Page 74 of Angel's Kiss
“Don’t let go of me,” Christine whispered.
“Never,” Erik replied, and pulled her tight to him, laying back so that she was in her preferred position with her head against his heart.
“Don’t let me fall, Erik. Hold me until I am sleeping,” she breathed against his skin. “Don’t let me drown.”
“I will hold you until the end of the world,” he swore in return and tightened his embrace. Careful so that no other ears would hear their secret song, he sang softly into her ear.“Close your eyes and forget all the world, in the dark you are mine, my love. From darkness you call me, and to darkness I lead you. But you are light, ever mine as I am yours.”
She was his now, entirely. And he would obey her: he would never let go.
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Raoul had wanderedevery salon and hall of the Opera in the past hours. All these rooms looked the same to him, with their gilded mirrors and murals of heathen gods. He didn’t care that there were five hundred different colors of tile or marble, or how the nymph in the fountain by the rotunda smiled as he passed. It was all noise and waste and moved nothing in his heart as he wandered the salons emptying of celebrants and workers. None of them were Christine.
TheSalon du Dansewas nearly empty, save for a few ushers or maids (or whatever servants were called who cleaned up Opera houses) gathering empty glasses and one discarded glove. This was hopeless. Christine was long gone, and he had driven her away. He left the salon through a side door that took him close to the backstage areas and found to his surprise the way to the dressing rooms was open and empty. One last try would not hurt.
“Where are you taking me?” a whisper came from the stage, alarming Raoul. It was a woman’s voice. His curiosity piqued, he followed the sound and the laughter that followed.
“Somewhere private, trust me.” Raoul recognized that voice and when he turned the corner it was confirmed. Christine’s maid, the negress, was pulling the ballerina Jammes toward a small spiral staircase leading above the stage. Jammes her name was.
“You!” Raoul yelled, bounding towards the women, who jumped at his voice. They would know if Christine had gone or if she was at least safe.
“Oh God, not you,” the maid said with a frown. Beside her the dancer sighed as well, looking put-upon as she rolled her eyes. “I haven’t seen her since I dressed her for the party, but I heard she left—” The dancer’s scream cut off the maid’s words.
Raoul followed the ballerina’s eyes and covered his mouth in horror. Above them hung the body of a man, face purple and arms limp. He was dead.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” the maid gasped. Raoul sprang into action, running to the horrified dancer and taking her by the arm. “Go find a policeman or a fireman, now!” he yelled at the maid. She looked as if she was about to be sick, but she nodded and rushed away. “You, do you know who that is?” Jammes looked at the body again and Raoul was worried she would start screaming anew.
“Buquet. It’s Joseph Buquet,” the dancer replied. “Chief of the flies.”
Raoul glanced up again at the dangling body above. “Why would he kill himself?” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the ballerina scoffed at the words.
“He didn’t kill himself,” Jammes replied.
“Who would want to kill him then?”
“The Ghost.” Jammes said it like it was something that made perfect sense.
“Excuse me?”
“He saw him! Months ago! He told everyone what the ghost looked like without his mask,” Jammes explained, her distress rising.
“Ghosts do not exist, Mademoiselle,” Raoul said as firmly as he could manage. Surely the girl was mad. “And they certainly don’t murder people.”
“You know nothing!” Jammes snapped back, shaking her head so that her dark blonde curls shook. “You, the managers, you ’ll make up a story to feel better and keep the peace, but when news spreads that Buquet is dead, everyone will know who did it: the damned Phantom of the Opera!”
The girl shoved Raoul and ran, leaving him alone on the stage. Well, alone unless he counted the poor lost soul strung up above him. Raoul wished he had a cross to grasp, or somewhere other than an empty stage to kneel, but it would have to do. His knees smarted at the hardness of the floor as he bowed his head.
“Ave, María, grátia plena, Dóminus tecum. Benedicta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Jesus,” he whispered, hands clasped. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the moment of our death,” he finished as pounding footsteps approached.
“Dear God,” a man’s voice exclaimed behind Raoul. “Someone get a message to Richard and Moncharmin.”
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Christine dreamed ofthe flies. She dreamed of herself tangled in their ropes, unable to move as Buquet fell again and again. They strangled her screams as he drew his gun and the shot echoed through the Opera. Then it was Erik who fell, bleeding and unmasked, but there was no ground below them, only an abyss of dark water. And then she was falling too.
“No!” She awoke with a cry in the near-complete darkness of her little room in Adèle’s flat. She shot upright, shaking and unable to breathe. “Erik!?”
He was beside her in a heartbeat, pulling her close. “It’s alright. I’m here. It was just a dream.”
