There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.
~ Patrick Rothfuss, The Kingkiller Chronicle
It had been nearly a year since the last time Raoul saw the ocean. As he shouldered his bag and stepped onto the platform with his two companions, the smell of salt and fish and tidal mud rose in the distance, stirring up memories of excitement and adventure. Even though the voyage to come would be much shorter and (hopefully) more peaceful than his tour de monde, he was looking forward to it.
For all its importance as a port city, Calais was not particularly large. It was an easy walk from the train station down to the harbor, on its man-made island surrounded by canals and medieval stone gates. Near the island's center, the old Tour du Guet watchtower loomed overhead – if they hadn't been busy, Raoul might have paused to admire it.
One of the conductors had recommended an inn along the seaside road. It was a small, cozy place with whitewashed walls and a steep red tile roof, and the travelers were able to book two rooms without trouble (Raoul had been prepared with a lie about how he and Erik would share the double room, while the single room would be for his fiancée so she might have some privacy, but the innkeeper just gave him a knowing wink and handed him the key). With lodging and a place to store their luggage secured, there was nothing remaining to do but book passage to their destinations of choice, and enjoy the sights in the meantime.
Erik, who found the town too sunny and crowded for his comfort, retreated to his room as soon as he could. But Raoul was eager to go exploring, and Christine happily joined him for a stroll through the market square. As they passed among the crowd, it was a little strange to hear English spoken almost as frequently as French – neither of them were fluent in the language, but Christine remarked that she could hear some resemblance to Swedish in it, for Professor Valerius had told her that both languages had grown from the same root tongue.
"When Father and I first came to France, Mamma Valerius used to take me with her when she'd visit the shops, and teach me the French words for everything." She smiled. "Maybe when we get to Sweden, I can teach you the same way."
The two of them spent a delightful morning in each other's company, talking of the past and the future. After lunch at a brasserie near the harbor, Christine wanted to return to the inn for a nap, but Raoul was still full of energy and not ready to turn back yet.
Though the sun was still shining, they could see dark clouds approaching out across the water. "Not to worry," he replied confidently when she pointed them out. "I still remember how to read the weather. I'll be back long before the rain starts."
"Then have a good time," she told him with a kiss. "And tell me all about it when you return."
Back at the inn, Christine removed her traveling dress and corset, and put on an old, comfortable cotton wrapper over her chemise and drawers (enough to cover her if she had to leave the room) before settling down on one of the old-fashioned wooden beds. The little room was plain, but comfortable, the open window letting in a cool, pleasant salt breeze. After the night on the train, a real bed was a welcome change, and it didn't take long for her to drift off.
As she slept, she dreamed of her childhood village again.
She was walking through the market square, which had once seemed so vast to her smaller self. The smells of crops, meat, earth, and livestock mingled in the air as she made her way beyond the cobbled square, and approached a painted signpost at the road's edge.
She hadn't been able to read the words on the post as a child, and she could not read them in her dream now. But the words weren't what interested her – it was the picture beside them.
A trio of flying barn swallows, brightly painted in blue, red, and white. She remembered that the graceful little birds had been a common sight in the summer, arriving in vast flocks to feed on flies and midges, and well-loved by the villagers for it.
When she and her father had left the village after her mother died, he'd sometimes told her that the two of them were like the swallows – traveling far and wide as the seasons changed, and bringing song and joy to people wherever they went. When they'd had to sleep in barns and sheds, he'd cheered her up by pretending they were nesting, and when she'd been ready to cry from hunger after yet another day without bread, he'd made a game of foraging for what edible wild things they could find, and teasing her if she might like to eat insects the way the birds did.
She smiled as she saw she wasn't alone. Three real swallows had perched above the painted ones, and were watching her with curiosity in their bright little eyes.
"Hallå," she chirped at them – in the realm of dreams, it didn't seem strange to talk to animals.
The largest of the three tilted his head, and began to chirp back at her. His song wasn't as complex or melodic as that of a lark or linnet, but it was a sweet, honest little song. When Christine held out her hand, he fluttered up and perched on it, as if she were a maiden in a storybook.
The swallow sang to her again, longer and louder, watching her all the while.
"You're an eager one," she laughed softly. "Do you want something?"
The swallow ruffled his feathers in what seemed like impatience. He stared directly at her, and chirped insistently.
(You sing too.)
Christine felt the words rather than heard them, and her smile faded. "I'm sorry, I can't."
The swallow fluttered his wings. (It's your turn. Sing!)
"I can't! Someone will hear me."
(I want to hear you!)
"It's dangerous! I can't sing, ever again!"
(Sing for me!)
And, as if pulled by some force beyond her control, Christine helplessly felt the first note begin to rise inside her…
"No!" She jerked her hand sharply, sending the swallow tumbling through the air with a screech. "You can't make me! My voice is mine!"
The swallow quickly flapped away. As it disappeared among the rooftops, the two remaining ones began chirping excitedly. After a moment, they took to the air as well, but instead of fleeing, they looped and dove around Christine in an aerial dance.
(Come with us! Come and fly!)
Uncertain but eager, Christine stepped into the air.
She wasn't sure if she'd transformed into a bird herself or was simply floating aloft like a sky lantern, but suddenly she was flying – over the village, over the fields and pastures, escaping up toward the sun, toward freedom and light …
The sound of thunder called her back to the waking world.
Christine sat up in bed, pushing her curls back where they'd fallen across her face. Outside, the storm she'd glimpsed on the horizon earlier had arrived in full force. Rain was blowing into the room, chilling the damp air and soaking the curtains, and she hurried to shut the window.
In the harbor down the road, she could see ships of all sizes lurching and rolling on the dark waves. As she reached to light the lamp, a bolt of lightning suddenly struck the water, filling the room with a blinding flash and making her heart lurch.
Raoul was still out in that storm somewhere. Had he managed to find shelter in time ... ?
"Christine?" As if in answer to her question, she heard her fiancé's voice at the door. "May I come in?"
Weak with relief, she hurried to let him in.
It was an uncanny echo of how he'd appeared when he tried to rescue her that night below the Garnier. His blond hair was soaked, stuck to his forehead in messy waves. He'd stripped off his pea coat, carrying it in a dripping bundle, and his wet shirt was plastered to his skin.
"It seems I don't read the weather as well as I used to," he laughed weakly when he saw her expression.
"I'm just glad you're safe." She hugged him, not caring when her wrapper got wet as well. "Why is it whenever we go to the seaside, you always end up soaked to the skin?"
The room hadn't come with a dressing screen, so Christine had little choice but to admire the sight of Raoul's sleekly muscled shoulders flexing under the clinging shirt as he hung up his coat and hauled up one of the bags. "I hope our clever friend's all right," he remarked as he began digging out some dry clothes. "I caught a glimpse of him when I was down at the docks."
Christine tensed. "Erik's out in the storm too?"
"I'm sure he's found shelter by now. You heard the stories he told last night – he's a seasoned traveler."
"That's true." She smiled a little. "I'm surprised you're so concerned for his welfare."
Raoul paused in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt, looking surprised and uncertain at her remark. "... Well, he did do us a good turn by giving us the money." He shrugged. "And after all the trouble we went through to get him out of Paris, it would be awfully inconsiderate of him to get himself drowned or struck by lightning –"
"Please, don't speak of such things."
As Raoul peeled off his wet shirt, Christine felt heat rise in her cheeks. She'd seen plenty of men bare from the waist up (the dancers at the Opera didn't have time to be modest during costume changes), but this was the first time she'd seen her future husband in such a state. Her pulse beat faster as she admired the flat planes of his stomach, the faint swath of hair that spread across his chest like gold dust, and –
She blinked. On the left side of his chest, just above his nipple, there was a tattoo drawn in blue ink. "What's that?"
He froze. "What do you mean?"
"This." She tapped her own left breast. "You never told me you had a tattoo."
"Oh! Yes, I had it done when I was in Haiphong."
She approached him for a closer look, and saw with a thrill that it was a swallow, its wings spread in flight. "Does it mean anything?"
"It's an old sailors' tradition." He smiled proudly. "It's proof of how far one has traveled. One swallow after you've sailed five thousand miles, and then a matching one on the other side, after you return home."
She glanced at the bare right side of his chest. "But you didn't get a second one?"
Raoul's smile faded. "I didn't have the chance. Philippe had me under his wing and out into Paris society as soon as I came back, and he'd never have approved."
Christine tilted her head, studying the swallow that so resembled the ones in her dream. Is this another sign? Am I truly going where I'm meant to?
She traced the bird's outline with her fingers, and felt Raoul's skin quiver under her touch. "He looks awfully lonely without his mate. Maybe you can still get the other one, now that you're away from Philippe."
"Maybe I can …"
He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest. His skin was warm and still damp from the rain. She could feel his heart beating faster, matching her own, and a moment later his arms were around her and her mouth was eagerly seeking his.
She clung to him as they kissed, the first traces of his new mustache scratching lightly across her lip. A soft moan rose from her throat as she slid her fingers through his wet hair. He could feel her body close against him, all heat and soft curves beneath the shapeless wrapper – when she moved in his embrace, he felt the warm weight of her breasts against his chest. Her scent was all around him, almond and roses and musky-sweet femininity …
His face grew hot as he felt his prick throb and stand at attention. There was no way she wouldn't notice it, and this time, he wouldn't be able to claim it was merely a natural morning reaction.
He saw her dark blue eyes widen and glance down, and she pulled away from the kiss for a moment. But then she smiled, and leaned in even closer, pressing his arousal against the soft flesh of her belly.
Raoul groaned, trying to keep his composure. "We ought to stop now." His voice was low and rough, his breath hot against her cheek. "I'll be in pain if I don't calm myself down."
Christine drew in a deep breath, her hand stroking the tensed muscles of his back.
"We don't have to stop."
Raoul's breath caught. His erection throbbed harder, the hot blood pulsing in time with his heartbeat, as if it had understood her.
"Christine …"
During the months of their engagement, both of them had been content to wait for their wedding night to make love for the first time. In a way, it was an act of defiance – proof that what they shared wasn't the tawdry, lascivious affair society would expect between a singer and her patron, but a pure, wholesome love, like in the fairytales of their childhood.
But now, as they embraced in the soft lamplight and heard the storm raging outside, it occurred to them both that that night might never come. Christine still feared Raoul might come to regret giving up his old life for her, and Raoul thought of how Christine had asked to delay the wedding, and how uncertain her feelings still seemed. And even if both of them remained true in the weeks to come, what if some other catastrophe struck, and left them parted forever?
If they waited, they might never have the chance to consummate their love. And after how much they had fought and endured to be together, surely that would be the worse sin?
"Christine –"
She kissed him again, and that was the end of what little resistance he had left.
His fingers found the buttons of her wrapper. A moment later she was shrugging the loose garment from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and he was caressing her breasts through the thin, soft fabric of her chemise. Her nipples were hard, and she gasped as his thumbs rubbed against them.
"Mngh! … Raoul … here, like this …"
They tumbled onto the nearest bed together, Raoul half on top of her with her arms around him. She could feel his arousal pressing against her thigh, harder and more insistent than she remembered from the other morning, and for a moment she could neither see nor think as a hot wave of desire flooded her senses.
She reached down and cupped her hand over the bulge in his trousers. Raoul froze for a moment under her touch, then let out a needy moan as she stroked him through the damp fabric, exploring the shape and feel of him.
"Christine, please …" His hips rocked into her hand, desperately seeking more.
Taking that as an invitation, she sat up a little and reached to unfasten his trousers. She wanted to see all of him, needed to feel him completely. His hands joined hers, unbuttoning his drawers as well, and a moment later his erection sprang free.
The members she'd seen on statues and in paintings had always been soft and rather pale. She'd never seen one in full arousal before, flushed with blood and rearing upward, a bead of clear fluid leaking from the tip, and for a moment she simply admired the sight of it.
This was really happening. She was going to do this, give up her maidenhead and become one flesh with the man she loved. She knew from the stories other women had told that this first time would hurt, but right now, she wanted him too badly to care.
Unable to resist touching him some more, Christine reached out and gently wrapped her hand around his exposed manhood. The skin was softer than she'd expected, and slid under her touch as she stroked him curiously. The curved length fit perfectly in her hand – "Almost as if it was made for me to touch it," she murmured, bringing another moan from Raoul.
She felt him throb under her touch, and heat pulsed and throbbed between her own legs in answer. She needed to feel him inside her, but she was also enjoying his reaction right now – the way she had such control of him, quite literally in the palm of her hand – and she didn't want it to end yet.
"Christine, I'm – please, you need to …"
She gripped him tighter, stroking him more firmly. "It's all right, I want to. I want you. I want this. I love you so much …"
"I love you too, but I … I can't – oh god! – Christine! – "
With a strangled, desperate cry, he dug his fingers into her shoulder. His hips surged forward, and she felt his length suddenly convulsing in her hand as his seed spurted in hot gushes over her fist.
Christine let go of him, her cheeks burning in sudden embarrassment. She hadn't meant for him to finish like this, and she realized, much too late, that he'd been trying to tell her to stop before it happened.
Raoul curled up on the bed beside her, his face red with mingled rapture and shame. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me, I didn't mean for that to happen. I just … it felt so wonderful, I didn't know how to stop."
"I know. It's all right." There was a washcloth on the nightstand nearby, and she got up long enough to wipe her hands clean before laying back down and reaching for him. "It's my fault. I should have realized what you were trying to tell me."
He welcomed her into his arms with a sigh. "I suppose nobody does anything perfectly the first time. I hope you won't think me less of a man for it."
"Of course not." His choice of words weighed in her mind as she cuddled against his side. "Then … was this the first time you've done this?"
It suddenly occurred to Christine that she'd never actually asked Raoul if he had any prior experience with matters of the flesh. Part of her had rather assumed he did – he was rich, handsome, and well-traveled – and while she didn't exactly like imagining him in some exotic foreign brothel or in the arms of one of Paris's many courtesans, she wouldn't have held it against him.
So it was something of a surprise to her when he nodded. "Philippe wasn't wrong about me being too romantic for my own good. I know it sounds foolish and maidenly, but I wanted to wait for true love." He gave a short laugh. "I'm sure he thought I'd be cured of such naivete once I followed his example and took a mistress at the Opera. Instead, I met you."
As he mentioned Philippe, something else came back to her. "What he said that day, about you finally taking a proper interest in women –"
"That was nothing," he answered quickly. "Philippe has, er, very specific ideas about the sort of things sailors get up to when they lack the company of women." Cautiously, he added, "I won't say such things don't happen. But I promise you, I never took part in them."
She pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to his cheek. "I promise I've never been with anyone else either. I know what the world expects of a girl on the stage, but everything you said about waiting for love? I wanted that as well." Her loins still burned with unquenched desire, but she did her best to ignore it. "Maybe it's for the best that we didn't go any further now. It can still be special when the right time comes."
"Maybe so." Raoul shifted on the bed, sitting up a little with one arm still holding her close. "I hate to leave you unsatisfied, though."
Another rush of heat surged between Christine's legs. Her loose, ruffled drawers, usually so soft against her most delicate parts, now felt rough and constricting.
"Well … if you don't mind …"
His fingers tangled in her loose curls as he tilted her head up for a kiss. "I'd be more than glad to. You may need to give me a little guidance, though. I've heard some stories, but …"
Christine smiled. "Don't worry, I'll show you what to do."
Still a little nervous, but far less so than she would have been an hour ago, she guided him to the open split in her drawers. She heard him quietly gasp as he felt the heat of her, even before his fingers parted the fabric, and gasped herself when she felt his hand on her mound.
"Where do I – ?"
"Here, like this …"
She parted her legs as he explored lower. She was still wet from earlier, slick and open to welcome him, and when his fingers slid into her she arched her hips and gasped.
Her reaction got a pleased grin from him. "Shall I keep doing this?"
"Oh yes! But, here –" she laid her hand over his, guiding him, "there's another spot, just above …"
Her hips jolted as his fingers brushed over her clit, and her words turned into a soft cry.
Christine was no stranger to self-pleasure. When she was growing up, she'd innocently discovered that rubbing that bit of flesh while she bathed or dressed felt good and relieved tension, and she'd been well into adolescence before she learned that polite society considered it both wicked and unhealthy. But it was one thing to touch herself, something altogether different and wonderful to feel Raoul's warm, lightly calloused fingers caressing her.
Had it been like this for him when she stroked him? If so, no wonder he had lost himself so easily!
It didn't take long for him to recognize what she liked, and her hand fell away as she let him take charge. He held her close against him, the heel of his hand grinding against her swollen clit as his fingers curled and stroked inside her. Delicious heat and pressure mounted, more intense than she'd ever felt on her own, until at last the world turned white and she cried out in the crescendo of her pleasure.
As the wave of bliss finally ebbed away, she found Raoul looking down at her with adoration and wonder. She opened her arms, and he settled happily into her embrace.
"I hope that was enough to make up for my poor showing earlier?"
She laughed gently. "More than enough. That was … are you sure you've never done this before?"
"Quite sure. I would have remembered such a delightful experience!" He nuzzled into her hair, enjoying its rich, sweet smell. "You must inspire some natural talent in me. I'm glad I waited for you."
With a pleased hum, she snuggled closer. "So am I."
Later that evening, the worst of the storm had passed, but rain was still falling. In a smoky dockside tavern that smelled of salt, old beer, and unwashed men, Erik sat alone in the darkest corner, nursing his third glass of sour wine. There was a Fitzroy barometer on the wall, large and elaborate in its wooden case, but he didn't need to look at it to know the rain would likely continue well into the night.
Like the nocturnal creature he was, he'd stayed in his room during the midday hours, emerging to roam once the sun wasn't so strong. After spending days trapped in the vicomte's house, it was a relief to be able to come and go freely once again. With a purloined umbrella to keep him dry, and the streets nearly empty as the rain started, he'd spent the afternoon on a leisurely walk before the storm finally forced him to take shelter.
He'd tried to enjoy the walk. He truly had. But there had been a bitterness in his thoughts that he couldn't ignore, and it still lingered now, in spite of all the wine he'd tried to wash it away with.
Like so many things that had once given him pleasure, even the simple act of taking a walk was now haunted by his doomed fantasies of Christine.
For all that he'd fantasized about making love to her – of finally, finally knowing the joys of the flesh he'd been denied for so long – he'd also had plenty of other, more innocent dreams about the things they might do as husband and wife, and one of his favorites had been the thought of taking her out on Sundays. He'd imagined them strolling together through the streets and parks of Paris, the beautiful woman on his arm living proof to the rest of the world that he was an ordinary man, as worthy of love and companionship as any of the human race.
A beautiful dream … and one he should never have dared to hope might come true.
Of all the things Erik might be, ordinary would never be one of them. Christine was right – what lay in his soul was even more hideous than his face, and no mask, however skillfully crafted, could hide it.
He swallowed the last of his wine, trying to pretend that the lump in his throat was from the bile-like liquor and not the threat of tears, and thought back on her words the day before they'd left.
She would have stayed with me.
It wasn't the same as saying she would have married him, but it could have been a start – something that could, in time, perhaps have turned to love the way he'd hoped. But he'd spoiled it before there had been a chance, sending her away and keeping his distance while he went right back to his old tricks and threats.
The dark voice of survival wanted him to believe she'd lied. In the midst of their fight, she might have said anything she could think of to hurt him. But when he looked back on the long years of his life with anything close to honesty, he had to face the truth.
Antoinette, Nadir, Christine … every time he had ever dared leave his heart unguarded before another person, it had ended in ruin, for him and for all those around him.
But what else could be expected from le mort vivant? From a creature so horrible that not even his own mother had been able to love him?
As he set his empty glass down, he noticed two gaudily-dressed women laughing with a few sailors at the bar. One of the doxies met Erik's eyes through the dark spectacles, and she shuddered and turned away quickly.
Biting his lip, Erik looked away as well. It had always been this way with him and ladies of the night, ever since the time a few of the Red River pirates had brought their newest crewmate with them to a Haiphong brothel – not out of any feeling of camaraderie, but to amuse themselves by seeing what might happen.
What had happened was that the madam, a scarred old wench with eyes like obsidian knives, had taken one look at the sickly-looking young tây in the mask, and immediately started shouting at him to get out of her establishment. Whether she'd done it from superstition, fear of disease, or fear of the encroaching French authorities, Erik never did find out, but the end was the same – him leaving in humiliation as the pirates laughed, and him fleeing Tonkin a few days later after stealing most of their latest batch of plunder.
He could not win love like an ordinary man, and every time loneliness and frustrated lust drove him to consider paying some frightened, disgusted whore to tolerate his touch, he would remember that terrible night in Haiphong, and lose his nerve. Even simple, honest friendship was beyond his reach, as Antoinette and Nadir had both proved in the end.
… And yet, as he wordlessly left a few francs on the bar and headed back out into the rainy twilight, he couldn't help thinking of the night he'd shared with Christine and the vicomte on the train.
Despite all he'd done to them, those two kind, beautiful young people had not only tolerated his company, they'd seemed to enjoy it. They had talked and laughed with him, shared food and stories with him, and given a lonely, wretched old monster a taste of happiness and companionship that would sustain him for the rest of his life.
It would have to, because he knew he would never taste such happiness again.
Tomorrow he would be on a ship bound for New York. Whatever future might lie ahead of him in America, he would not dare let himself hope that any kind of love might be a part of it. Even if, by some impossible miracle, there was someone in the world who could love him, he knew now that he would not be able to recognize it when it was offered.
However many years he had left on this earth, he would live them alone. He had already spent most of his life being lonely – he would learn to do it again.
The rainy streets were cold and dark as Erik made his way back to the inn. He slipped like a ghost past the happy, chatty souls gathered at the fire in the front room, his heart clenching as he glimpsed Christine and the vicomte among them, and silently climbed the stairs.
One downside of the new mask that he hadn't told Christine was that the dark glasses impaired his normally excellent night vision. As Erik carefully made his way down the shadow-filled hallway toward his room, sudden unease prickled along the back of his neck. He halted for a moment, decades of instinct and experience whispering to him of danger.
But he could see nothing that should give such cause for alarm. The hallway was deserted, not even a creak of the floorboards hinting at some waiting threat. None of the people downstairs had raised suspicion – he could recognize a gendarme when he saw one, even in plainclothes, and there hadn't been any.
He shook his head at his own paranoia – the Opera Ghost, jumping at ghosts himself! – stepped into the lightless room, and shut the door.
"Good evening, Monsieur le Fantôme."
Erik froze.
He did not recognize the voice, but there was no missing the smugness in it, of one who knows he has the upper hand.
It came from the farthest, darkest corner of the room – too far away for an immediate strike. Erik did not turn around yet, waiting to see what his new foe would do next.
"Will you not speak to me?" The stranger's high, refined voice was mockingly reproachful.
Slowly, his back still turned to the intruder, Erik slid one hand into his coat. "I should say it's your place to introduce yourself first."
"And so I shall." There was the faintest tread of boots on carpet as the intruder took a step closer. "In France, they call me Le Chouette. In Persia, they know me as Joghde." He laughed, the sound oddly muffled. "Just like you, I have many names."
"And what makes you think you know who I am?" His fingers found the hidden coil of the Punjab cord, and tightened around it.
"I have heard tales of you all my life." Another feather-soft step. "The Living Corpse. The sorcerer of Nizhny Novgorod. The Trapdoor Lover. The Angel of Death. The Phantom of the Opera." Another muffled laugh. "Erik."
Slowly, cautiously, Erik turned his head the tiniest fraction. Out of the corner of his eye, around the edge of the glasses, he could see his opponent was a man a little shorter than himself. His form was well-cut and muscular under a black jacket and cape, and his head was covered by a black-and-white mask with glass lenses and a beak-like nozzle.
"And who told you these tales?"
"Can you not guess?" Le Chouette no longer sounded amused. There was bitter hate in his voice as he hissed, "She did. She never forgot you, or the ruin you did to her. When she believed you dead, she thought she would never have the chance for revenge. But now you live again, and I, at last, can avenge her!"
"There is nothing to avenge."
Before his opponent could reply, Erik sent the Punjab cord whistling through the air.
As if he had been expecting it all his life, Le Chouette's hand flew up to the level of his eyes. The weighted red cord wrapped harmlessly around his forearm, his fist seizing it before Erik could pull it back.
Just as swiftly, a curved knife appeared in his other hand. The blade flashed as it sliced through the silk rope – a heartbeat later, the two pieces fell useless to the floor.
For a moment, Erik could only stare in shock. He'd never seen anyone counter one of his attacks with such practiced ease. He was disarmed, weaponless, while his opponent still had a knife and God only knew what other tricks.
But Erik had faced worse odds before, and still managed to snatch victory (or at least survival) from the jaws of death. His old instincts from the arena in Persia came back as he waited for his foe to make his next strike ...
Le Chouette made no move to approach him. The knife disappeared, and a smoke bomb flew from his hand with a flash and a hiss.
Before Erik could dodge it, a blast of pale smoke enveloped him. The sour-sweet herbal fumes poured through the holes of his mask, flooding his eyes and the hole of his nose. Blinded and choking, he tried to feel his way to escape –
Footsteps pounded on the boards behind him. He heard the door open, and realized he would no longer be facing just one opponent.
Through the stinging smoke, he could make out the figures of three men. Their faces were hidden behind thick silk kerchiefs and old-fashioned cinder goggles, and they formed a V around him, blocking the door and window.
Distracted by the newcomers and disoriented from the smoke, Erik made the mistake of turning his back on Le Chouette. An instant later, he heard an all-too-familiar whistle.
He managed to duck before the black cord could wrap around his neck, but the silver weight struck him in the temple. He stumbled, stars exploding behind his eyes as he clutched his head with a growl of pain. The men in the cinder goggles took advantage of the opening and swarmed him, trying to bring him down with sheer force of numbers.
Two of them managed to seize hold of his left arm. Snarling and thrashing like a trapped beast, Erik tried to wrench himself free – and, at the same moment, his captors pulled his arm in the other direction.
The limb bent at an angle nature had never meant for it to go. Erik felt something tear deep in the flesh of his shoulder, and his arm fell limp, agonized and useless.
The men forced him to his knees. Fresh agony shot through his shoulder as they hauled his arms behind him. Through the pain, he still tried to struggle – if he could just get hold of one of the pieces of cord ...
His closest captor, the one in the brown topcoat, whipped out a knife with a colorful engraved handle. The blade unfolded, pressing against Erik's throat. For a moment, Erik had no choice but to hold still – an instant later, he heard and felt the cold, heavy clank! as shackles locked around his wrists.
Le Chouette strode toward him with the smug confidence of a tiger approaching a wounded deer. "You did not put up as impressive a fight as I imagined. You have grown slow, vieillard, and feeble. When I return you to her, I think she will be very disappointed."
He pulled the mask from Erik's face, deftly avoiding the snap of his teeth as he did. He crushed it in his hand, smashing the wax features beyond repair, and let it drop to the floor as he leaned in closer.
"Oh yes," he sneered. "That's the face I know from her picture."
Erik caught a glimpse of a dark bottle in his hand. A new smell rose through what remained of the smoke: the sickly fumes of ether.
"Hold his head."
Primal terror and survival instinct surged through Erik's blood. With one last, desperate lunge, he managed to wrench his good shoulder free of his captors' grip. There was a stinging pain at his throat as the knife left a shallow cut, but he ignored it. If he could just get to his feet –
White cotton filled his vision, damp and clinging. Ether flooded through his open nasal cavity, into his lungs, drowning out the world, pulling him down into a terrible, peaceful blackness.
It had never occurred to him to call for help.
After they'd cleaned up and dressed, Christine and Raoul had enjoyed supper and a few hours by the fire with some of the inn's other guests.
Things between them had changed now. Even though they hadn't made love completely, it had still been a sweet, satisfying experience, and brought them closer in ways Christine was still coming to realize. She felt more relaxed around her beloved now, and he around her, as if they'd crossed a new threshold and discovered that what lay beyond was nothing to be feared. She found herself still filled with the urge to touch and hold him – if anything, that desire had only increased – and had to restrain herself with the eyes of the other travelers on them.
As filled with thoughts of love for Raoul as she was, though, Christine still noticed when Erik quietly came back to the inn. She mentioned his return to her fiancé, and then whispered, "I'll be back soon."
"Is something the matter?"
"No, I just need to go talk to him." She swallowed. "I want to say goodbye to him, in case we don't see each other in the morning."
Still doubtful and wary, but not nearly so much as he would have been a week ago, Raoul let her go.
The old inn hadn't been fitted with gas lighting yet, so Christine helped herself to a tall, elegant table lamp with a rounded glass shade, and carried it with her down the upstairs hall as she tried to decide what she would say to him.
This ought to be what she had been wanting all along. Erik was about to be gone from her life for good, safely out of France and on his way across the ocean to start a new, hopefully brighter future for himself. If she hadn't forgiven him completely, they were at least on better terms now, and she could bid him farewell with her heart at peace.
So why wasn't her heart at peace?
Why did the thought of never seeing him again leave her torn and miserable?
She had to leave him. She'd meant to leave him that night under the opera house – it was only a moment's blind, thoughtless fear that had made her turn back.
They could not be together. Erik was a dangerous man, and she could not trust him. She seemed to bring out the worst impulses in him, obsession and madness and murder. And she hated what he brought out in her as well – childishly believing in the Angel of Music, letting herself be so easily enspelled ...
… But she could not forget that the two of them had also created beauty together. Like an alchemist transmuting lead into gold, Erik had transformed her voice into something that was nearly frightening in its power. And Christine had inspired him too, igniting the divine spark that let him compose music like none the world had ever heard before.
Christine's heart beat faster as she remembered the night he'd first revealed himself to her. As strange and disappointing as it had been to learn that her angel was a man of flesh and blood, it had also been exciting (and certainly made some of the dreams she'd had about her unseen teacher seem far less like sacrilege).
Her intimacy with Raoul wasn't the first time she'd felt a man's arousal. During that dream-like night, when she had reached for Erik as he sprawled against the portcullis, she'd felt that same turgid heat pressed against her. She had pulled away from him then, startled and not fully understanding in her entranced state of mind, but she had never forgotten it.
Had that been why he thought it was a good idea to show her that mannequin he'd crafted of her in the wedding gown? Did he think it would reassure her to see proof that his intentions weren't merely carnal?
A shameful warmth pulsed between her legs. What would it be like to touch him the way she'd done to Raoul? She'd come very close that night on the stage, when she'd started to realize it wasn't Piangi singing opposite her, and had begun to challenge him with ever more intimate contact.
How would he react if she reached for his prick without that cloak in the way – not to fluster him this time, but out of honest desire? Would he moan and cry out when she stroked him, as Raoul had done? Or would he be quieter, savoring the experience? How would it feel to have his hands on her breasts, his mouth on her skin, his long, elegant fingers exploring her depths?
How would it feel to take him inside her? To kiss and embrace him as their bodies entwined?
For a brief, wicked moment, she considered finding out once she reached his room. Perhaps that would be a fitting way to say goodbye.
No! She could not do that to Raoul, and she hated herself for even thinking of it. Her poor beloved had already endured so much for her sake. She could not betray him that way – not when the thought of breaking his heart and losing his love left her just as agonized as the thought of losing Erik.
She could not keep them both.
She would bid Erik goodbye, thank him for what good he had done her, wish him well in whatever he might choose to do now, and that would be the end of all things between them.
… And maybe, just maybe, if the chance came for one last kiss …
Christine reached the far end of the hall, where the darkest, loneliest room awaited, and opened the door.
The lamplight fell on a scene of horror.
Erik lay limp on the floor, his hands chained behind him. His mask was gone, and there was a white cloth tied over his face. Through a haze of pale, herbal-smelling smoke, she could see three men in goggles and kerchiefs surrounding him.
And there was a fourth one, his head covered by a strange black-and-white mask, looming over him with a knife …
Le Chouette's head snapped up as the door opened. His eyes met Christine's, cold umber to twilight blue.
It has been said that the best swordsman in the world does not fear the second best, but the very worst, for there is no guessing what such a fool will do next. Something very similar now took place between the well-trained assassin and the young soprano who had never fought a day in her life.
When Le Chouette saw an unknown woman step into the room with a lamp in her hand, he expected her to be afraid. The Giry girl had been lucky when she managed to sneak up on him, but this girl had no such chance. He expected her to freeze in terror, flee back down the hall, or perhaps call for help. If she was especially brave, he might have expected her to demand who he was, or yell at him to get out of the inn.
He did not expect her to charge straight at him, screaming like a demon, and smash the sturdy brass lamp across his face.
The lampshade broke as it shattered the left lens of his mask. Burning kerosene splashed through the open eyehole, filling his world with fiery, blinding agony.
Le Chouette staggered back, screaming, tearing at his burning mask. Still consumed with protective fury, Christine swung the lamp again, heedless as more blazing oil flew through the air in a rain of liquid fire.
The fiery rain struck the carpet. Flames sprang to life around them, filling the dark room with hellish heat and light.
Christine saw one of the other men – the one in the brown topcoat – grab for the masked man. "This way! Come on, we have to get out, now!"
The man in black struggled, resisting, lashing out in blind pain. Muffled noises came from under his mask – words or screaming, Christine could not tell.
"Capu, what about him?" one of the others shouted, glancing at the unconscious Erik.
"Leave him! There isn't time!"
"Christine!"
Her head flew up in surprise as a familiar voice called her name. As the men in goggles fled through the door, hauling their crazed and wounded leader with them, she saw Raoul fighting his way past them from the other direction, and her heart leapt with both elation and new fear.
"Christine, what the devil's going on?!"
"Raoul, please, help me!" She tossed the lamp away and crouched by Erik's side, trying in vain to pull him upright. By now the carpet was blazing, and flames were licking up the curtains and bedclothes. "He's not waking up! Please, we have to get him out of here!"
This time, Raoul didn't hesitate. Whatever his own feelings about his former enemy, he was not going to leave anyone to die like this.
He tried to lift Erik across his shoulders, immediately discovered he wasn't strong enough (and wondered how such a spindly man could be so heavy), and settled for half-carrying, half-dragging him across the floor. Christine quickly took his other side, and together they hauled the unconscious former Phantom between them.
Heat and smoke rushed after them in a blistering wind as they fled into the hallway. Ahead, they could hear shouts and chaos coming from the main stairs – the inn's other residents had discovered the fire. Somewhere outside, alarm bells clanged, and they knew it wouldn't be long before the authorities arrived.
Christine swallowed. We've got to run.
They changed direction, down another corridor. A cramped flight of stairs at the end led down to the back door, and a minute later, they plunged out into the open night.
The blind, primitive urge to run pushed them onward through the darkness and rain. They had to escape – from the authorities, from Erik's mysterious would-be kidnappers, from all the rest of the world.
"This way!" panted Raoul. "Up ahead, there's a stair that leads down …"
Still dragging Erik between them, the young couple clambered and slid down the wet, slimy stone stairs. The embankment loomed above their heads, black and forbidding, as they made their way along the thin, rocky strip of beach. Up on the street, they could hear the cacophony of fire bells, and struggled faster across the wet sand.
At last they came under an old, low-lying wooden pier, mercifully deserted. Christine and Raoul came to rest on the patch of sand up against the embankment – it was cold and stony, but at least it was sheltered from the rain.
For some minutes they simply sat in the darkness, catching their breath. After narrowly escaping the fire, the damp, chilly air almost felt like a mercy.
"What in Hell happened back there?" Raoul finally whispered.
It took a moment for Christine to speak. She was trembling as she realized just what she had done – what reckless destruction she'd been capable of when she saw Erik in danger.
The inn was burning because of her. Innocent people might have died because of her.
"I … I didn't mean for it to happen," she choked. "When I saw that man with the knife, I went mad –"
"I don't mean that." He glanced down at Erik's limp form. "I meant who did this to him? It can't have been the gendarmes, this is hardly their style."
Christine swallowed. "I don't know. Perhaps he can tell us when he wakes up."
She leaned over Erik and pulled the cloth cover from his face. In the darkness, she could only make out the faintest hints of his features, but his breathing was slow and harsh.
When she touched his cheek, she gasped. "Good god, he's burning up!"
Both of them jumped as Erik suddenly let out a ragged cry. He thrashed weakly on the sand, trying to get away from Christine's touch. She reached for him again, trying to get a grip as he writhed and hissed like a frightened cat.
"No–!" His voice was pained, fearful and furious at the same time. "Don't! … I'mnot … get away! …" He trailed off as words dissolved into screaming.
"What's wrong with him?" Christine half-sobbed as she struggled with the delirious Erik. "Is he having a fever dream?"
Raoul managed to get his arm across the other man's chest and hold him down. This close, he too could feel the heat rising off him. "How could a fever have come on so fast? I know he stayed in his room earlier, but –" He paused. "Unless it's something they did to him? Some sort of poison?"
"Nasrin …" Erik snarled. It was a word that meant nothing to either of the two young people. "Nasrin …"
While Raoul kept Erik pinned down, Christine scooted down to the water's edge and soaked her handkerchief in the chilly sea. She plucked Erik's wig off (it had nearly fallen off on its own anyway), and laid the wet cloth across his brow, praying the cold would soothe whatever delirium was burning inside him. As she unbuttoned his collar, she felt blood on her fingers, and gasped when she found and began cleaning the knife wound on his throat.
Through the darkness, she looked across at Raoul. "We can't leave him like this."
"I know."
"He's sick, and hurt."
"I know."
"They might come back. He can't defend himself if they find him like this."
Raoul nodded grimly. "And if they found him once, they can find him again. They might even know he's headed for America."
Christine hesitated, just for a moment.
"... We can take him with us. If he goes to Sweden instead, it might throw them off the trail. And we can keep watch over him, until he's better."
She heard Raoul draw in a long, uncertain breath, and feared he would say no. She knew the magnitude of what she was asking.
Raoul looked down at the man who, less than a week ago, had tried to murder him and force the woman he loved into marriage. Who had already ended two innocent lives. Those memories still haunted him, and part of him knew he would be perfectly justified in leaving Erik here at the sea's edge and letting the tide carry him away like a rotten fish carcass.
But he also remembered the night on the train. He remembered sharing dinner and stories with him, and seeing glimpses of a man who, in another life, might have been his friend. He remembered Erik giving him and Christine the money that would let them begin their life together, and asking nothing in return.
And he thought of M. Pontmercy's story, too. Sometimes helping one person can make all the difference in the world.
"Unless he refuses," he heard Christine whisper. "He may not want to keep traveling with us."
Raoul gave a small, wryly amused huff. "Well, we'll simply have to give him no choice. First thing in the morning, I'll go and get him a ticket for the Josephine as well."
Christine let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Between them, Erik seemed to have quieted down (or at least slipped deeper into unconsciousness), and Raoul finally let go of him. The street above seemed quieter now, and Christine could only hope it meant that the fire had been extinguished. Going back to the inn still wasn't an option yet – there were bound to be too many questions and investigations about how the fire had started – but at least it was one less burden on her conscience.
What the two of them had just decided would mean far more than simply helping their former enemy escape and sending him on his way. It would mean keeping him in their lives for days, perhaps weeks, and putting themselves in danger from whoever had sent those men after him tonight.
But Raoul had meant what he said that afternoon. It did seem a waste to have done so much for Erik these last few days, only to have him immediately felled by some outside power.
If that meant they had to do a little more for him now, until he truly was able to safely be on his way … then so be it.
When the wine is drawn, it must be drunk, Raoul thought. There's no going back now.
To Be Continued …