Author's Note: After a long protest of this site's….issues, I bring you this update. This Chapter was originally Posted only on Ao3 during my little strike on Dec 13, 2023. Thank you to those who followed me over there.

Also, in that time, my Beta and I gone through and Edited EACH Chapter up to this point. All the little Errors were—irksome. They Should be all gone now.

Original A/N: It's here! It took a while, I know particularly with the second section that was not working... at all. Which resulted in many hours of staring and trying to make it work. Thank you to may fabulous Beta, PhantomoftheBroadgrass for working with me through the brainstorming that made everything finally fall into place. (aka, the logic of the current situation after deleting the original attempt)

Please... let me know what you think, or even question anything that might seem odd or confusing.

The Living Dead

"Here! Look at this!" Michael announced as he stepped into the parlor of Julien Claudin's home, where he and Herbert sat hunched over mountains of paperwork and files stacked into neat piles. "It took some digging to find, but!" Michael deposited two folders before them, "I found the discrepancy!"

Julien and Herbert adjusted their respective spectacles, opened the files, and skimmed over the contents with critical eyes. "Two?" Julien muttered as he and Herbert switched between files. "Two reports?"

Michael nodded, leaning forward with his hands splayed on the table. "We only ever received the original report from Doctor Moreau. Remember how he came under suspicion of tampering some months prior, and it couldn't be proven?"

The pair nodded. "Vaguely," muttered Herbert.

"Doctor Fraise," Michael began and tapped the newer, amended report, "was on to Moreau's tampering in Ninety-Six. She–"

"–she?" asked Julien.

"She," Michael affirmed, "was a vital part of the corruption case the Judiciaire brought against the Sûreté, Préfecture, and other Parisian officials."

"The LeMaitre brothers…" Herbert murmured, making Julien look at him with a raised brow. "The LeMaitres were detectives in the Préfecture. They and many in their department worked to out the corruption in their organization – those who were in collusion with the Sûreté's bribery and tampering to protect the powerful. While they succeeded, their new command found a way to have them sacked, despite flawless records and closed case rates."

Michael nodded. "They were fired in Ninety-Five and opened their own P.I. firm with a few other ousted comrades in Ninety-Six."

Julien shook his head from the plethora of information Michael and Herbert were giving him, seeing little point beyond the mention of two Doctors and a bit of corruption. "Relevance…?"

Michael bounced his heels with enthusiasm and began pulling more documents from his satchel to present to his mentors in a spread of papers. "Doctor Natalie Fraise was married to Liam LeMaitre. Liam and Valen LeMaitre were murdered in October of Ninety-Six, a case still unsolved. Doctor Moreau handled the autopsies for the LeMaitres, and Doctor Fraise couldn't touch them over a conflict of interest. Instead, she sought to prove Moreau was tampering with evidence by re-examining his cases, which included Philippe de Chagny. It happened to be her last. She re-filed the autopsy with her findings," Michael's hand went over the file that had Doctor Fraise's report. "I can't say why this never reached us in whole, only that pages are missing from what was sent to us, and that she was killed two days after this filing," he tapped the finger on the date.

Julien slumped back into his chair, looking over the files that Michael presented, at a near loss for words over what was starting to formulate. "How did she die?"

"A brougham she was riding in broke a wheel and went over an embankment," Michael swiftly explained. "Doctor Fraise was in the process of filing grievances against Moreau at the mortuary, but when she died, it was dropped and buried."

"Comte Philibert worked in City Hall…" Julien murmured, "How much did the LeMaitres corruption case affect him?"

Michael nodded, "All I know, is that he was invested in their work. Whether that was for or against is not exactly clear, as he died in the earlier stages of it. Comte Philippe, however, took up his position upon his death. From what I have found, his role in the corruption scandal was somewhat ambiguous, in that he neither helped nor hindered the LeMaitres. Though, the brothers dying, then Phillippe not long thereafter… with Doctor Fraise after she looked into his case? Moreau has done the bulk of autopsies in this, the de Chagnys, the LeMaitres, Fraise, and most of their associations."

"I'm going to venture a guess… Moreau is dead," Julien muttered.

Michael nodded.

"When?"

"Two years now, natural causes."

"If this case rooted in corruption…at the higher levels, I am inclined to believe that the LeMaitres were after other officials, and Comte Philippe was taking a side that someone didn't like. His death falling into the climax of the media scandal at the Palais Garnier was not just fortuitous. It was just a simple way to eliminate a problem and let the blame fall on the Opera Ghost, who no one would believe if he was ever found."

Michael gave a somber nod.

Julien sighed with a glance to Herbert, who was already on the same train of thought.

"You want me to check in with my sources with the Préfecture about the LeMaitres?"

"I am hoping there is someone still alive that might have some pertinent information. I want the case files on their deaths. It's been too long to merit an exhumation of anyone Moreau autopsied in this, but I can't help but feel like someone knows something," Julien murmured thoughtfully. "Corruption leads to debts, and both of those can lead to a vendetta." he shook his head. "If what Christine said to this Erik is true, then the pieces are starting to fall together."

"What of Roseline de Faure née Chagny? Do you want to stop looking there?" asked Herbert.

"For now… I know she has a role, but I need more than speculation."

"What is your speculation?" Michael asked this time.

"I'd rather not say. However, I will admit that I think she is key to sorting this mess. In the meantime, Michael, you go to our masked friend and see if he remembers any unfamiliar faces lurking about the opera in less-than-conventional places. I will see what information I can get in City Hall's records."

"We start sniffing around too deeply into City Hall, we are going to become targets ourselves," Michael stated softly, eying his primary mentor with a raised brow.

Julien's hand brushed over post-mortem pictures of the LeMaitre brothers that were lain out before him from Michael's astute dive into the case as he moved to grasp his glass of brandy. Upon taking a long drink from it and expelling a long sigh, he replied as he looked up to Michael's cool blue eyes. "Good thing we don't have families to worry about then."

"What about Robert?" asked Herbert as he tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully.

Julien warily looked between Herbert and Michael, "He's looking into a lead in Pigalle. For the moment, mind your words and keep your eyes and ears open."

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Erik expected violence as a result of opening the door, by instinct alone. There were three waiting for that latch to slide, he knew. He checked. Live as an unwanted creature for the entirety of one's life, and one always made certain and calculated the risks of opening a simple door.

For all the preparedness he had of mind and environment, he did not quite expect the unbridled brutality that came. He scarcely parted the door two centimeters before it was thrust open. While it did not send him reeling back, the brute who barreled through rammed his shoulder into Erik's stomach as he found himself briefly lifted, then falling, as he was tackled to the ground.

Air evacuated his lungs as he hit the floorboards with an almost unnerving crack, pain flaring up from his ribs and back. His mouth now filled with the distinct metallic taste of blood, biting his tongue upon impact.

What was this man? A bear? Goliath reincarnated?

Erik gasped for breath with little success as the brute repositioned, but did not let the fruitless wheezing panic his mind. He had been in such situations before, more times than he cared to count. Instead, he focused on Goliath's shifting position to saddle Erik's hips as a fist raised, all a blur in Erik's unfocused vision that was slow to recover from the stun he suffered. It was to Erik's credit that his acute mind still registered the incoming blow.

In a well-timed maneuver, Erik jerked his head to the side, and Goliath's beefy fist struck the black oak floorboards rather than caving in his masked face. Just as he heard the sharp intake of pained air rush into the giant's lungs, while Erik still struggled to obtain such breath, the Phantom thrust the heel of his left palm up to the underside of Goliath's ribs.

The howl that permeated the air was more than heard, it was felt in the reverberating bass of the giant's voice. Any observer who did not possess Erik's ear would assume this was just the pained result of the fractured flanges of an overpowered fist against an immovable object. Who would not scream out that pain?

"Stop!" ordered someone beyond Erik's sightline. "We need him alive!"

Poor choice!

As breathing started to come easier and the world became clearer, the giant sagged over him, but Erik paid that no mind as his right hand searched for his pocket.

"Where is the boy?" that same commanding voice demanded as he came into view beyond Goliath. "Tell us and we will spare you."

Familiar darkness descended over Erik's mind…

Old friend, he thought, while cold malice oozed forth in a sinister chuckle that he projected to echo in their very heads.

To get out of this situation for his son, and for the sake of his beloved's memory to keep their child alive, Erik closed his eyes and allowed the chill to turn his blood to ice and detach from the world. Yes, he could take life in his own defense without remorse. However, when it came to groups that sought to end him, like in Persia, like the night that led to Christine's death, and now this moment, he needed to be more.

When his eyes snapped open, the room was no longer chilled by the frigid breeze through the open door. No. The storm grew within. "Like hell," growled the Phantom in a whisper they heard so clearly in their heads.

The two other intruders who stood in his foyer watched the shift of the masked man, shivers curling around their spines in sudden, deathly warning. Then… the largest among them, who was well over two meters tall and of sizable bulk, was shoved aside in a motionless heap. Blood soaked his clothing from just below the ribs, the masked man's left hand and arm drenched in the ether of life itself. So dark was it in its wetness, the deep crimson and its stunning volume served to deepen the growing warning of instinct that ignited the primal need of fight, or flight.

Light caught the brighter shade of red in the shine of a thin, polished blade stemming from the Phantom's wrist. When his hand straightened with the elegance of a feather floating on a gentle breeze, the blade slid back into his sleeve, sopping with the blood of their fallen comrade. So lost were they in their own disbelief, the pair were slow to raise their pistols and take aim.

The Phantom, rising to an elbow, flicked the wrist of his right arm and rolled to the side, as a blinding flash and smoke filled the air.

Both men fired their pistols haphazardly and without a visible target, emptying their revolvers without pause. No satisfying sound of connecting reached their ears, only the percussions of bullets connecting with wood, plaster, and shattering glass. Where did this man go? Surely, they would have hit him in the deluge they clumsily unleashed.

When the smoke cleared and their eyes readjusted to the scene around them, all that greeted them was the corpse of their fallen friend, now littered with bullets like the floor and furnishings of that narrow little entry hall. It was a straight shot between the front door to the rear door, which hung partially open.

"Coward," grumbled Rupert as he began reloading his pistol.

"We'll get him," added Martine while doing the same. "He won't go far…probably will lead us right to the brat."

"You sure he ain't just gonna hightail it outta here?"

"Positive," Martine muttered. "If what I've been told is true, that kid is his."

"Shoulda told the others."

"And let them get our bounty?" Martine shook his head. "Fuckin' bastards won't be taking what's ours."

The pair advanced through the house quickly, bracing their hands against the wall as they traversed through the thick and slick blood of their friend.

"More for us," Martine muttered which left Rupert snickering as he led the way.

They made it to the kitchen with terse moments of stability before their boots gained better traction on unsullied flooring, both intently focused on the ajar door. Rupert was the first to step outside, Martine a few paces behind. So focused were they, neither saw the shadow leach out the narrow broom cubby behind them, nor the blur of motion of that shadow closing the short span between them in a blink.

Martine did not even get to eke out a stunned cry before a cast iron skillet swung full force into his face without apology, knocking him conscious as he fell flat on his back.

Rupert spun on his heels, pistol rising as the Phantom gave a sharp wrist flick that sent a slim knife flying into the man's hand. A pained cry escaped him as the gun fell from his grasp when he stumbled backward on the stoop and down the stone steps into the mud.

The Phantom loomed over Martine, whose chest still heaved with life, even if the old Opera Ghost let the skillet slip from his grasp to land on the intruder's stomach. Let him be winded. There was no need to hasten his motions as he collected the first fallen revolver, then the second, without pause in his methodical stride.

The last victim was scurrying in the mud like a blathering fool, weeping as he jerked the thin little throwing knife from his hand. There was a particular twisted pleasure as the Phantom watched the fool's eyes widen at the site of him. Oh, but he was feeling very generous at that moment, even as the high started to calm and the storm within quieted only marginally.

Erik ripped the mask from his face, revealing death's head as he strode to the fool sunken into the quagmire of the over-trodden paths of human and equine.

All color drained from Rupert's face as he muttered a horrified prayer at the ghastly visage before him.

"You are fortunate to be…unarmed," Erik growled with a snarled mouth, as his eyes shone like embers in the shadow of sunken sockets. "I should silt your forearms like they did to her… and to our son! And for what! Some imaginary debt to hide the vendetta?" Erik's voice rose with every word as his chest heaved in ragged breaths of the fury that blazed within his miserable soul. "Why!"

"I— I don't know!" Rupert stammered as he pushed backward, inching away, although the soaked earth slowed his efforts.

"Death by a thousand cuts, was it? No, no… they got too impatient for that. I suppose I should be grateful for her sake, however… for you and your friend, I shall have all the patience in the world to deal such tortures."

"Please...! I know nothing! This is just a job!"

"Just a job!" Erik sneered, in a voice as powerful as thunder. "Intentionally destroying innocent lives! Lives who have done nothing to you or anyone else! The audacity!"

Rupert gave no response to this, but only uttered a pathetic question. "Wha—what are you…?"

"Le Mort Viviant, sent by the Devil himself to deal with greedy vermin like you," Erik hissed and struck the man with the butt of a commandeered pistol.