Chapter 29: Abyss
In vain, the managers tried to calm down the employees gathered in the yard.
Nervous whispers and questions resounded all around, and Meg couldn't help but share the mood. She had heard something similar only once, as a teenager during the siege of Paris, but even she was able to recognise a gunshot in the bang that had torn through the opera building a few minutes ago. What was more, Christine was nowhere around, but perhaps she was with Raoul.
Richard Firmin's voice rose over the growing hubbub.
"There is no need to worry. We are simply going through a police operation to arrest some individual and…"
The rest of his words were lost to Meg. The world whirled around her, and cold dread settled into her stomach.
Erik…
Meg looked at her mother and saw that the ballet mistress's face was deadly pale. The Girys exchanged glances, then, unisono, started to push towards the opera's administrative entrance. They had only managed to get to the edge of the crowd, though, when a large hand clamped on Meg's wrist, forcing her to stop.
"You can't go there, Little Giry. It may be dangerous."
The ballerina spun around, meeting Joseph Buquet's strangely serious gaze.
Antoinette Giry stepped closer to her daughter, narrowing her lips. "We suspect that Christine might have stayed inside. We can't waste time. It's–"
"I can't find Lucien anywhere!" Cecile Jammes practically collided with them, tears in her eyes. "He told me he would be right behind us, but he's not here!" she sobbed.
The chief stagehand's features hardened. "He was to leave with others. He ain't a completely helpless milksop, though, so I'm sure there is nothing to fret about," he said, but it was hard to miss the hint of worry in his voice. "We just have to–"
The rest of their conversation was cut off by the theatre door slamming open as one of the guards burst outside.
"Fire!" he shouted. "One of the canvases caught on fire!"
Meg felt Joseph Buquet tense up even more. The man swore nastily and let go of her hand, turning to one of his assistants.
"Alert the fire brigade," he growled. The lad obediently set off running, and Joseph Buquet turned to the rest of his subordinates.
"We've practised the fire procedures, hain't we, boys? We go inside, do what we can, and go out if I say it's too dangerous. UNDERSTOOD?!"
The men responded with a yell of confirmation, and the main mechanic's mouth twisted in a tiny grin. "Well then, don't you stand here like half-wit lovers caught on the spot!" he roared. "We have a fire to put out!"
His shout spurred the others to action, and together they rushed towards the entrance. Joseph Buquet stopped briefly only to send the ballerinas one more stern look over his shoulder, then vanished too.
Meg hesitated for a moment, then hurried towards the guard, leaving the stressed Cecile behind. The man was already surrounded by opera employees who were plying him with questions, but somehow Meg managed to get to the front of the line.
"Have you seen my friend, monsieur?" she asked fretfully. "Christine Daaé?"
The man gritted his teeth. "I'm not sure. The viscount ordered us to make sure she was evacuated with the others before the action. But I'm almost sure I saw her on the catwalk with one of us just before the lights went out."
Meg swayed slightly. "And what about the Opera Ghost? And a gunshot?" Her voice sounded much too panicked, but right then she didn't care.
The man shook his head.
"I don't know, mademoiselle. We've tried to capture him, but everything turned into such a mess."
Meg moved away, feeling as if she were falling into some endless chasm. God.
Mouthing a silent prayer, she clasped her hand on the pendant hidden under her costume. Then, before anyone could stop her again, she lunged towards the door and set on running through the administration hallway, ignoring the shouts. Her mother's black dress flashed just behind her.
Raoul felt as if he had been trapped in his worst nightmare.
When Christine had first told him about the Opera Ghost's terrifying appearance, he had partially attributed it to her feminine sensitivity, but now he had to admit she had been right. In the unsettling light of the wavering flames, the Phantom's gruesome features – covered in blood and twisted in a grimace – truly looked like something out of the deepest abyss of hell. But the worst of it all was seeing Christine ensnared in his clutches.
"STOP HIM!" Raoul lunged forwards, even though he knew he was too far away. Before his eyes, the ground parted, and he could only watch helplessly as his fiancée was abducted by the monster.
"No!" Stumbling, the viscount climbed onto the stage, pulse roaring in his ears. "Christine!" Dropping to his knees, he tried to open the trapdoor. His fingers frantically groped about the edges as he pushed and pulled, but the hatch didn't budge even a fraction.
Fear and despair flooded him in an overwhelming wave.
The stage swarmed with stagehands, who must have been alerted by the guard he had sent outside. Joseph Buquet yelled at someone to find his nephew, then started to bark orders to coordinate the extinguishing, but the chaos remained. Running people and the mixed, mismatched props cast ghastly waving shadows that danced among the crawling flames. It all looked like something from a madman's dream.
A madman to whose capture Vicomte de Chagny had sent not-fully-prepared people, and now he was paying for that.
The leaden weight in his stomach grew even heavier. I cannot let it end this way.
Raoul sprang to his feet and grabbed one of the mechanics by the arm. "Where are the stairs that lead below the stage?" he demanded.
The man sent him a shocked gaze.
"Right there, Monsieur le Vicomte" – he pointed – "but the fire–"
"The fire is already being taken care of," the aristocrat interrupted brusquely. "My fiancée just got abducted by the Phantom. Therefore, I would appreciate if you led the way, monsieur. Now." The commanding edge to his voice left no room for refusal.
The mechanic paled a bit, but nodded.
With quick strides, Raoul approached the chief of police. A moment later, along with two officers, they hurried downstairs, armed with guns and lanterns. Thin tendrils of smoke were slipping among the labyrinth of stage machinery.
Raoul coughed and loosened his Ascot cravat to cover his mouth. The others followed his example.
"We can't stay here long." The elderly commissioner said aloud what they all thought.
Guided by the mechanic, they found a platform below the trapdoor; there was some blood on it, but no other signs. The scarlet trail led to one of the corners, then ended. The adjacent rooms were also empty.
Raoul gritted his teeth in frustration. "We need to search the area," he announced.
Monsieur Mifroid shook his head. "It's too risky right now."
The stagehand confirmed with an uneasy nod. "We won't win against the Phantom in his own domain, Monsieur le Vicomte. He really is like a ghost of this place." His eyes nervously swept their surroundings.
Raoul clenched his fists.
"A ghost who bleeds can always be found, monsieur," he ground out, turning sharply to the man. "And one who can be found can be also captured."
The mechanic shrank under his harsh gaze.
Raoul swallowed hard.
"The Phantom must have fled to his underground hideout," he said. "My fiancée mentioned that he had a secret entrance to his tunnels in her old dressing room, so I propose that's where we should go. Tear down the walls if necessary. And somebody better find whoever saw the Phantom and my fiancée last."
Hidden in the corridor next to the Salle de la Danse, Meg watched with a lump in her throat as the soot-covered policeman and stagehands, led by Joseph Buquet, fought the fire. The flames started to recede, but they still had a long way before they could declare success.
A few seconds later, Raoul, at the head of a small group, emerged from the side staircase. The dark frown that marred his brow was so different from his usual frivolity that something inside her constricted even more.
The viscount shouted a few commands and the men split up to execute them. If she had heard correctly, they went to prepare an invasion of the Phantom's lair.
The sickening sensation in her stomach got almost overwhelming. Heavens.
A hand rested on her arm. Turning with a slight start, the ballerina met her maman's gaze. The older Giry didn't have to say aloud what they needed to do.
Scrambling from the gondola, Erik stumbled on the uneven ground and undoubtedly would have fallen if Christine hadn't supported him at the last moment. The soprano groaned as his weight almost pulled them both down.
With an effort, the Opera Ghost forced his legs to cooperate. "My apologies…" The voice that left his throat was strangely weak, his breath coming in raspy gasps.
Christine helped him drag himself to his desk. The torches, burning at the entrance, barely gave enough light, so she lit a few kerosene lamps.
Making sure that he was standing with his back to the soprano, Erik lowered his hand and retrieved his spare mask from the drawer. His cheek stung painfully as the hardened leather touched the cut, but he didn't pay it much attention. Exhausted, he slumped heavily on the chair.
When they had gotten below the stage, he had suggested to Christine that it would be safer if they didn't return upstairs, but instead used one of the exits in his atelier. Nevertheless, he still couldn't quite believe that she had actually obeyed. He would have been blind not to see the fear in her eyes. And yet she had gone with him and offered her help.
Oddly, after all these months when he had been trying to make her come to him, he didn't feel any satisfaction. Perhaps, indeed, he had been chasing after the wrong thing all this time.
Unfortunately, he had started to realise that too late…
Swallowing hard, Erik pushed the musings aside. His gaze moved to his left arm.
The cravat that Christine had helped him tie around his wound on their way there was already soaked with blood.
Hell.
Something in his stomach shifted unpleasantly, but the familiar panic didn't come. Thoughts, emotions and the shards of his memories whirled in his mind, but they all were strangely dim, too weak to fully burn. Just like kerosene or gas lamps without enough fuel…
Dark spots whirled around him, and he blinked hard, trying to chase them away. A tiny part of him urged him to hurry, to run, reminding him that the young viscount and the others would not let the Opera Ghost go after all that had happened, but at the same time, he was unable to rise from his seat.
His gaze moved back to Christine. The soprano stood a few steps away from him, nervously wringing her hands.
Erik felt a lump form in his throat. Swallowing hard, he straightened a little, trying to keep an impassive expression.
"You should leave now, Christine," he rasped quietly. "Take the lantern and go down the tunnel behind this curtain." He pointed, vaguely surprised by how much strength such a small gesture required. "It's well-maintained, you don't have to worry. Just go straight ahead. The lever at the end will open the exit to the streets."
The soprano shifted uneasily, but did not leave her spot.
"But what about you?" she asked, anxiously. "I… I think you should be seen by a doctor." Her hands clenched tighter around each other.
He highly doubted any doctor would want to see him, much less help him. Especially after the rumour of what had happened in the opera spread. He did not say it aloud, though.
"Just go," he repeated, tone hoarse.
Christine hesitated again.
"I… I don't think it's right to leave you alone in such a state." Her voice trembled, but there was also some unfamiliar firmness in it.
The scraps of emotions inside him shifted anew. He had no time to react, though, for at the same moment, a loud splash and rising echoes made both of them turn towards the entrance.
The hunt had reached its climax.
Opposite them, Raoul de Chagny strode into the cavern, wading through the shallow water of the underground lake; his bared straight sabre gleamed with hostility in the faint light. Just behind him followed Meg and Madame Giry. The rest of the chase was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was better this way.
Gritting his teeth, Erik forced himself to stand up, resting his right hand on the desk. The world spun around him, but somehow he managed to keep his balance. If he was going down, he intended to do it with dignity. His mouth twisted in a bitter scowl.
"What a pleasure to see you again, Monsieur le Vicomte," he sneered loudly. "You have truly made my night!" The way his opponent's features tensed and his hand clenched tighter on the hilt brought him a pinch of wicked satisfaction.
"I demand you surrender and restrain yourself from further tricks, le Fantôme," the viscount bellowed.
Erik grimaced again.
"That was exactly what I was trying to do. Unfortunately, being shot quite successfully prevented that," he pointed out sourly. Part of him wanted to trample the fop into the ground, at least verbally, but he also knew it wouldn't do any good. His breath became peculiarly ragged and he barely managed to take control over it. "I… do not wish to cause any further problems, though," he finished.
The figures got closer, and he couldn't miss the aristocrat's angry expression. Nor the tension and fear etched into Meg and Madame Giry's pale faces.
Guilt pierced his chest. Once again, he regretted dragging them into this, but at the same time, he couldn't have been more grateful for their presence.
For the past months, he had experienced more irritation, frustration and bad dreams than in his previous years as the Opera Ghost, but also more bright and warm moments, even if they had often been utterly confounding. It was a shame he had begun to learn all of that, only to spoil everything again.
Erik clenched his jaw tighter.
Now, all he could do was follow it to the end and not let Madame Giry and Meg take the blame. And for that, he had to concentrate.
Something wet trickled down his left forearm. Confused, the Opera Ghost glanced down and saw scarlet droplets dripping from his sleeve and glove. It took him a moment to remember where they were coming from. His vision started to blur at the edges.
The commotion grew louder, breaking through the strangely heavy air that had started to thicken around him. With an effort, the Phantom looked up again.
The viscount had already stepped onto the shore, but Meg appeared just in front of him, partially blocking his path with her spread arms. The blonde was explaining something, gesticulating nervously. Actually, they all were saying things – shouting, even – but Erik could hardly understand the individual words.
The aristocrat tried to shove the ballerina away, and the Phantom felt a spark of wrath light up inside him again.
He had to protect her.
With a new determination, Erik made a step forwards, reaching his hand. He was ready to tear the viscount away from the ballerina if necessary, but his knees buckled under him, and he collapsed on the ground with a loud thud. A dull pain pierced him once again.
Meg… The name slipped soundlessly out of his parched lips.
A flash of golden locks was the last thing he saw before the impenetrable darkness engulfed him.
Author's notes:
Raoul's words "a ghost who bleeds can always be found" are another bow of mine towards the original novel (the viscount says something similar there after the Phantom has gotten shot in different circumstances).
Thanks for reading! ‹3