carpeted floor and putting up as much resistance as she could muster. "I am not Christine Daaé ."
He released her and whirled around prepared to strike her when the crashing music suddenly thumped in his eardrums and flooded his chest with pain.
"My staff would ask questions, Monsieur. They would search for me," she continued.
She may have continued.
He couldn't be certain.
The pity in her eyes was eating him up.
"You won't be so lucky next time," He whispered, an empty threat, as hollow as the wall through which he made his escape.