Chapter 35 – La Daaé

It was all the vicomte's fault. He had forced Erik's hand. That fool could have left well enough alone, but no, he had to get possessive and controlling and try to take Christine away. There was simply no other recourse left.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and, well, there wasn't anyone as desperate as Erik.

It had been about six years since Erik had stalked anyone—not that what he planned to do was exactly stalking, if one wanted to get technical about it. Which Erik did, because technicalities do matter quite a bit when it comes to whether a rule is being broken or merely bent. Following at a discreet distance isn't stalking. Any man on the street is free to do that.

Stalking also implies a certain focus on the targeted person themself, and it wasn't the Vicomte that Erik was after at all, but rather information. The boy was a means to an end, nothing more, and so Erik would merely follow along a little—again, at a discreet distance—until he found out where the boy was planning to take Christine, and that would be that. There would be no reason for anything more intrusive.

Hopefully.

Erik was gratified to find that his patience was as exemplary as it had always been and the cramps from staying in one place for so long not nearly as bad as he'd anticipated. And it couldn't be too much longer now. It was late morning, the time when men—normal men, not Erik, who kept under cover of darkness when at all possible—began going about their business…though perhaps "business" was a generous term when speaking of that lazy, entitled brat, who only play-acted at having responsibilities.

It wasn't long after a cascade of church bells rang through the city, striking eleven, that Erik's patience was at last rewarded. The door of the townhouse opened, and the boy stepped out onto the sidewalk, a folio tucked under his arm and a broad, sunny smile across his face. Erik's stomach turned at the sight of him.

It had been months since he'd gotten more than a glimpse of the boy, and then it had always been under rather advantageous circumstances—there had been no need to dwell on the unjust fortune of the other man's good looks while Erik was taking possession of that man's wife, or when conveying her back, temporarily, with the taste of her still on his lips.

But there was no sense of superiority to be had in seeing the boy out and about, turning his handsome face to others in greeting, returning their smiles with his idiot's smile, basking in the thin sunlight, not a care in the world—for what did a man who'd had everything handed to him on a silver platter, most likely literally, have to worry about? The familiar sting of bile burnt Erik's throat.

While one might think that a man who appeared to be ready to do some sort of business would actually do some sort of business, Erik should have known better; of course that silly boy would shirk any responsibilities as long as possible. Erik's skills of concealment and stealth were put to the test as he trailed the vicomte to a cafe, a book shop, a watchmaker, and yet another book shop, for a full hour and some change, learning nothing other than that he would be out twenty francs the next time he saw Nadir, since apparently the boy could read after all.

As they approached a large shop window featuring a display of ridiculous dandy's clothes, Erik braced himself for the boy to veer off inside—perhaps the folio was filled with fashion plates?—but instead, the vicomte surprised him by walking right past and disappearing through an unassuming oak door with inset panes of leaded glass. It was a promising development. When it was safe, Erik examined the door more closely and found upon the glass the name of a solicitor, painted in gold; yes, very promising, indeed...

It was concerningly simple to find a way in that wasn't the front door. Erik had often benefited from the fact that too often those with the most to keep safe were the most careless when it came to security. A locked back door was useless if the windows weren't locked, too. Once Erik slipped inside, no further skills of detection were needed to locate the vicomte; his gratingly chipper voice could likely be heard from the roof. Erik crept toward the sound, keeping close to the wall, just another shadow in a half-lit hall.

"No, that should be fine," he could hear the boy saying. "An extra few weeks would be worth it, for the right place. When could we go see it?"

"Any time you'd like."

"Wonderful. She wasn't sold on Perros at first, but she does seem to be coming around."

Erik froze, plastered against the wall, mildly stunned. He'd only just been settling in for another long wait while the boy chattered on for an exasperating amount of time before coming to anything of consequence, but had– had he just heard the boy say…?

"I think once she sees the right place," he went on, "she'll fall in love with the idea and she'll be just as enthusiastic as I am. And how could she not love this one—just steps from the beach where we first met as children? It feels like fate!" The boy laughed; Erik hissed through clenched teeth. "So let's see, can we plan on, ah…" There was the rustle of papers. "Thursday, then?"

"Thursday it is."

"Say, could you recommend a nice inn? Something romantic? Might as well make a little trip of it and stay a couple of nights so we can really have some time to—"

The blood was pounding too loud in his ears for Erik to hear the rest, but it didn't matter. He'd heard more than enough.

…

Erik didn't remember how, exactly, he'd made it back beneath the opera, nor how much time had passed in transit, but when he surfaced from the churning black maelstrom of his mind, it was to find himself standing before the organ, with a corner of its dust cover balled up in his fist and a throbbing in his temples so sharp it made him wince.

He blinked down at the exposed keys, dull and yellowed from disuse. The air felt thick with unease. While there had been no conscious decision to leave the organ untouched, it carried the taint of his old madness, and like the rusting mannequin and tattered veil, was best left to the past, forgotten, hidden away under a fraying sheet.

Erik trailed his fingers over the keys. Within his chest was a suffocating tightness, and his eyes burned as though he needed to cry—which didn't make sense, as there was nothing to be upset about, let alone cry about.

He hadn't been betrayed. He'd known that Christine had held back the truth from him and he'd understood why. But the coolness of logic was no match for the burning humiliation of hearing the boy laughingly confirm that she'd lied to him—lied!—and the shock of discovering that it wasn't some arbitrary place the vicomte planned to take her, but that town.

Perros.

Perros, the town that had served as setting for the opening act of the fated lovers' story. A place and time in Christine's life when she was truly happy—before Erik appeared in her life to ruin it. And now the boy had offered her another chance, to take what they needed from Erik and then leave him behind, to forget him and start over, happy again at last, and—

No.

This line of thought, true as it may be, did not serve him. He would make himself insane if he allowed himself to follow it, and insanity was to blame for ruining everything last time.

Still, his hands felt itchy, empty. In need of something to squeeze, to twist, to break. What he wanted to do most with them at this moment, of course, was to wrap them around the throat of that scheming, selfish, sniveling vicomte.

But he settled for a lesser evil.

Yanking off the dust cloth, letting it drop into a pile on the floor, Erik sat down at the organ, took a deep breath and flexed his hands, then brought them down onto the keys in a shock of sound that rattled through every bone in his body.

It was terrifying, and glorious. Inside his chest, his heart hammered, an erratic metronome that dictated the pace of the thunderous music which poured from him without end. His hands moved of their own accord as his foot stomped the pedals, blasting discordant chords through the rusted pipes in staccato bursts, an accompaniment to the pounding in his head.

No.

She hadn't betrayed him.

No.

She wasn't trying to escape him.

No, no, no, he insisted, punctuating each repetition of the word with a crashing chord. This wasn't like back then, when she'd begged her boy to hide her, to guard her. And yes, perhaps she had said some things about how she couldn't stay with him now...

But that didn't mean she wanted to leave.

And just like the vicomte couldn't make her leave once he heard her sing again, perhaps she couldn't leave Erik if only he could make her hear all that he held within his heart.

Working quickly, so as not to miss a single note, Erik snatched up a few of the blank sheets of manuscript paper which had fallen to the floor and wet the tip of a ragged quill with his tongue enough to get a little of the dried up ink to flow. He let his passion overtake him, fill him, flow from him, slashing at the staff with a flurry of notes until exposed there on the page before him was every beat of his bleeding heart.

…

For the rest of that week, Erik let the music consume him; he couldn't say how much he slept or if he ate or when one day became the next. But it was so much different than it had been during those six months spent completing Don Juan Triumphant. Because he knew at the end of the week, Christine would be coming back to him, by choice, and when the piece was ready, there would be no need for creative methods of persuasion to get her to hear him out.

No, it wasn't at all like before. This time was different.

Back then, he'd had to use his Don Juan as a seduction, as a deception. But this…

This was pure devotion, glorious veneration.

And it was a plea—a plea for Christine to realize that she couldn't live without him, just as surely as he couldn't live without her.

…

Erik had been so focused on his work that by the time he remembered to check the hiding spot for correspondence, he was left with hardly any time at all before Christine's return. He'd had to scramble to get his home and himself in order, but there was an upside: he'd also been left with very little time to dwell on the romantic getaway to Perros which had taken place. It wasn't until Erik felt Christine's hand trembling in his as he helped her through the gate that the full force of what he'd tried to forget came hurtling back like a punch to the gut.

He wanted to be sick, right there, on the damp stone. He wanted to cry and howl and kiss her feet and beg her to promise she'd hated every moment and hated Perros and would never leave him. And yet he couldn't give any inkling that he knew, because if she learned exactly how he'd found out, she might think he couldn't be trusted. Even though he had his reasons, very good ones, and had more or less been left with no alternative. He wasn't slipping. He'd only nudged at a line, not crossed it. He'd changed; he couldn't let her believe otherwise.

No, denial would be the only way to make it through the night. He'd have to stuff down his hurt and jealousy as deeply as possible, swallow down the sick churning of his stomach and wipe from his mind all thought of anything to do with…that thing he didn't want to think about.

And he did try.

But when she gave him a timid smile and Erik tried to return it with his own twisted lips, all he could think of was that boy's handsome face, smiling in the sun, and Christine smiling back with an adoring, beaming grin, the kind of smile she'd never given Erik. Then, as he walked her down the dank passages, he pictured the two young lovers walking hand in hand on the pink granite beach, reminiscing about their past, planning a future that did not involve him. And when the boat slid across the black lake, stagnant and mossy, Erik wondered if she closed her eyes and gripped the edge of the boat to better picture the rolling waves and fresh sea air of the place she'd chosen to flee to, far from here. Far from Erik.

His anguish grew so intolerable over the course of the next hour that when there was a small break in their lesson—which despite her insistence that she had been able to keep up her practice, had seen Christine in rather worse voice than usual—Erik could no longer restrain himself from asking, in a tone which was admittedly a bit terse,

"Did you enjoy your week off?"

"It was fine," she answered quickly, and then buried her face in the sheaf of music she'd been flipping through—but not before Erik noticed a guilty flush appear upon her cheeks.

Inexplicably, it was as if the heat from that flush lit a fire within him; he boiled under his collar, felt his mouth grow hot and dry.

Erik put down the violin and rolled his wrists in a showy act of nonchalance. "You know, Christine, I'm hearing a bit of strain in your chest voice. Did you perhaps take too much exercise? Or do anything stressful or…out of the ordinary?"

"No, not really," she said, to the pages in her hands. "I rested, mostly."

Mostly! He only just stopped himself from laughing.

"Hm. Nothing else of note to share, then?"

"Why are— why do you ask?"

"I was only attempting to make conversation," he said tightly, very tightly. "Is this not what people do, ask each other these sorts of things? Take an interest in each other's lives?"

"Oh," she said, and it sounded like a sigh. "I—"

"Is Erik not allowed to take an interest in your life outside of here?"

"Wait." Her brow pinched in confusion. "That's not what I said, Erik, I—"

"I suppose you'd rather he keep to the music room and the bedroom, hm? The places where he's of use to you?"

The shocked expression of hurt upon her face tempered his boiling anger—or began to, until she said, in a wavering voice,

"That's not fair."

No, it's not, Erik wanted to snap back. It's not fair at all, is it? And he almost did, but then tears were rising in her eyes, and she was hugging her arms around herself, looking so lost and helpless and all at once a great rush of shame consumed him, squelching the fire into a sodden mess of regret and self-pity.

His shoulders sagged as he felt the fight drain out of him. "Forgive me," he said. Turning away so that he could slip his hand under his mask, he rubbed at his bleary, stinging eyes. "I might be a bit overtired. I haven't slept well, while you were gone."

"Let's just forget it. I'm tired, too," she said, and she did look quite pale and drawn. "I'm actually… I don't know if I have the energy to sing any more tonight, is that—is that all right?"

"That's entirely up to you, Christine. If you don't mind missing out on the practice—you did have a timeline you were concerned about…"

Her gaze fell to her feet. "I know."

She said no more on the subject, leaving a void which Erik quickly began to fill in with a frenzy of blood-chilling questions—Was she giving up? Why would she want to give up? Had that boy managed to bully, to manipulate, to coerce her into accepting his plans for her future? Was murder really off the table?—but that train of thought was derailed as soon as she said, smiling wanly, "I've missed you, though. I think I'd rather spend the time with you. Would you just hold me, for a bit?"

It never ceased to amaze, just how quickly Christine was able to soothe Erik with something so simple as a touch. She reached out her hand to him and he was by her side immediately, and the solid, steady contact of her fingers interlacing with his was all it took to subdue the rising tide of hurt and resentment and suspicion within him.

And of course it didn't hurt that "for a bit" turned out to be hardly any time at all, for once she'd settled on the bed, wrapped in his arms, her back curled against his belly, her hips fitted against his, the "just" part of "just hold me" was quickly dropped and "touch me, oh, please touch me" appended.

Christine shivered as Erik skimmed his fingers along her neck and shoulder and collarbone, gasping when his hand slipped under the chemise to cup her breast. He groaned as he refamiliarized himself with the succulent flesh; even in the short week they'd spent apart he'd forgotten just how full and plush it felt in his palm.

"Gentle," she whined when he tugged at the nipple, though the way she ground her backside into his lap was anything but.

He really had missed her. And she said she'd missed him, too…though he had to wonder just how much time she'd had to miss him when she was off consorting with that other man. Then, of course, he also had to wonder just how romantic that romantic trip had gotten…

Erik was all too aware of the reality of a possible physical relationship between Christine and the man she'd married. He knew he couldn't expect Christine to stay faithful to him when there were the rights of a husband to contend with. The only way he'd managed to maintain his tenuous hold on his sanity these last months—these last years, really—was by forbidding his mind from producing images of that union.

But now, as he tugged the sleeve of the chemise down her arm and bent his head to feast upon the heavenly expanse of bare neck and shoulder, he couldn't help but think about how much more beautiful her skin would be completely bare, bathed in the amber afternoon light glinting off the sea, wind-blown curtains throwing faint shadows across the smooth plane of her belly, the soft swell of her breast. He thought of how her skin would taste, sweet and briny, kissed by the salt air.

And he thought of the other man being the one to enjoy it all.

While Erik was no stranger to a healthy dose of despair mixed in with his desire, it was something he'd largely left behind now that his desire was no longer, ah, stoked by his own hand. Yet now a black, curdled feeling sat heavy on his heart—even as the ultimate object of his desire settled into his lap, guiding him in slowly.

Connected, she nestled into him, pulling his arm around her and sighing in a manner Erik might have mistaken for contentment if he wasn't so keenly aware of all that was lacking. He clenched his jaw, miserable and embarrassed. It was humiliating, that this was all he was allowed with his Christine—a couple of hours, exiled beneath the earth, apart from humanity, from life. Relegated to a cold, dark room, damp stone walls and fetid air, dank and oppressive—a glorified grave. Of course she would choose freedom over this.

But it wasn't as if this was what Erik wanted, either.

Perhaps he was wrong to want more. When one looked as Erik did, one must take their rendezvous where they can, mustn't they? And perhaps freedom and light and the comforting warmth of summertime wasn't everything. It was in the dark that one could fully surrender to sensation and indulge in their darkest desires; her low, hungering sounds and the sinuous way she arched her back certainly seemed to be a point in that favor. He groaned his appreciation into her hair.

A slight shift of his hips and Christine gasped, then melted into him, breathing his name—that's right, his name, not that other fool's. Erik sunk his fingers into Christine's hip, taking her with long, deep strokes that had her writhing in pleasure and saying much more than just his name.

Satisfaction edged out the creeping jealousy. How could he have forgotten the boy's edifying inadequacy in this, and so many other arenas?

What threat was someone who had nothing to offer but a handsome face?

Well…a handsome face and all of the benefits it afforded, of which there were admittedly quite a few, but which weren't everything. If the vicomte was capable of being all that Christine needed, then she wouldn't be here in the first place. She wouldn't have spent these last months wrapped in the ecstasy of music and passion, at last finding fulfillment in the things that were missing in her life, both the intangible and the physical.

The vicomte had made a grave mistake: There was nowhere to take Christine that would be far enough, nothing the boy could do to sever the bond which had been forged these last months. It was Erik who was the one here with her—in her—body and soul, both.

Yet as he held her tightly, pushing into her with a thudding, jarring rhythm, the sound of the sea began to fill his ears, rising and falling over the staccato of whimpering moans he jolted out of her with each snap of his hips. The solution was easy: he brought his hand down between her legs, to just above where they were joined, and the sounds he coaxed from her with quick, sure fingers were exactly what was needed to drown out everything and anything else. Only bliss remained.

Well, for a minute or two.

Erik might have built up his endurance, but he wasn't superhuman. Having efficiently brought Christine to her crisis—twice, were one to be counting—Erik knew he wasn't far behind.

But…there was no "accident" this time. Not even though he'd given her ample opportunity—warning her, lips pressed to her temple, how close he was. He'd even, through incredible restraint, kept from embedding himself too deeply, to make it easier to "slip". When his breath began to hitch, the cry building in his throat, she'd only hooked her ankle around his leg and pulled him in deeper, sighing as he spasmed against her.

As he caught his breath, she lifted his shaky hand to her lips. "Oh, Erik, I've missed you," she murmured against his wrist, the back of his hand, his palm. "How I've missed you."

Warmth spread through his chest. How foolish he'd been, all that angst, all that worry. She felt the truth of their connection just as keenly as he—to hell with Perros, to hell with the Vicomte, to hell with everything but the two of them.

She would never leave him. How could he have ever thought otherwise, how had he— "Oh god," she choked out, what sounded like suppressed tears thickening her voice, "I don't want this to end…"

And there it was.

No, she didn't finish with "but it will—it must," and yet it hung there between them all the same, along with the remembrance of her earlier disinterest in singing, and her apparent renewed commitment to the folly of attempted conception.

He had been wrong—but he'd also been right.

Erik did believe, whole-heartedly, what Christine had said; she didn't want to be parted from him…but she had nevertheless resigned herself to the life the boy had planned for her.

There was nothing Erik could say which wouldn't be his undoing, and so he kept his mouth shut and let his hands speak for him. He stroked and caressed every inch of her, erasing any trace of the other man's claim to her and replacing it with his own.

And then, because this was no romantic holiday, no long night of blissful, satisfied dozing together as the waves lulled them to sleep, no awakening the next morning still in each other's arms, he gently informed her that their time was up. They disentangled and rose from the bed, and, silently, Erik laced her back into her corset, helped her dress, and helped her leave. In that sullen quiet was the shared knowledge that, like it or not, one day, perhaps soon, she would leave and not come back.

And no, it wasn't fair.

But then again, when had Erik ever been one to play fair?

…

A week passed, two. Some ease returned to their interactions, though there was always that undercurrent of resignation from Christine.

Not long ago, Erik would have resigned himself, too. But not now.

He loved her more than that idiot boy could even begin to conceive of. He could offer her things the fool had no idea were possible. To that point, his nights with Christine were spent making sure she was well aware of what he had to offer that the wretched boy she called husband could not—there was music and there was sex, both with a particular focus on her pleasure.

Meanwhile, Erik's days without Christine were spent with a constant rush of music running through his head, whether he was seated at the organ working at his masterpiece or hunched over a sketchbook, hands blackened with charcoal, or, most crucially…doing some light scheming.

It had taken almost the entire month, but at last Erik had completed an essential step in a plan that would further link her to him by gaining her gratitude, and make her obligated to spend several months, at least, seeing their plan to get her on stage through: he had procured for her the perfect part.

He had promised that she would get the part on her own merits, and he had kept that promise—she would have to earn it.

What he had not promised, however, was that he wouldn't be the one to ensure that the exact right role for her would be available at the exact right time.

After digging up information on the Parisian theaters' upcoming season and finding it wanting across the board, he really didn't have any choice but to make some adjustments to the schedule. He was very well behaved, though. Following his own rules, there had been no threat of violence, no ominous warnings of disasters to come; it hadn't been necessary.

Blackmail, however, was not on his list of Do Nots.

It took only one anonymous letter suggesting, gently, that perhaps

a certain piece of Donzetti's might be a better alternative to the Meyerbeer dreck they'd been planning. Fortunately, the manager of the Théâtre Impérial du Châtelet was quite a bit more amiable than Andre and Firmin, although, it was understandable that the man preferred to keep private the fact that he was sleeping with the wife of his best conductor…and the wife of his long-time accountant…and the wife of the first chair violinist, as well as the first chair violinist himself, though, rather inefficiently, not at the same time.

The role would be perfect. A star-making turn which would have all of Paris on its knees before her—and that stupid boy, as well.

And Erik would finally get to tell her about their good fortune tonight.

The plan had been to wait to tell her until he presented her with the score in the music room. It was worth making a special moment of it. And who knew, perhaps she'd be so thrilled she'd let him spend the rest of the evening with his head under her skirts as she read through the thing. Three hefty acts was a delightfully long time to have free rein to gorge himself on her.

But in the end, he simply could not wait.

They were halfway across the lake before he blurted out,

"I have wonderful news, Christine!"

"Do you?" She glanced back briefly at him over her shoulder.

"The Châtelet is going to be doing Lucia di Lammermoor. Isn't that fortunate? I cannot conceive of a better role for you than Lucia, can you?"

"Mmhmm," she said, her pale lips pressed together tight.

"They start production next month, which is perfect timing, no? They'll want you to come in to sing for them, but that's really more of a formality." He paused. "Are you pleased?"

She nodded, but her lips stayed pressed into a flat line and he thought he detected a glint of panic in her eyes.

This…really wasn't going as Erik expected. He continued on, his uneasiness increasingly verging on desperation. "No opera house in Paris would turn down La Daaé, in her triumphant return to the stage. The role is yours for the—"

Erik's self-satisfied words evaporated as Christine lunged for the side of the boat. In a split second of heart-dropping alarm, he feared she was attempting to throw herself into the water, perhaps angry with him for using her real name, even though, Erik's personal preferences notwithstanding, clearly La Daaé was the better choice over La Vicomtesse de Whatever. But no—it was worse.

Much worse.

Before Erik's horrified eyes, she gripped the boat's edge and retched violently into the black water of the lake.

Erik watched, frozen in place, feeling as if he might be next to lose the contents of his stomach.

A horrifying thought took hold of him. Admittedly, he wasn't too well educated about this sort of thing, but even someone with his limited knowledge knew that stomach upset was a common sign of—

No—no.

No.

No, no, no.

Whatever ludicrous worry was attempting to hijack Erik's better reason, it was…well, it was ludicrous! It was simply not— No. She couldn't be…

At last she finished. She sat back upon a cushion, eyes cast down, and wiped her mouth with the back of a shaky hand.

A simple question would clear it all up, even if it took him three tries to find his voice.

"Christine?" Erik finally managed to squeak out. "Have you…come down with something?"

"No," she said, and she looked up at him; her eyes were filled with a chilling blend of apology and dread. "Not…exactly."

"Oh," he said, and then the pole slipped through Erik's suddenly numb hands and plunged into the fathomless water.

Oh no.

Heyyyyyyyyy sorry about how long this took! It sat at about 90% done for months as I dealt with lots going on offline and a touch of the old burnout. But here we go! I promised I'd never abandon the story, and I mean it. Thank you to those of you hanging on and to Deb, for her help! I'm so happy to be back at it again.

Up next: Oh no.