Page 82 of Angel's Fall

“What do you meanlake? Why is there a lake? Why does a bloody theater need five cellars anyway?”

“That lake is a reservoir, and it could save this bloody theater from turning to ashes like the old opera if needs be!” the fireman crowed.

“Well, my men aren’t going down there. We’ll stay up here and your lot can patrol the depths, if it’s so important to the managers to have this place cleared.”

Erik’s rage rose again. Why were there police patrolling his opera? What was going on? He pressed himself against the wall and edged closer.

“What do they think they’re doing, going after a damn ghost?” the fireman asked.

“It’s not a ghost is what I hear. It’s a madman who tried to kill the Vicomte de Chagny,” the gendarme replied. Erik sneered. He wished more than anything that hehadkilled the boy months ago and spared everyone this trouble.

“It near killed two of my men last week, and many before that,” the fireman said, and Erik’s dreams of murder paused. When had he assaulted a fireman recently? It had to be the shade – the one who he had seen and who had gone after Jean-Paul. Another interloper whose death was now assured. “So my men won’t go down there.”

“Neither will mine,” rumbled the gendarme (or perhaps he was a captain of some kind – Erik did not care, given all police were corrupt swine, and he made no distinctions between their ranks). “It doesn’t matter. You’re the one who has to explain this to your idiot managers.”

“The hell I do...”

Erik didn’t wait to hear more. He too had much to take up with the management.

The Ghost sped in the opposite direction from the men, then up and up, until he was in his hidden passages, his tension abating as he took his place in the tight space. Through the walls and hidden ways to his hiding place below the manager’s office, his heartbeat in his ears drowning out the meaning of the voices above. He was sick with anticipation of what he would learn, but he had to if he was to make them all pay. He had to know their crimes to plan their punishment.

“I do not understand any of this,” Moncharmin was saying as Erik finally forced himself to listen. “Why are the police here if—”

“As a precaution, to protect the girl and the Vicomte,” Richard replied. Erik’s heart leapt. “All you need to do is make sure your phantom knows that Mademoiselle Daaé will sing tonight.”

“For her final performance?” Moncharmin finished, and Erik’s miniscule hopes shattered. “You think I have some way to reach him? And you think I’ll survive telling him this?”

“I frankly don’t care,” Richard said as Erik’s blood began to rush. “Leave a note and the paper with that awful Giry woman at his box. She likes to carry his messages.”

“I am not your errand boy!” Moncharmin crowed. “I am a manager of the Opera, and I demand to know what is going on!”

“You are a useless degenerate with divided loyalties who will do as he is told!” Richard thundered. “You will do it silently and without bothering me further, unless you would like me to enlighten the Minister of Fine Arts about the forty thousand francs you’ve stolen for a fucking ghost!”

Silence above. Erik imagined the look of shame and hurt on Moncharmin’s face, something his spectacles and mustache could not hide. “You’re a bastard. Whatever he does when he retaliates... you will deserve.”

“Get out of my sight,” Richard scoffed.

Erik followed Moncharmin’s footsteps as they retreated. What did this all mean? A final performance? What sort of trap was being laid? Erik found himself free of the walls and following the younger manager like a shadow into a dark hall. The man paused mid-step and looked over his shoulder to meet Erik’s eyes.

“Of course you’re here now. Where have you been?” Moncharmin asked sadly as he turned. “Somewhere dirty and painful, by the looks of it.”

Erik looked down at himself. He was a mess: clothes torn and covered in grime, to say nothing of his unmasked face. A face that did not seem to give Moncharmin too great of pause. “I was indisposed. Where is Christine?”

“At the home of her fiancé, under guard. I assume from you.” Moncharmin held something out to Erik. It was a newspaper of all things,L’Époque, folded to the society section. “It’s in there if you don’t believe me. Christine Daaé is set to marry Raoul de Chagny. After her final performance tonight, she wishes to devote herself to her husband and family.”

“No...” Erik whispered, fire in his throat and a strange melody in his mind. “It’s a trick. It’s a lie.”

“It’s a trap. They want you to see this, to know what their plans are. They want you to come for her,” Moncharmin said, something like concern in his eyes.

“So he can kill me this time, and take her forever,” Erik growled. “The little fool.”

“I am telling you because I’m praying you will have mercy,” Moncharmin sighed. “I can try to get her away – get her to you, so you can flee.”

“There is nowhere to flee. They’ll find me and take her again.” Erik could see it now: a horde of police led by the Daroga and the boy descending towards his home. The music grew louder, screeching violins and thundering horns filling his mind. He knew the theme. “Unless they are too busy sorting through the rubble.”

“Please, Monsieur.” Moncharmin’s face was so worried and sad, but Erik could hardly see it. “There are innocent people involved.”

“Then it will be up to you to warn them, Armand,” Erik replied softly. “You will know the signal. When the first beat sounds, warn them. They will have until the fifth to run.”

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