A/N: Thanks for your lovely reviews and the follows. Likewise, you're encouraged to let me know what didn't work for you. :) The next update might come a bit later because I have a rather busy week. I hope I'll manage to squeeze in some writing but we'll see.
Chapter 10:
The cat's blue eyes watched him as he paced through the room. It had been nothing more than a couple of minutes since he had instructed Madame Doucet to spend the night in the torture chamber. A rather amusing idea of his yet he had only had mere minutes to congratulate himself on it, before the restlessness had set in.
It was a laughable matter, really, but it irked him that he had not considered what to do next. Even when her actions had angered him into impulsivity, he had felt to be flying by some kind of code, however immoral. But now, despite his threatening announcement, he did not know what to do.
Madame Doucet was here, she was broken and at his mercy but whatever next?
Without much consideration, he undid the golden cufflinks and rolled up his shirt sleeves to expose his bruise-riddled arms. Morphine would be a welcome distraction but God only knew what kind of uncalculated actions it would inspire him to do. Peace of mind was one thing, bad appearances were chuckled at the irony of the sentiment and roughly rolled the sleeves back down.
An ugly man concerned with appearances, now that was something truly laughable.
He flexed his left hand, then shook it, trying to chase away some of the numbness that had suddenly befallen it again. Since her departure he hadn't suffered a single attack and wouldn't it be funny if his heart condition would now take a turn for the worse? Women in close proximity to him seemed to have that effect and that really was the crux of the matter. He truly did despise women in his house, yet somehow they kept turning up. How right Javert seemed to have been, nicknaming him Don Juan.
Once more he laughed but the Siamese cat that made up his sole audience, only lifted up one of her chocolate-coloured paws and gave it a lazy lick. At last, he stopped his pacing and sank down on the bed by her side. He was still incensed at Madame Doucet's tactless investigation of his person. It had been flattering at the beginning but to dismantle his network of suppliers and confidants was quite unacceptable. She deserved some kind of punishment, something that would make her see the error of her ways.
His pale, slender hands stilled on his knees and a slow, terrible smile sprawled across his face. It really was quite simple. All he had to do was keep her here, tolerate her presence at his house, lock her up and out of sight if need be. In her absence, Moreau would quickly bend to his will and the opera house would fall silent. By the time she emerged again, if ever she did, there would be no business to run anymore. Surely there could be no harsher punishment?
Everything would be blissfully quiet and without music she would at last start to fade. For the time being, he chose to ignore the truth, denying the power she still held. Given the right circumstances, it was easy enough to delude oneself.
Satisfied with himself and his decision, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and laid them out on his bed, followed by his dress pants. Then he walked into the adjacent bathroom of green marble and washed himself, pondering what a great inconvenience it was to have no further pieces of furniture. At this rate, his clothes would be wrinkled and damp within hours and that really wouldn't do.
The thought so occupied him that even when he had succumbed to the comfortable linens and soft pillows of his bed, his mind refused to find rest. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling while the darkness thrummed around him, voices whispered into his ear and his hand lazily combed the line of Ayesha's spine. Had he not been so familiar with the sensation, he would have deemed it impossible to feel nothing and everything at once.
At times he wondered what had become of Christine, if it had been her who had chosen to reject him even in death – for he had firmly believed he was dying. Or if it had been the parting blow of a jealous fiancé, intend on protecting the love of his life – an action Erik would not only resent but secretly also admire the Vicomte for.
Pursuing those thoughts, however, conjured up an image of her face so vivid it appeared to be within his reach if only he lifted his hand and stretched out his fingers. It brought back tantalising memories of soft lips pressed against his own, a kind of caress so rare and novel that the memory alone still brought him to his knees. The sweet touch of her small, warm hand running up his back, fingers weaving through his hair.
Oh, how much more it hurt now to exist, knowing that she would never touch him like that again, that nobody would.
In the moments when he wasn't driven by rage, he just felt so tired, tired enough to die and yet… It was as if some greater entity had decided he still had a role to play in some concluding passage. How silly, how torturous…had he not long ago accepted that he was too old and too damaged to start anew?
A hiss accompanied by several curse words awoke him. Pushing himself up on his elbows he surveyed the room and assessed his body for the various aches it seemed to house.
"Erik!"
The voice made him sit up straighter and nearly tempted him to utter a string of choice words as well. Under much protest from his body, he shifted out of the bed, reached for the black satin robe that threatened to slide of its edge and strode out into the sitting room. A long time ago, the image of his cat wrapped viciously around the Persian's ankle might have made him laugh. Today, his presence came as even more of a nuisance.
"I do not recall inviting you, Daroga. Quite the opposite, actually."
"So you keep saying," Nadir replied whose face was set in a grim line until the cat's claws hit a rather sensitive spot and he winced, "but I needed a word."
Erik laughed coldly and strode to the cabinet from which he retrieved a can of caviar, sufficient enough to distract the feline. "I presume there is something new you disapprove of."
He meandered back to the samovar and lit it, keeping his back to the Persian.
"Disapprove?" his friend repeated, sounding aghast. "Yes, I daresay I disapprove of murder, Erik."
"Murder?" he glanced over his shoulder to offer a saccharine, innocent smile before his eyes fell onto the darkened torture chamber.
From his position he could just make out Madame Doucet's curled up form on the ground, still enough not to attract Nadir's attention. Why didn't she move? Suspiciously he narrowed his eyes, waited for her to push herself off the ground and start a mindless sprint towards freedom. Surely all instincts were yelling at her to run?
"I know your handiwork when I see it!"
He faintly registered that Nadir sounded angrier than usual.
"I'm not following," he responded undeterred, pouring the tea into two cups and offering one to him. But Nadir only stared at it darkly and shook his head.
"No, perhaps you're not. Perhaps you have truly ceased to have scruples."
"Morality is such a charming notion," Erik hummed to himself and slowly lifted the cup to his lips while balancing the second one delicately in his other hand.
"And yet utterly lost on you. I feel this is partially my fault…for persuading you to come to Mazandaran, for exposing you to opium which ended up twisting your mind further. So I shall assume full responsibility, Erik."
"That sounds almost like a threat, Daroga."
Erik slowly lowered both cups and glanced in the direction of the torture chamber once more.
Madame Doucet still hadn't moved.
The Persian still hadn't noticed her.
"Perhaps it is," Nadir quietly responded, "you could have achieved such greatness."
"And I have, but greatness does not equal love."
"And the deprivation of love does not justify your actions, my friend. If you would show remorse at least…I could…" He swallowed and stopped, seemed unable to get the words out. "The man you murdered? He was married…he had children. Where is the man that played with my Reza with all the patience of a saint? Where is the generous man, paying far more at the bazaar than was necessary just to provide for a poor family?"
Erik's hand dropped to his side; his fingers clamped around his leg. Something lifted off his chest, something broke free, dismantled him, caused him to come undone just as she had done that day in the manager's office. Music was tickling the edges of his fingertips.
"Enough…" he panted, his voice ragged and rough.
"I hope you'll remember soon, Erik," Nadir spoke softly now and if he wasn't mistaken a smile was even lighting up his kind eyes, "but if you don't, I'll make sure you won't hurt another soul."