A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :)
Chapter LXXVI
Time froze, encapsulated in one terrible, defined moment that captured all breath and held hearts at bay.
Christine stared from the tip of the shining blade angled between her breasts and up into the gendarme's eyes – menacing, dark and as cold as death. She recognized him as the brute who struck her at the cave. Then, as if a signal was given from some supreme deity above, the seconds shattered from their imprisonment and raced ahead at an alarming rate – too fast to comprehend – her frantic heartbeats scattering along with them.
From behind, Christine sensed Erik surge forward. The gendarme darted a glance in his direction, horrified disgust sweeping across his features. In a rapid move that took Christine completely by surprise, he dropped his sabre away from her while rushing to seize and swing her to him, slamming her back against his chest. His brawny arm at her throat exerted hard pressure, and she struggled to breathe while the gendarme again lifted his sabre, now pointed at Erik, who at once halted his steady advance.
Christine blamed her foolishness to be caught on fatigue, and with her eyes pleaded with her enraged Phantom not to do something equally as foolish.
"Put down your weapon, beast, or I'll break the girl's neck." The gendarme jerked his arm painfully against her throat, and Christine let out a little yelp.
"You will regret that," Erik clipped, his voice quiet and deadly. "Let her go."
"I don't take orders from monsters. Unless you want her dead, you'll do as I say."
In the misty glow of the moon, her Phantom's eyes blazed feral and gold. With slow purpose he held his arms out to his sides, to show he would comply with the foul man's wishes, and bent his knees while lowering his body to the ground. As he laid his weapon in the path beside him and gradually moved to straighten, Christine took the opportunity of the gendarme's studied focus on Erik to stretch shaking fingers to her waistband and the handle of the paring knife pressed against her thick petticoats.
"Beg me on your knees for your life, and I might let you and the girl live," the gendarme taunted. "I daresay it matters not to Monsieur Picard whether I kill you now or you rot in the asylum. Though I might take this bit of fluff before I make up my mind and have you watch. What say you, petit belle," He brought his cold, dry lips down to her neck, "would you like to know what a real man feels like...?"
Horrified by his intent, the not so distant and fearful memory of Henri and Buquet's revolting attacks making her blood boil, Christine swung her blade up and sliced deep into her captor's hand, narrowly missing her own skin.
"You bitch!" He howled in pain and outrage.
Tearing free from his loosened hold, she barely felt Erik's firm hand as he grabbed her arm and hauled her fast behind him. She staggered and fell to her palms with the momentum, turning her head quickly to see that her Phantom had snatched up his sabre, again poised for attack, and now faced the gendarme who retained hold of his weapon.
"I'll slice you to ribbons and hang you from the nearest tree," the gendarme spat, "you and your woman both."
"Twice you have harmed Christine," Erik's low timbre caught the chill of the air, his very words sounding as if they could shatter like ice and rain down in fatal shards upon his victim. "And twice you threaten her life. Now, this monstrous face will be the last you see – a curse upon your soul – to send you straight into hell!"
With the deadly grace of a panther he lunged, swinging his blade with precision in three successive strikes – all barely blocked by the gendarme, who fell back in clear surprise to be confronted with an opponent of skill.
Despite her terror, Christine's mouth fell open in shock. She had known her Phantom had to have some knowledge of how to handle the weapon, to have taken it into his possession. But his evident mastery with the blade stunned her as much as it horrified, the missing four years a web of secrecy she wondered if she would ever fully scatter. Or if she dared to …
Assassin he had told her, and she watched with horrified awe to see a glimpse of what that man had been. Pushing herself numb and trembling off the ground, Christine struggled to stand.
The lethal ballet played out a short distance before her, her husband a master at stealth and speed. The gendarme he fought was huskier of build, clumsy compared to Erik's elegant strides and lunges of fatal choreography. But the strikes of the enemy's blade were sure and strong against her husband's weapon.
The strident ring of metal filled the mist-laden forest. Erik fought with determination, and Christine inwardly cheered when his blade sliced through the man's sleeve. Nonetheless, the soldier kept coming, his injury not inflicted to his sword arm. After several swings and blocks with his weapon, Christine could see that Erik was tiring. As if the gendarme also sensed this, his attack came stronger, his movements less awkward as he charged forward and Erik fell back.
Her mind whirled in a panic and Christine desperately sought for something to do – anything – but what? What could she do?!
Her fearful gaze swept the branch-laden ground, darted up thick trees, swung back to the death battle. She considered running up with her diminutive knife and digging it between his shoulder blades since he now faced away from her, perhaps jumping onto his back and slicing his throat. She cringed at so morbid a thought – and if she failed she could well seal their doom. A small blade was nothing against such a powerful weapon.
The harsh ring and slide of steel jarred her senses and again brought her full attention on the two. The gendarme had slammed his weapon home, striking the parry of Erik's blade – and his sabre – from his hand. Unarmed, Erik swiftly backed up, the thick trunk of a tree hindering his progress. The gendarme slowly advanced toward his trapped kill with a haughty swagger.
"I'm going to enjoy this," he sneered.
Christine gave no clear thought to her next move, the need to act imperative as she dropped her knife and grabbed a thick branch from the ground, rushing toward the threat against her husband. At the sound of running footsteps, the soldier pivoted in surprise in the moment she swung as hard as she could at his head. Wood connected to flesh and bone with a sickening thud and crunch and a slight sting burned above her knee. The gendarme slumped to the ground, the upper side of his face a mangled clot of blood and tissue.
Revolted by what she'd done, she dropped the branch with nerveless fingers and clutched her stomach, feeling its violent churn as bile filled her throat. This, the second time she had bashed a man's brain's in…taken life… murdered once more…
Shaking all over, she fell to her knees and retched until there was nothing left to give. Erik was instantly crouched beside her the moment her strength gave, his firm hands gentle on her arms, holding her up. She looked at him, fearing to ask but needing to know.
"Is he… is he dead?"
Before he could respond, a moan from the ground assured her he was not.
Erik hastened to stand and approached their fallen foe. Every inch the Phantom, his face twisted into a fierce, dark scowl. With the moon and shadows to paint a sinister mystery, his defect became more pronounced, imposing fear and horror – and a harsh gasp from his victim who suddenly opened wide terrified eyes. It was the last image seen before Erik ran the gendarme through with his blade.
He gave a dry, victorious huff of laughter then looked up at Christine with cold, unfeeling eyes.
"Now, he is dead."
Christine could not speak, could not think. Could only watch her husband who seemed almost a stranger walk toward her, his cloak fluttering around his long trim legs. Watch the blade he still held glisten wetly in the moonlight, black with a man's blood.
Two men. Two victims. Twice a murderer – she who abhorred violence toward any living thing. Her hand did not wield the killing blow, this time, but had been the cause of his demise as surely as she breathed.
"He had to die, Christine," Erik said grimly, holding out his hand to help her up. His grip was firm, his eyes hard, like chips of yellow glass. "He would have hunted us down again, to kill us."
Yes. She knew that, knew they had no other option when fleeing for their lives from vicious men who sought their destruction – but the fight to survive did not make death any easier to bear, especially the knowledge that she had helped bring about this man's demise. She then realized with Erik's words, so quietly defensive, that he thought she blamed him for his choice.
She never told him why she left England. She should tell him…
Should she tell him?
The words were hardly simple and would demand more than she felt she could give – hard explanations, further heartache and probable questions… no, now was not the time.
Not now, when more soldiers could pop out from the bushes at any moment with their lethal pistols and merciless blades and evil intentions…not now, when all that was crucial was to find the safety of the cave…
Not now, when Jolene lay wounded on the ground.
"The girl…" At the abrupt memory, Christine turned to look at the still, small figure a short distance away.
x
Erik softly cursed and hurried toward the little maid, dropping his sabre to the ground as he crouched beside Jolene, who softly whimpered. He immediately noted the profuse amount of blood that glistened on the girl's bodice, her entire dress caked with wet mud as if she'd rolled in it making it difficult to distinguish between the two in the moonlight that sapped all color. Erik did a quick perusal, his fingers finding the hole in the soaked dress and the slow gurgle of warm blood from the bullet that had torn through her stomach and undoubtedly a vital organ.
One look at his tense jaw and the grim shake of his head when he looked up as she approached, and Christine knew that Death again lurked near to claim its next victim.
"Jolene," Erik urged softly, sliding his hand beneath her neck. "Can you hear me, child?"
The girl's eyes flickered open. Upon seeing Erik, a faint smile tilted her lips, a thin trickle of blood spotting one corner.
"You're safe," she whispered, her voice strained. "I dragged the branch in the road to stop them, Maestro. They stopped me." She winced in pain and suddenly clutched his arm in fear. "Jacques!"
"Jacques is alright," he assured, his low timbre a gentle glide of silk to the senses. "Do not fear for the boy."
Her rising tension visibly eased, responding to the calmness of his tone.
"Take care of him." Her cloudy eyes and soft fervent plea made it clear that she, too, understood her fate.
Erik swallowed hard. "I will always watch over your brother and keep him safe. On this, you have my word."
She nodded softly. "I'm frightened." All brave displays of courage fragmented as she squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from her lashes. Her words were soft and childlike, showing a ghost of the small girl she'd been such a short time ago. "P-please hold me…"
Erik said nothing, closing his eyes against a surge of unexpected emotion, then glanced up at Christine who remained standing a short distance away. He held her solemn stare in a plea for understanding, then looked back to Jolene and gathered his ward close. Her small, blood-smeared hand clutched the edge of his cape, and she rested her head against his chest in trust.
"Will I see Maman again?" Hope laced her doubt-filled words that grew more sluggish. "Will God have someone like me?"
Erik slowly shook his head, at a loss with what to say to ease the girl's mental anguish, cast off from the very idea of knowing heaven in his lifetime of being scorned as a monster and feared as a murderer.
Christine sensed his conflict and quietly stepped forward, forcing words through a tight throat.
"When I was little, and I said my evening prayers, one night I asked something similar of my Papa. He told me the Almighty would never turn someone away who earnestly sought His presence as their Saviour and was sorry for their mistakes, no matter what wicked things they'd done." As she said the last, Christine knelt down, surprised when Jolene reached out her other hand to her. Christine took it, alarmed at how very cold the skin was, like ice. "I believe that with all my heart," she said with conviction.
She wished she knew what more to say to comfort, not for the first time missing her Papa's wise counsel in matters of spiritual significance, and despising that Death had stolen him away when she still needed him so much.
She glanced up at Erik. His lips had tightened at her mention of God, his mind clearly at war with her words, but he remained silent and did not pose contradictions.
"Merci." Jolene stared at Christine, a wealth of meaning contained in that one soft-spoken word. In her eyes, she saw both an apology and a plea …
Christine nodded and squeezed the frail hand to show that all was forgiven.
"It's so dark," Jolene whispered, though misty moonlight held them captive in its pool. Her lashes fluttered against wan cheeks. "I'm so tired…"
"Sleep…" Erik shifted her higher, pressing his lips to her icy brow, his first time to extend any form of affection since the fateful night that brought her fleeing into his life. "Just rest, Jolene. You're safe."
He repeated the assurance she said upon seeing him scant minutes ago.
Her wispy breaths grew slow and faint…
Until, with one feeble exhalation, they ceased altogether.
xXx
Christine did not need Erik to tell her the girl was gone. She had seen the hand of Death enough in her twenty years on the earth to know when the Reaper seized life in its skeletal grasp.
Erik looked up at her, his eyes empty and dry, his countenance a stony mask. His brows drew inward as he lifted one gentle hand to Christine's cheek where the tears that had steadily welled in her eyes now broke free from their confines. He brushed the wetness away, his head angled slightly in question.
She felt a little disbelieving that he exhibited no emotion. She knew he was well acquainted with death and had doled it out – too often to bear present consideration – but to her knowledge this was the second time it affected him personally. When her father died, Erik had silently cried with her as they held one another. She knew the girl had to have meant something to Erik for him to take her into his bed, to become her guardian, to give her a home for three years…
"I never despised her, not truly," Christine managed. "I certainly never wanted this. I despised what she was to you, and that she took the place that should have been mine."
"No one could take your place," he interrupted with quiet insistence. "No one ever shall."
She shook her head, not wanting to argue; this was not the time or place for heartfelt discussion. Her emotions were a dissonant medley of anger and sadness, relief and fear, and she had no idea how to sort it all out and grab sanity's hold again.
"What now?" she asked wearily.
"We go home," he said, looking suddenly as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, and immediately she reasoned why.
"Jacques," she breathed.
The poor child! How would they tell him? Was there even a way to make him understand? In the silent language they formed to communicate, was there a word for death or a way to make him understand that the sole member he knew as family had departed this world and was never coming back?
Erik's eyes closed a moment, as if he heard her unspoken questions, before he abruptly rose with Jolene in his arms. He gave a low whistle. On his master's command, the horse soon appeared near the trees, as if by magic.
"You must tell him," Christine said suddenly. "You must tell him that you're his brother."
"What good can come of that?"
Erik carefully laid the little maid's body over Cesar's back. Christine gave the pitiful sight a cheerless glance, recalling the close bond between brother and sister, before looking again at Erik.
"He should be given some hope once he learns of his terrible loss. He needs to know you'll always be there to turn to, and the reason for it."
"I have never given the boy cause to doubt that he has a place in my home."
He moved to collect the sabre from the ground and she watched with a shudder as he wiped the blood on some nearby bushes, cleaning the blade as best he could before sheathing it.
"But don't you see?! With Jolene gone, he'll soon wonder if you'll leave too!"
"Christine…?"
He looked at her suddenly, alert to the change in her voice. She no longer spoke as the strong woman she'd become, but as the desperate child she'd been – torn from all innocence in the naive belief that her world would never change. Jolene's death brought that day back to her with vivid clarity and she could not prevent herself from falling into the gaping jaws of cruel reminiscence.
"I had just turned twelve when Papa died," she said, her words tremulous, "and you then became all that was my world. I was so afraid you would leave me too – do you remember that day when you found me in the stables?"
She impatiently swiped at her damp cheeks with one hand, no longer sure who she cried for. Herself? Erik? Jolene? Jacques?
"That morning Papa kissed my forehead as always, and told me to be good before I went off to play," she continued before Erik could answer. "Later I ran to his room and that strange man was there and so cold to me. He threw me out and locked the door – no one even told me he was a physician or why he was there. Papa was just suddenly taken from me. I never saw him again. Just a casket in an open grave. You found me crying in the stable. I made you promise you wouldn't leave too."
"I remember," he said softly, his hands reaching for her shoulders and drawing her to him, holding her close as he had on that rainy afternoon.
"He needs to know," she insisted, pressing her forehead to his strong shoulder near his neck, embracing him just as strongly and inhaling deeply of his musky, exotic scent that both comforted and aroused. "Jacques needs to know he still has a family."
"I will consider it," he said at last. "For now we must go." He pushed her slightly away and cradled her face, looking deeply into her eyes. "Are you alright?" At her nod, he briefly pressed his lips to her brow then her lips and retreated a step to give her a hand up.
She shook her head. "I will walk with you."
He looked doubtful. "You are not too weary?"
"No." In a sense it was true. The events of the past minutes had charged her blood. Her body may be drained, but her mind felt alert.
Christine slipped her hand into his, thankful when he interlaced his fingers with hers and did not deny her the closeness she needed. Gone was the memory of what led to their earlier quarrel and she wondered why she bothered to waste precious time in foolish bickering. Life was too brief, too uncertain.
They walked for some time in silence, Erik ever attentive to every rustle in the surrounding forest, his tension apparent by the sudden clenching of his gloved hand against hers. At first, Christine thought the pinprick of distant light was a trick of her imagination, but when it remained and did not waver or fade into darkness, she knew she wasn't seeing things.
"Do you see that?" She glanced at Erik. "What do you think it is?"
He did not think, he knew, but felt no relief for it.
A few minutes more of walking, and the mystery became apparent as the outline of a building could be seen in the distance. Christine gasped.
"Is that…?"
At her wondering words, he gave a curt nod. "The chapel."
She moved in front of him, into his line of vision, her clear relief tempered with confusion at his growing unease. "But – this is wonderful! We can claim sanctuary. Father Dominic will help us, I know he will…"
The Phantom did not share her enthusiasm but knew his wife needed rest. Despite how determined she was to walk close and cling to his hand, not that he minded a bit, he could tell by the slump of her shoulders and droop of her eyelids that Christine was exhausted. The traumatic events of the night had wearied him as well, made worse by the wicked throb at the back of his skull from the lump he now sported.
"And when he sees the horror of my face, what then, Christine? Do you think he will so graciously offer refuge to the monster?"
"Father Dominic isn't like the others. He won't judge you for your appearance."
"He has only ever seen the mask," he said sardonically. "Although I must say, I'm surprised, my dear. I thought you cared about the welfare of the priest who married us."
"What has that to do with…" Her puzzled words broke off as she realized, and she frowned in exasperation. "Your face is not a curse, Erik, you do not have the evil eye. Those gypsies were wrong."
"Tell that to Jolene."
At his dour words, she glanced behind him to the horse and winced, then forced her attention to the path ahead. Toward that small beacon of light, toward the slightest morsel of hope…
"What happened to Jolene was due to evil men and the girl's own carelessness. It wasn't because of anything you did."
"I showed her my face. Now she is dead."
Christine felt ready to scream with frustration at his stubbornness to believe a myth, and knew a deep abiding anger toward those so cruel to instill the disparaging superstition so powerfully into his mind. She managed to keep her voice calm while pressing her palms firmly to his jaw.
"This face does not have the power to take away life. But daily, it gives me life, seeing you there and knowing you're again with me. Trust in that, Erik. Trust in me."
She would speak the words until her tongue fell out, if she must, and it very well may take a full lifetime for him to believe it. If her patience held out that long.
Abruptly she recalled something and inwardly winced, hoping he would not believe she purposely withheld it from him. From deep within her bodice, she withdrew his black silk mask and pressed it into his hand, aware that he needed it for his own peace of mind, but hoping one day the covering would no longer be a requirement.
"I only just remembered I took this. I picked it up at the cave, after they carted you away. If you feel you must have it, well then, now there's no need to fear the good Father's reaction to us showing up on his doorstep for aid, is there…?"
His relief was almost tangible as he took the mask from her and checked it for damage. Seeing none, he wrapped the silk around his head and tied the strands at the back. He studied her a long moment before holding his hand out to her. She wished she could look past the steady golden orbs and read deep into his thoughts.
"The good Father might have reason to entertain suspicion when you consider what we bring," he said dryly, one hand motioning to the horse's sad burden, "but I'll not deny your wish, my love. And hopefully, we shall find rest there."
Anxious strain tightened his jaw. She, too, felt as if she might snap at any moment, stretched far beyond simple endurance for one evening. Christine slipped her hand back in his, clasping it with her other hand as well.
Each step that brought them closer to the chapel made her heart pound hard with a strange sort of apprehensive exhilaration. After her liberating talk with Father Dominic at the opera house, she felt she could trust him. She had confided to him a goodly portion of her life with Erik, and the kindly priest had been supportive, encouraging her return to her husband. If anyone would be their ally, it was the good Father, and yet…she had trusted the de Chagny cousins, who once were the closest of friends. And they had betrayed her, keeping her separated from Erik…
As they drew near, Christine saw that the golden spot of light that beckoned them belonged to the flame of a candle glowing steadily in the window. Its presence warmed her soul, encouraging her, and she squeezed Erik's hand. A hopeful, nervous smile began to form on her lips in greeting as the arched door of the chapel swung suddenly inward –
– And died an instant death when she saw who stood on the threshold.
In horror, she stared at the Vicomte de Chagny, who looked just as stunned to see Christine gaping back at him.
From beside her, she heard a sharp hiss and the chilling slide of metal on metal as Erik drew his sabre.
Raoul scowled and did the same with his sword.
Sanity crumbled into a thousand shards of panic as Christine hastened to stand between the two men.
"NO MORE!"
xXx