A/N: Thank you for your reviews – and your patience while I was on a work deadline. :) I still have to do a number of catch-up for things left to the wayside (here at home) but hopefully, things phantom writing-wise will return to normal soon (with posting a chapter of one of my stories every week or other week)…remember to check out my profile if wanting to know where I am with my stories - I frequently update it - and oh, yes- this chapter deserves the rating. And now...
Chapter XXXII
A watery sun glimmered through dripping fronds of woodland foliage, where Erik used a wagon bed for a stage podium. Christine sat perched on its edge, her legs dangling and swinging, her upturned face shining with what once he never thought to see her exhibit toward a fallen angel: love, trust, encouragement. All were his to possess, the light in her eyes an unspoken pledge from her heart.
The men who supported Le Masque, however, stared up at him with expressions of incredulity and doubt mingled with mistrust.
"You want us to become traveling minstrels?" one man asked, his halting laugh growing more robust as several other men joined in, assured their leader's words must be a joke.
"Sure, and you cannot mean for us to recite verse and that sort of drivel," another said doubtfully.
"Songs, skits, music - wherever your talents may lie," Erik answered them.
One of the men draped his cloak over his head, holding its edges tightly beneath his chin, and craned sideways, against the shoulder of the man standing next to him. Batting his lashes, he spoke in a falsetto voice, "Oh, brave knight! Pray thee tell, what news do you bring from your travels?"
"Murder, if you don' get the devil off me," the 'knight' growled and jerked his shoulder away in disgust.
Christine muffled a soft giggle, covering her amusement with one hand. Erik shot her a glare, to which she cast her eyes to the ground; but the curve remained tilting her lips.
"Eustace can sing for the troupe!" a voice called out in mockery. "Though his every song will be the same and begin with something like, 'There was a young woman from Gluck, who strove to give all the braw men a good fu-'"
"If you gentlemen are quite finished with your games," the Phantom roared, cutting off the insurgent. "There are matters to be discussed!"
"Gentlemen are we now?" the ruffian who started the heckling replied sardonically.
The clown who'd hammed it up as a damsel now executed a bow from the waist to his comrade, "My good lord, would you care to partake of a libation?" he asked, this time speaking with a haughty flare.
His 'companion lord' pressed a broad hand to the clown's face and shoved the shorter man away.
A tittering of giggles frothed from Christine's lips, and again the Phantom directed a stern glance her way at her mild betrayal. However, unable to maintain his foreboding manner upon seeing his lovely wife so happy, he felt the corners of his own mouth trickle upward, and at last relented with an exasperated smile directed to her alone.
"It seems we have a jester in the audience," he said dryly to her, loud enough for the others to hear. He turned to address the motley band of renegades. "Would anyone else care to step forward and showcase your talent? No? Then I shall continue -"
"We never agreed to this farce!" one of the men called out bitterly. "We are thieves, not thespians!"
"You may do as you like; no one will force your hand." He looked out over the brigands gathered. "I give all of you a choice this day. You may remain with the band and contribute to the troupe, whether it be before an audience or behind the curtain as stagehands…"
"What curtain?"
"Stage – what?"
"Stagehands. They build sets, that sort of thing," Erik answered.
"Sets?"
The men looked at one another as if they'd been given a Greek text and been told to decipher its content. Were there ever such imbeciles in existence?!
"All will be explained as we progress," Erik said between clenched teeth. "For those who choose to remain, we will need to procure a list of items before we begin. For one, we will need instruments for musicians; I have heard that at least one of you has skill with a reed…" He looked Bertram's way, and was somewhat encouraged by the young man's slight nod. "Also we will need material for costumes, curtains, masks…"
"Masks? What the blazes do we need masks for?"
The Phantom barely reined in his impatience at being continually interrupted. Had this been the Opera House, no one would have dared to so openly contradict the Opera Ghost!
"I am not oblivious to the need to disguise ourselves to evade capture, and am highly experienced in the skill of the masquerade. Should I be the sole performer to wear a mask, we may as well send a missive to the soldiers as an invitation to apprehend us. They hunt one masked leader. Therefore, we will all be wearing masks."
"Will we not stick out like a stag in winter, even so?" a man who had yet to speak asked.
"In the world of the theatrical, it is expected to be peculiar - unique. We shall travel and perform in the villages, avoiding the bigger cities, like Paris, where soldiers are more likely to be stationed in their duties to the kingdom." At least, from what little he remembered of this time period, both from literature read in the 19th century and accidental experience of the past two weeks, he presumed that to be the case. "No one would suspect a troupe of masked actors and singers to be hidden reprobates in disguise."
"Aye – I understand now!" the first ruffian exclaimed. "While some perform, others of us will pilfer from the crowd and relieve them of their purses!"
"What?" the Phantom growled in exasperation. "No! Absolutely not! There will be no pick-pocketing – no manner of thievery whatsoever! That would surely bring attention we don't want on our heads and see us all chained to rot in the king's dungeon!"
Once upon a time, he wouldn't have cared if these men filled their pouches with whatever paltry coins of the peasants or nobles could be filched. But now he had Christine, and she deserved much more than a life steeped in delinquency, always in fear of imprisonment and torture and, God forbid, death.
"Sure, and you do not expect anyone would pay to listen to the likes of us," one of the men casually inserted to the agreement of the others. From what Erik had seen thus far, the scoundrel wasn't far off the mark.
"You will not be the star attraction," Erik spoke, his patience on the fine end of worn. "My Lady Christine will play the lead."
Every suspicious, uncertain and disparaging eye turned in Christine's direction. He saw her instant discomfort as she pulled dangling legs from the edge of the wagon bed and brought them to her chest, holding her arms around her skirts at her knees. In the span of a breath, she had grown childlike and uncertain, and his heart went out to her. He caught her eye, hoping to instill strength to her in a nod and a look, wishing instead to pull her close in his embrace and whisper encouragements against the delicate shell of her ear, as her angel… kiss away that uncertain quiver of rosy lips, as her husband. But such preferences must regrettably wait.
"And what can she do? Turn Samuel here into a toad? Would be an improvement, to be sure!"
The men guffawed, Samuel clonking the offender on the back of the head with the flat of a meaty hand, but the Phantom wasn't one bit amused and glared over the crowd of men who at the moment acted more like unruly schoolboys.
"Christine Daaé is no witch! She is my wife - and if I hear one more unfavorable remark against her, the insolent buffoon will find themselves at the tight end of my rope. Am I understood?"
A somber pall settled over the men as by their collective, dour expressions, they were reminded of their former comrade, Richard, and the punishment that had befallen him.
"Then what will she do?" another of the renegades asked.
"She will sing."
The men didn't seem the least bit impressed with the Phantom's rejoinder.
"Many a maid can do that," one muttered doubtfully.
"And she will dance."
"Dance?" Again there was an exchange of suspicious looks.
"And she will act. In short, my good messieurs, she will do all that is required of a performer of the highest caliber, as the Lady Daaé is well skilled in all levels of entertainment that we shall offer an unworthy populace - but especially and most auspiciously she will sing."
"Why do you suddenly talk so queer?" the tall ruffian spoke. "And what do you know of such things? When have you ever cared about music or minstrels?"
"There is much about me you do not yet know," the Phantom said grimly. "And there is much you would never wish to know. Do not test me, or you may well learn all I am capable of." Threat duly given, he turned his sights from the one fool to include the many. "To take on the role of a renegade who engages in a regular pattern of stealth and ambush requires its own brand of performance. I would think that in your illustrious career as criminals there is not one of you who hasn't, at some point in time, engaged in the pretense of taking on another identity. If I now speak differently, consider that I am stepping into my new role as ringmaster of this circus."
He said the last words in mockery, aware they would have no idea what he spoke about, since the first circus had centuries yet to evolve into existence, with its performing clowns and animals. But Christine knew, and he caught a twinkle of merriment in her eye at the allusion.
"To keep in practice and stay in character creates less chance for mistakes when in front of the populace, where it would then surely be a matter of life and death. …" Erik recalled what he and Christine discussed the previous evening, what she encouraged him to do, and he took a deep breath and grudgingly proceeded, "I repeat, whether you choose to stay or go makes no difference to me. But if you choose to stay and abide by my demands, you will not need to live a solitary life as before…"
He cast a glance to Christine, who nodded her smiling encouragement.
"Many of you have wives and children that you found it necessary to leave behind because of your criminal career and the need to hide. If you join with us on this new venture, you may go and get them, bring them to live among us and become part of our band. If any of them have talent, they, too, will be allowed to audition to take part in the performance."
Christine's idea had merit in more than one capacity. Once she was no longer the sole woman living in a camp full of lusty men, any of the fools' wretched imaginings to 'tup her,' should they still be touting a death wish to think it, would be directed to their own caste of females.
"Audition?" one of the men asked, clearly having no idea what the word meant - which had been the standard for this entire meeting!
Once more the Phantom growled under his breath and bit back his impatience to play schoolmaster. "To have an audience with me and, perhaps, Christine, so as to test any artistic mettle or lack thereof."
A few nods, a few raised brows along with smirks of capitulation, and Erik finally counted the meeting a success.
After the announcement to welcome their families, the general mood of the gathering calmed into a mild stir of approval, even acceptance. Still, more than half of the twelve made a decision to find lives elsewhere, first demanding their share of gold. Two of the five who chose to remain also asked for a portion of their cut, for the journey to bring back their loved ones. A reasonable request and Erik agreed. To gain their loyalty he could not withhold what reward was owed them. A truth he'd never put into practice as the Phantom of the Opera, though retribution he never once failed to administer. That much, he did remember.
After supper, Erik traveled with Eustace deeper into the forest where Le Masque and the Scot had buried the treasury. He helped pull away the boulder then, using pointed sticks in place of a preferred shovel, they dug the packed earth above it. An item he mentally added to the list of necessities as he scraped and scraped and scraped to reach the hidden wealth.
Along with drawstring pouches of silver ducats and gold sovereigns – the latter not inscribed with St. George and the dragon, as in his century, but instead an engraving that depicted a throned king and the twin roses of York and Lancaster – there was an engraved box containing jewels. Rings, pendants, bracelets – and as he stared at the sapphire on one of the rings, he thought of the band on Christine's wedding finger. Not the ring she'd given him beneath the opera – oddly, that had come with him into this century and hung around his neck – but a simple silver band he'd given her when he knew himself only as Le Masque.
A memory began to stir…
"Milord?" Eustace prodded. "We should return before twilight falls."
Broken from pensive thought to see by the ribbons of brilliant color in the sky that the sun was indeed setting, the Phantom collected what he wanted, including enough gold for the men's share, as well as a sack of coins for the requirements needed to embark on the incredible feat of making thieves and hooligans into troubadours…but most importantly, for giving Christine back the dream he had single-handedly destroyed in Paris.
It was not the opera and in this archaic era would never be as grand a spectacle, when sublime compositions had yet to be written into existence – but she would sing, again on a stage, her voice mesmerizing and astounding the masses. Again, he would be her teacher; but more than that, he would eternally be to her both husband and companion.
All that he ever desired, more than he ever dreamed. And he would do all he must to keep that dream alive.
xXx
The shadowed nook kept him hidden from nighttime passersby as Le Masque held the winsome strumpet against the iron gate and lost himself in her soft warmth. Needing escape from all he had seen, all of what made no sense, as well as the knowledge that his allegedly faithful comrades had taken up the stakes of their camp and abandoned him to the wolves – all of it he forced himself to forget as for a brief respite he expended his energies into the pleasure of again tupping a woman.
Moments spiraled, ascended, and crashed together until at last he spent himself within her, and she softly cried out and gave a little shudder. He held fast a short time, gathering his breath and his wits, wishing he did not have to return to the verity of the bizarre state of affairs that haunted. Pulling away, he adjusted clothing while she let down and smoothed her skirts. From his pouch, he withdrew a gold sovereign and pressed it in her hand. She studied it with raised brows of surprise, then smiled and tucked the payment into her cleavage revealed by a low neckline.
"It's been a delight, monsieur. Be sure to seek me out again when the need arises."
He inclined his head in distracted agreement, his mind again embroiled on what must be done next. As he turned to go, he saw in the not-so-far distance two men dressed in the same odd uniform of a man he'd spied the night previous who dealt with a belligerent drunkard in the street. From what transpired, he presumed these dark-uniformed men to be some sort of new soldiers assigned to keep the peace in Paris – and Le Masque being a wanted felon, men he must avoid.
The young woman came up beside him, noting where his uneasy stare rested. He felt her touch on his arm. "If you be needin' a bed for the night, there's a room available nearby. I can take you there without anyone being the wiser."
The offer for sanctuary was a temptation he would be foolish to deny, to secure a place to hide until he could figure out where the devil he should go, and he nodded at her offer, pulling up his hood for cover. He followed the girl from shadows and moonlight that glanced off the iron gate where he'd just ravaged her and into deeper blackness. He was grateful to see none of the strange iron poles with light to act as illumination, and only the occasional lantern near a door to offer visual aid. She hurried with him in the opposite direction of the soldiers and along a narrow street, soon entering what appeared to be a brothel of simple means.
Inside the main chamber of entertainment a few well-dressed patrons sat on couches and chairs, having their fleshly appetites tended by strumpets in odd and scanty dress. An older woman, with spots of rouge standing out starkly from pasty skin and an ample bosom threatening to spill out of a scandalously low neckline approached. Clearly the Madame of this establishment, like Perrette. The girl stepped forward while Le Masque held back, near the door.
"You were told to work the street," the woman scolded quietly. "You may be new here, but you should know from the start I don't like my orders ignored."
"But I did as you asked, Madame Duvay. I brought a customer in want of a bed for the night."
The woman sashayed toward Le Masque with a practiced eye that narrowed as she caught a glimpse of his full black mask beneath the hood. Quickly he withdrew his purse and opened the drawstring, an act that often averted elevating suspicion into avaricious favor - but the girl acted before he could withdraw another gold coin and handed the sovereign he had given her to the woman in charge.
"He gave me this for a room."
The Madame's eyes went wide when she saw the gold disc and she grabbed it, studied it, then bit down on the coin with yellowed teeth. Satisfied, she nodded his way. "Monsieur, it is a pleasure to serve you." She turned to the woman by his side. "Show him to a room upstairs."
"I require the girl to tend me for the entirety of my stay," he interrupted smoothly. "I will need a bath and supper. I trust this will suffice?"
"Of course," the Madame amended when he dropped five silver ducats into her hand.
Le Masque followed the young harlot up a narrow staircase, each peeling wall coming close to brushing his shoulders, and entered a small room that faced the street. Immediately he walked across the planks to the window and pulled back the drape – marveling that though streaked with dirt the pane itself was nearly transparent, giving off no distortion, similar to others he'd seen from afar. He ran an inquisitive finger down its cold, smooth surface. Never had he seen glass like this, not even at the Vicomte pretender's grand chateau in Brittany. Not even in the great cathedral of Notre-Dame where kings and queens were crowned. For such a modest establishment as this brothel, how could the Madame afford something so exquisite? More oddities that defied reason; more curiosities most bizarre. He pushed the handle down and swung the window wide.
As the girl made preparations, Le Masque stared out over a changed Paris and let his mind wander…
His forest home had long been deserted, not even a pile of cinders from a long doused campfire there to mark its former presence. The woodland area had seemed somehow…changed, and not just due to the emptiness all around. Even the witch's cottage where he had been imprisoned in his youth had been burned almost to the ground, though that was no great loss. But it did serve to pose its own question… His men had abandoned him, and he wondered if more than his would-be assassins, Richard and Aubert, had been involved in the plot, though surely not Eustace! Or the brothers, Bertram and young Tobias, who had always proved faithful – but no, they must have betrayed him as well, for they, too, had left. The boulder on the hill he had finally found, the tree now split, as if lightning from a bad storm had cloven its trunk, but the buried jewels and gold had been there. Half of the coins missing - yet if his attempted murder had all been a scheme to replace him and seize the treasure, why then did the brigands not abscond with all of it? That, too, made no sense, not with knowing the excessive greed of his men, who would maim or kill for a handful of sovereigns.
Then there was this majestic city itself. In six month's time events could happen to alter the face of a township, its buildings, its streets - but to such a magnanimous degree? Ever since he looked up with horror at the spires of Notre-Dame and realized this was Paris, he had felt wrapped within thick strands of confusion. At times, he felt he must be caught in the web of a dream; at others, under a weighty spell placed on him, perhaps by the Giry witch or one of the troublesome Fae. The magical forest sprites had created wicked mischief against his bloodline, from the time of his grandsire's forbidden claim to one of their number, up until the night he had been laid by his wretched father's orders at the altar stones, the spurned babe for an offering, and surely beyond even that …
As he pondered his current dilemma, desperate to find answers that made sense, preparations for the evening were conducted behind him. Servants came and went, but he never broke his fixed gaze from an unfamiliar city as he kept watch for enemies and lost track of all time...
"Monsieur, your supper and bath are ready," the girl said from behind, breaking him from the tormenting memory of his recent near demise.
He turned to find a small, low table laid with food and drink near a long washtub into which a sheet had been draped, with steam that rose from the water. The girl, now shed of her dress and wearing no more than a voluminous undergown, gracefully approached. He watched her hands lift and unlace his shirt, pulling its edges away from his body, the pads of her fingers tracing skin. Once his shirt had been discarded, her slim hand lifted to his face, but he seized her wrist in a vise grip before she could strip him of his mask.
"Never touch the mask," he warned, his low voice vibrating with warning.
Her blue eyes widened in surprise as he forced her hand back to her side. Only then did he release his hold.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to upset you…" As she studied him, a new and curious boldness entered her eyes. "There is talk in the city of a masked man called the Phantom who brought down the Paris Opera House, all for a singer named Christine..."
Familiar with the implied accusation and equally impatient of it, he shook his head. "I am called by Le Masque. I am not this Phantom and know nothing of an opera house or Christine."
"I never said you were." Slowly she began to unfasten his trousers. "He's a wanted man, too, though he's become a legend in these parts. None of us here think much of them toffee-nosed nobles - and what he did to bring the curtain down, as they say…!" She chuckled. "Well, monsieur, I could respect a man like that. I only brought it up to say this: I would never tell a soul of your presence here. You're safe with me..."
From the obscurity of her response, Le Masque could not tell whether or not she believed him. That she suspected him of hiding from the king's men came as no surprise; she had seen his earlier evasion of the soldiers, and he hoped he could trust her.
She undressed him, like a servant to a lord, her hands straying over skin that long ached for touch, then she took him by the hand and led him to the bath. Unaccustomed to being entirely bared before a woman, Le Masque somewhat awkwardly stepped into the steaming water then settled back to relax against the sheet-clad structure.
Setting his attention to remedy the gnawing hole in his stomach, not having eaten in over a day, he reached toward the table and the tin plate there to snatch up a leg of baked poultry. As he ate, lifting the mask slightly to accomplish the task, the girl crouched down beside the tub. She offered a goblet of wine to his lips, and he sated his thirst with its sweet, heady flavor. She then brought a soaked sponge over his shoulder and the four-inch scar that stretched from there to the muscle of his upper arm.
Her brazen actions were merely a requisite of her wanton profession, but for the span of this moment he engaged in the pretense that he was truly wanted. If not for his accursed face, he could be. Scars gained there, incurred by some form of battle and worn as an eternal badge of courage might have been admired, judging by the intrigued attention she administered to those on his body; while a deformity was a sign of weakness, a curse, never tolerated and only perceived with disgust and horror.
"How did you come by this?" she asked, softly trailing the sponge down the puckered flesh near his sternum.
"A dagger from an angry merchant, of whom I relieved of a purse. I was but a youth, not yet adept at such endeavors."
"And this?" The sponge smoothed over the scar running near his ribs.
"A baron's sword. He was unfavorable to the loss of his horse. And his gold."
"You're a thief then," she said thoughtfully. "Is that how you got those marks on your back?"
"Those came from a futile attempt to stow away aboard a ship as a boy. I was tied to the mast and whipped for my troubles."
"And what of this one?"
The sponge moved slowly along his chest and into the water, against the pink line running beside his navel. He grabbed her hand at the not-so-accidental brush of his hardening member, stopping her before sponge and fingers could sink further.
She sought his steady gaze in questioning surprise.
"Why did you not keep the gold?" he asked in studied curiosity. "I would have provided the Madame with payment for the room."
She lightly shrugged. "We're not allowed to keep what we earn. She would've expected me to hand over the money sooner or later. Might as well let the old sow think you paid for the room in advance, so as not to pay extra."
Either she was terrible at the profession of finagling for coin or simply the possessor of a kind heart. Perhaps both.
"How did you come by this life, girl?" he asked gently, for the first time taking a good look at her in the nearby candlelight. She was younger than the woman of twenty some odd years he'd first thought her in the night - perhaps eighteen, her skin like porcelain and face still holding the roundness of youth, her locks golden fire and cheeks and lips rosy. Pale blue eyes shone with a violet tinge of light, almost iridescent to behold. Far from innocent... mirthful and mischievous... fair of face and form.
She dropped the sponge in the water and stood, lifting the hem of her garment to swing one leg over and plant a stocking-foot at his side. "My life is dull, nothing worthy of mention...I want to know more of you..." She clutched the tub and swiftly brought her other leg into the water, dropping to one knee on either side of him. He realized her intent and lifted his hands to her legs to stop her.
"It is not necessary," he spoke gruffly.
"You do not want me?" she pouted down at him. "I no longer please you?"
"You no longer need to perform," he clarified. "Food and a bed is all I require."
Heedless of the halfhearted reprieve he offered, she lowered herself over him, still in her undergown. "Oh, I don't mind, monsieur. I had a lovely time of it earlier." She seemed somewhat puzzled by the admission. "I find you different from other men, though I have yet to know why..." Her breasts were small but womanly and pert against the damp white linen that grew transparent where it became wet and molded against her slender form. Moving her small hand between them, she adjusted her skirt and her position until he was once more sheathed deep within her lush body. She let out a little mew of satisfaction and pulled what remained of the poultry from his loosened hold. Taking a hefty portion between her teeth, she tossed the leg of the bird to the table and bent near, the meat a tantalizing bite from her lips which she offered. He took both.
Seconds later, she pulled away, allowing him to chew and swallow the morsel. Slowly, fluidly, she began to rock her hips against his, her smile most fetching, the gentle slosh of water an accompaniment to her motions.
"Are you part of this strange enchantment in which I find myself?" he breathed hoarsely, pulling the shoulders of her loose gown downward and freeing her breasts to his hold. She had come from the darkness, seemingly out of nowhere, and approached him by the gate with her winsome smile. "A fairy, mayhap, to pull me under a spell into your world, as my grandfather was said to do with one of your kind...?"
Her eyes widened in amazement before she laughed beguilingly. "An enchantment, is it then?" Her smile was impish, her strange crystalline eyes aglow. "I can be whomever or whatever you wish, my masked bandit. A fairy to bewitch you in a dream…I can be what Christine was to the Phantom, and sing songs of desire for you…"
He shook his head, weary of hearing those names. "I do not wish for her. I have you and want no other. But I have yet to know your name..."
Her smile was sultry as she bent to whisper near his ear, "I am Lillith."
It had been six months since he last tupped a wench, at Perrette's establishment, a quick tête-à-tête– nothing more and nothing like this. Indeed, not one of his three experiences in carnality had been so rewarding or so prolonged. In the hours that ensued, he greedily immersed himself in warm, lustful pleasure, forgetting cold hard facts that served only to confuse and contradict... She gave him back the confidence he'd sorely been lacking. As a man among women. As a leader of men.
Shortly before dawn, Le Masque rose from her bed and quietly dressed, once more bringing his focus to the narrow streets outside the window, thankful to note that darkness still covered the land. The young wench lay naked on her stomach within twisted sheets; never once stirring from deep slumber. Light sleep a need cultivated from being a wanted felon, he had slept only a short time though weariness still marked his body. The softness of the bed and warmth of the wench beckoned him to return to seek their comforts, but he dared not tarry, needing to leave before daylight when it would be more difficult to hide.
Before slipping away, he withdrew a short stack of gold sovereigns from the multitude in his purse and laid them beside her exposed hip, unable to resist one last caress to silken skin with a stroke of his finger. There were more sacks of gold where this came from, and she was deserving of the generous dividend. He only hoped the girl had the sense to keep the coins hidden away from greedy eyes, and used them to find a better life. Though if it was her wish to continue in this vein – (she had been quite insatiable in the give and take of carnal bliss, showing him also at his behest how to pleasure a woman) – perhaps Perrette would take her in if he asked. At least Eustace's wife was fair with her girls, unlike the Madame of this brothel …
He drew his cape around himself and, with years of training in stealth, swept out of the building with no one the wiser. He would locate Perrette; perhaps also find Eustace there and learn just what the blazes had happened to Paris in his absence and where the devil his men had disappeared to... and if that failed, he would then retrace his path to the bowels of the earth and the hellish caverns where he'd met the Giry witch, and demand answers from her…
"Stop right there, fiend!" a voice called behind him.
Le Masque halted and slowly turned, eyes taking in his surroundings and seeking a way of escape. He blamed his current lack of vigilance on the exertions of a long, decadent night. However, there were no soldiers standing near to waylay him. In the moon-drenched darkness, a well-dressed young man with sallow hair nearly as pale as his face stood a short distance away, holding a peculiar instrument of metal in his hand that he aimed at Le Masque. He had seen one similar in the lair into which he had been trapped for days.
"You, sir, are a scoundrel!" the man charged. "You falsely spout love and fidelity for Christine then spend your night in a whore's bed!"
"God's teeth, I swear if I hear that name once more, I will not be held responsible."
"Where is she? I DEMAND to know!"
"I have no knowledge of the woman," Le Masque ground out softly, "nor do I wish for the encounter!"
This took the accuser aback and he fumbled in shock before anger again hardened his boyish features. "I warned her! You are nothing more than a vile monster! A demon most foul – you deceived her into falling under a spell – and now you discard her once you're done with ruining her life? Did you compromise her virtue as well?! Can we now add rape to the charges held against you?!"
Le Masque grew alert at the fool's vehement words and began to advance. "A spell? What do you know of this strange enchantment – TELL ME!"
"I know that you, monsieur, are an angel of death! A murderer of the flesh and the heart. A vile magician who twisted her mind with your lies, so that she became lost to me – though I swear I will find her again – and I will see her honor avenged! She was mine before you sullied her doorstep! Promised to me! I will break the spell and shatter the illusion: despite all you've done, Christine will always be mine!"
A click sounded from the curious instrument the fool held, though Le Masque was too enraged to give it much credence.
"I am no sorcerer," he grated softly, pulling his sword from its sheath, ready to cut down the interloper where he stood. "I care nothing for this Christine - but I proudly lay claim to all other titles given. Allow me to demonstrate..."
He swiftly closed in, rapidly lifting his blade to slice through the upstart's flesh, when an explosion of sound and a burst of fire suddenly lit the waning night, coming from the metal instrument the man held.
Searing pain tore high in his chest, and Le Masque clamped his hand there, feeling the warmth of blood seep through his fingers. With a grimace of shock and anguish, he dropped his sword and staggered, falling to the ground as a pall of darkness overtook him.
xXx
A/N: Oh, dear…(thanks to kawomichwp . pl & Erik'sTrueAngel for giving me the idea for a Le Masque/Raoul encounter – perhaps not what you had in mind, but it works for the story. ;-)) – So, anyone interested to know what comes next? :) (I blame the Le Masque portion on my recent excursion in watching the show Harlots. lol)