Page 24 of Angel's Fall
“Thank you, Monsieur.” The keys dangled heavy in Raoul’s hand as the manager left. Raoul grinned as he rushed away, imagining the cowed look on Antoine’s face when he returned home with the news! Yes, it would be the foolish sailor who found the lair of their fathers’ killer, not the pompous baronet trying to worm his way into their family.
Every door Raoul encountered opened for him (with some trial and error) and soon he was descending deeper into the theater’s depths than he ever had before.
The cellars were dark, with very few gaslights illuminated at this hour. Raoul had to stop and take a lantern from a storeroom before going further. The place where he had found himself was eerie and strange. First, he saw woods, then a desert, then walls. It took him several turns to understand he had found himself among the sets and scenery from dormant productions.
He really should have consulted a plan of some sort before throwing himself down here, he thought, just as a bone-chilling moan sounded from behind a flat.
“Who’s there?” Raoul asked aloud before he could stop himself. If Erik had come to torment him, he was ready... Except he was unarmed and didn’t know his way out and perhaps, maybe, this had been a bad idea.
“Here,” the voice groaned, obviously in pain. And also obviously not the voice of an angel. Raoul rushed around thetrompe-l’œilsunset separating him from the man in distress and stopped dead in his tracks. The man’s customary Astrakhan hat was on the floor beside him and he looked extremely worse for wear.
“You,” Raoul exclaimed as the fellow he’d only ever heard called “the Persian” met his eyes. “Didhedo this to you?”
The Persian rubbed his head and stood. “To whom do you refer, Monsieur de Chagny? I will need a name.”
“To Erik!” Raoul cried. The Persian’s eyes brightened before darting around them to the shadows.
“It’s not wise to speak the devil on the borders of hell, Monsieur, lest we call him down upon us.”
“So it was him who left you like this?” Raoul pushed. On impulse, he fetched the man’s hat and handed it back to him. “I can’t imagine you’re shocked afteryousent me to the Bois to be assaulted by him as well!”
“I am sorry for the danger I placed you in that night.” The Persian dusted off the dark fur of his cap. “I was also the one who delivered you home. But to answer your first question, no. It was not our mutual friend who did this to me. At least I don’t think it was.”
“What do you mean?” Raoul asked as the Persian looked about to the shadows once again.
“We shouldn’t talk here. He might spy us.”
“Where can we talk then?” Raoul demanded. “Because you are going to tell me everything you know about this man in a ghost’s mask right now.”
“There’s a café across theRue Auber. We can talk there,” the Persian replied.
The man knew his way about the Opera far better than Raoul did. In minutes, they were leaving the great building back into the damp February chill and crossing to the café. They found themselves seats, and a waiter provided them with a pot of coffee and two cups without prompting.
“Ah, perfect. You Frenchmen do know how to brew a decent coffee, I will give you that,” the Persian mused as Raoul stared at him. “Would you like some? I certainly need it.” He rubbed his throat and shuddered.
“Do you have a name?” Raoul demanded. “I can’t just call you ‘Persian’ if we are to be allies.”
“I have not yet decided to commit myself as your ally, but I am called Shaya Motlagh. Thank you for finally asking.”
“Not yet committed—” Raoul blustered. Motlagh, unperturbed, began pouring.
“You see, Monsieur le Vicomte, you are unpredictable. You rush into dangerous situations without any regard for your safety – like the Bois or that cellar where you found me. And one minute, you are ready to die for Christine Daaé; the next, to cast her aside. I am forced to doubt your conviction.”
“You do not need to doubt it anymore,” Raoul growled.
“Has Daaé once again assured you of her virtue and devotion?”
“This isn’t just about her anymore.”
“Are you so concerned with the safety of the Opera?” He took a slow sip of coffee and looked over the cup at Raoul. “I wouldn’t have guessed such selflessness in a young noble like you.”
“The monster killed my father,” Raoul spat, the words bitter and cold in his mouth. He didn’t like thinking of it – the truth of what Erik had destroyed.
Across the table, Motlagh carefully set down his cup and nodded. “He killed my brother. I guess I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“We are already allies, Monsieur. Let us begin our work this instant.”
