Chapter 30
I knew it was Erik, even before he began his slow and dreadful gait down the stairs. He walked stiffly, like a skeleton without tendons or sinews to make fluid the movement.
My breath seemed to have left me, and I found that my lungs would no longer work. They sat stupid in my chest, neither filling nor deflating, just burning, burning as black stars began to dance over my oxygen-starved eyes.
When he stopped in front of the managers, I drew in a loud, shuddering gasp, then covered my mouth, terrified to draw his attention. I took a step back, then another, moving so slowly and with such tiny movements I hoped I might go entirely unnoticed.
I tried to catch Raoul’s attention, but he was too transfixed by the strange and ghastly spectacle before us. He swayed back and forth, and I desperately wished he’d not drunk so much champagne. His reflexes seemed slow, coming seconds too late, a disadvantage Erik would no doubt capitalize on.
“Why so silent, good messieurs?” asked the skeleton, instantly confirming it was Erik behind the mask. No one else in the world was capable of producing such a voice, so sleek and seductive, so filled with seething. He turned, scanning the crowds with all the leisurely imperiousness of a king.
The skull’s jawbone shifted. He was smiling!
“Did you think that I had left you for good?” The bony visage snapped back to the managers in a playful tilt as empty eye sockets bore down on them. “Have you missed me? Like you, messieurs, I’ve been hard at work these last six months. Very hard at work indeed.”
With a theatrical flourish, Erik brought out a bound manuscript, from beneath his cavernous robes. It was enormous—double, even triple the size of Wagner’s longest work. “I have written you an opera: Don Juan Triumphant!” he continued, pleasure and pride coloring his hypnotic voice.
He pitched the manuscript to Monsieur André, who only barely managed to catch it. “Rehearsals shall begin immediately in the new year.”
For the first time since he’d appeared, the managers stirred to action.
Monsieur Firmin let out an unconscious snort, readying to protest. If Tannh?user had been cast, then rehearsals would soon be under way. It was unthinkable to swap out productions now, especially for a premiere.
It was worse than unthinkable.
It was impossible.
A new opera would take time. The score would have to be read, and notes made. Maestro Messenger would have to think through the needed orchestra numbers. Auditions would have to be held, cast lists created. Scenic designs would have to be dreamed up, costumes sewn.
This was no small task Erik was ordering.
It would ruin the company.
“I advise you to comply,” he went on, cutting off the protest before Monsieur Firmin could begin.
“But—”
“My instructions should be clear,” Erik snapped.
“Now see here—” Monsieur André sputtered, daring to jab a finger into the Red Death’s doublet.
Erik grabbed the front of the manager’s costume and easily hoisted him so high that he struggled to stand on the toes of his polished Oxford shoes.
“Remember,” he growled, and every hair on the nape of my neck stood on end. “There are worse things than a shattered chandelier.”
Carlotta let out a low-pitched gasp painfully reminiscent of the horrific croaks which had plagued her so many months ago. Puffing out his chest, Ubaldo took a step between the Red Death and Carlotta, offering her protection and a chance to compose herself.
Erik released his hold on Monsieur André, and the manager dropped to the floor, massaging his neck. With a slow pivot, the great skull looked over the room, and I could feel the moment Erik’s diabolical gaze landed upon me.
We regarded each other, motionless. Even as I urged my legs to action, I remained frozen. I wanted to run, I wanted to flee, but I waited too long to decide my escape, and in three swift strides, Erik was upon me, looming like a gargoyle created of molten iron and brimstone.
In a movement too quick for me to anticipate, too deft to shy from, he swiped his gloved hand across my neck. I winced as I heard the chain snap. He held out my broken necklace, displaying Raoul’s ring for all the room to see.
“Your chains are still mine.” I’d never heard his voice this cold, this callous.
He leaned down, bringing his face so close to my own that our masks touched, and I could feel the heat of his breath upon my cheek.
Though my heart raced with abject fear, a strange thrill sizzled through me as I anticipated what he’d say, what he’d do.
Deep within the skull’s sockets, I caught the glint of his actual eyes and felt the absurd desire to reach out and caress his hidden cheek.
I’d seen those eyes watch me with tenderness and appreciation.
I’d seen them shine with inspiration. I wanted to see them that way again, not like this, narrowed with distrust, burning with rage.
“Erik.”
It came out of me before I could stop it, a whisper meant for him alone to hear. It sounded like a plea. It felt like a prayer.
Even though he was covered in so many layers of padding and thick fabrics, I could see the way he flinched. He ripped my mask away, leaving me vulnerable and exposed. The stick snapped and a scattering of stars fell to the floor.
“You will sing for me,” he hissed, and, suddenly, a column of fire shot up between us.
I let out a cry of panic and pain—the flames had singed my fingertips when I’d reached for him—and fell backward to the floor. I curled in a ball, shielding myself against the heat, and heard a wave of maniacal laughter.
Somehow, in a shower of pyrotechnics, Erik was already at the top of the staircase, disappearing and reappearing at whim, like a skilled magician. He stood on the landing, watching all of us, as an emperor would survey his domain. He looked imposing and majestic and more than a little mad.
I wanted to go to him.
I wanted to pack my bags and leave Paris behind forever.
Both felt reasonable, both seemed possible.
A dark figure crept to the foot of the stairs, looking up at Erik with an unreadable expression on her face.
Madame Giry.
“My orders will be obeyed!” he cried, and the whole hall burst into flames.
Sparks rained down from above as the electric lights exploded, casting menacing shadows across the room.
An errant ember caught on one of the draped swags, igniting the brocaded fabric.
It billowed down to the crowd below, a drifting inferno, and several of the chorus members hurried to stamp out the flames before they could spread.
Erik had disappeared during the bedlam, but it didn’t stop the crowds from their panicked flight. They raced about, tripping over each other as they hunted for the best exit. The air was filled with screaming and smoke.
I searched for Raoul, but it was impossible to find anyone in the midst of such chaos. The elaborate costumes hampered the guests from making an easy escape, and all around me I saw startled Harlequins and Pierrots, a frightened minotaur, a screaming pirate.
And then I spotted Madame Giry, as her sparkling shawl reflected the fiery light. She was at the top of the staircase, where Erik had just stood, poking about the floor with the toe of her boot, as if testing for a trapdoor.
I hurried up the steps, ducking around flailing matadors and fainting knights.
Madame Giry looked up as I approached, and gathered her skirts as if to flee, but I grabbed her arm.
“You know something,” I said, fighting to be heard over the fear and confusion.
She shook her head helplessly. “I know nothing. Nothing!”
“That’s not true. I saw the way you went to him. I saw the look on your face.”
She glanced behind me, her dark eyes darting around the room, assessing, deciding. Finally, she nodded. “I’ll tell you what I know. But not here.”
“Where, then?” I demanded. I didn’t want to squander this opportunity to learn more.
With a deep sigh of resignation, she pointed to one of the plain doors hidden under the staircases. “Come with me.”