Chapter Seventeen:
A Feast for the
Rats
The ride back to the Garnier was silent and
quick as the horse could maneuver far more easily than a cumbersome carriage.
Erik made sure to keep his eyes firmly on the horse as he helped Christine
down, knowing the jacket she wore did little to cover her luscious body. He
guided her into the tunnels beneath the opera house and up the stairs instead
of heading for his home. When they came to an opening, she understood; they
were outside of Madame Giry’s room. Silently he slid open the well-oiled mirror
and gestured for her to stay in the darkened tunnel.
“Angelique?” A quick search revealed the
room to be quite empty so he reentered the tunnel and closed the mirror behind
him. Taking her hand, they began their descent towards his home.
Christine followed quietly and as quickly
as she could. She stumbled a few times after stepping on a particularly pointy
rock until Erik realized the problem and picked her up to carry her the rest of
the way. Her protest sounded feeble even to her own ears and she wasn't surprised when he ignored it. He had yet to speak to her or even look at her
since they left the warehouse, and greatly feared their time together was soon
to come to an end. Why else would he have gone to Madame’s room first?
When they finally reached the house on the
lake, they discovered a visitor awaited them just outside the door. Madame Giry
had negotiated the tunnels immediately after the performance and had been
pacing ever since. The relief on her face was palpable when they entered the
circle of light cast by her lantern.
“Erik?” Her voice was hushed believing
Christine to be sleeping. “Is she…well?”
“I hope so, Angelique,” he answered softly.
“Will you stay with her tonight?”
At her nod, Erik carried Christine straight
to her room and bade her to bathe and dress for bed. She desperately wanted to
ask him to stay with her but feared what he’d think if she did. As he quietly
closed the door behind him, she hoped he couldn't hear her heart breaking. With
a muffled sob that threatened to totally dissolve her tentative hold on her
emotions, she entered the luxurious bathroom. Christine shook at the effort to
maintain control while she ran the bath as hot as she could tolerate it. Once
she had sank into its scalding depths, she could hold it back no more and wept
as she scrubbed her skin until it was raw. She knew from experience that mere
soap would never remove the feeling of that man’s hands from her body and, as
she scrubbed, she remembered his words and felt a greater shame. The knowledge
that he’d been right; towards the end she had
felt her body respond to him. That realization had her leaning over the toilet
to empty her stomach. She truly was a whore to have obtained any amount of
pleasure from his evil hands.
Christine slowly rose from the tub and dried herself with a fresh towel. She couldn't stay knowing what she was; he deserved so much
better than she could ever be. Madame Giry knew the way out; she would beg her
to lead her out of the tunnels once Erik was asleep. Searching through her
clothing, Christine found the simplest dress and donned it quickly. Her sobs
were becoming harder and harder to control and, as she was braiding her hair,
there was a knock on the door and Erik’s sweet voice requesting entry. To hide
her clothing, she quickly jumped into the bed and pulled the sheets all the way
to her chin before calling for him to enter.
Erik stood silhouetted in the doorway, a
calm yet powerful presence. “Angelique will sit with you while I’m out in case
you wake in the night and need something. I must check on the warehouse but should
be back before dawn. Good night, Christine. You are safe now.” He stepped back
before she could say anything and was replaced by the ballet mistress. Just
before the bedroom door had closed, she heard Erik leave the house and with him
rode her last thread of control. She accepted the motherly comfort of Madame’s
embrace as she finally succumbed to tears she could no longer keep locked
inside.
“Christine, child, why are you dressed
instead of in a nightgown?” Angelique’s soft murmur was accompanied by a tender
hand stroking her hair.
“Madame, please. You must show me the way
through the tunnels. I need to be gone before Er…Monsieur Devereaux returns.”
“Whatever for, child? Erik would never hurt
you or turn you out.”
Carefully extracting herself from
Angelique’s arms, Christine brokenly relayed the entire dreadful story. She began
on that night two years ago, confessed her feelings for her masked host, and
ended with what had occurred earlier as well as her disgusting and sinful
reaction. Barely coherent by the time she was finished, she begged her one more
time to help her leave. As she listened, Madame encouraged Christine to drink some
cold, soothing water to ease her parched throat. Slowly, the girl’s eyes
drooped until she finally gave in to the laudanum that’d been placed in the
drink. She and Erik had much to discuss as soon as he returned.
xxxxxx
Riding the carriage horse once more,
Erik made his way back to the warehouse while fueling the murderous fury
towards Gachot. Once in the alley containing the building he sought, he
dismounted and silently approached to ensure all was as he’d left it.
Satisfied, he guided the horse back inside, hitched it to the carriage once
more, and closed the bay door before advancing on his prey. A vicious grin
tugged at his lips as he stared at Gachot’s bleeding body as it provided a meal
for a large rat and a horde of insects. The man was either dead or unconscious
for he never moved even though the animal scurried up his leg to gnaw at the gaping
wounds scattered along his body.
Shooing the rat away, Erik examined the
body closely and discovered a weak but steady heartbeat. Chuckling in
anticipation, he produced smelling salts from his pocket and waved them under
his captive’s nose. With consciousness came the pain and Gachot’s screams were
muffled against the gag as he jerked against his now-bloody restraints. Amused
as he was, Erik didn't want to be constantly reviving the man and so injected
him harshly with a mixture of morphine and cocaine to stave off both pain and
sleep. Thrashing turned to twitching and screams turned to moans. Erik removed
the gag and smiled at his captive. Now the real fun began.
“Well, well, well, Monsieur le Comte,
you seem to have attracted several guests in the small time I’ve been away. How
impolite of you to start the party without me.”
“You bastard.” Gachot was riding high
on the drugs but retained enough sense to attempt to goad Erik into killing him
quickly.
“I fear I must correct you, Monsieur.
My parents were, indeed, married before she spat out my hideous self from her
womb. Can you believe it? She called me a monster, Monsieur! A monster for
merely being born with this face.” Pulling off the mask, he watched with
fascinated amusement as Gachot recoiled in horror. “What she didn't know,” he
continued, “was that the true monsters of the world hide behind a pleasing
countenance and pretty words. Very much like yourself, wouldn't you say, Monsieur?”
While he was talking, Erik had laid a
bag upon the discarded chair and opened it to reveal hypodermics and vials,
knives and saws, and a variety of powders and pliers. All the essentials he’d
need. Even in his drug-numbed state, Gachot recognized implements of torture
when he saw them. Renewing his struggles against the restraints, he tried to
reason with the Opera Ghost.
“I’m not a monster, Monsieur. The
little whore was of the lower class, and what else are they good for if not to
service their betters? If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else
and I paid her well for her time.”
“How dare you!” Throughout his long and violent life, Erik had never
heard someone be so casually cruel to another and feel it was their right to do
so. “She was a grieving child that you very nearly destroyed with your twisted,
perverted lusts. No one, no matter what her station in life, deserves that.”
Shaking with fury, Erik shoved the
sock back into Gachot’s mouth and chose a pair of pliers. Gripping the edge of
the chewed skin on his thigh, he viciously tore away a large chunk of flesh
while his victim screamed and thrashed violently against his restraints. Before
he could pass out from pain again, Erik sprinkled the powder from one of the
packets in his kit which rendered the wound numb for a time. He hated to
provide relief for the man, but hadn't realized Gachot’s pain tolerance was so
very low. He hadn't brought enough cocaine to keep him awake. And he definitely
needed to be awake.
Wiping the pliers with his victim’s
own shirt, Erik chose a pair of tin snips and held them up to Gachot’s face.
Deliberately taking his time, he started with the right hand, the hand that had
been so vilely touching his angel, and snipped off first the pinkie, then the
ring finger, continuing with each until he reached the thumb. Once he was
finished, he started on the other hand. His movements were slow and methodical,
allowing enough time for the pain to dim slightly before the next digit was
removed. The gag had long since fallen from his lips and the warehouse echoed
with his tortured screams. Only twice did Erik have to jolt him awake with the
cocaine; he was actually quite impressed.
“Kill me,” Gachot’s voice was harsh as
he pushed the words painfully through a throat raw from his screams. Erik
ignored him and calmly cleaned the snips before returning them to the kit.
“Please God, just kill me.”
“Oh, I shall, Monsieur le Comte, but all in good time.”
Glancing around the warehouse, Erik
retrieved a length of rope and some small iron bars. While Gachot watched, he
used the body of the man’s jacket as a bag to hold as much of the iron as
possible. The Phantom hummed the aria from Hannibal
as he cut a piece of rope to bind the bundle securely. His captive’s eyes
watched every movement with a fear compounded by the unknown. He had no idea
what the heavy bag was going to be used for but knew it couldn't be good. Unraveling
a shorter length of rope, Erik took one thin segment and tied one end to the
ropes that held the bag closed. On the other end, he made miniature noose.
“You see, monsieur, killing is like any
other skill. One must practice it often to perfect it. While I have kept a
fairly low profile since my return from Persia, some things become so ingrained
that you never forget them no matter how long you wait between performances.
It’s called muscle memory, monsieur, and is integral to perfecting such things
as sword fighting or playing a piano.” Holding up the thin piece of rope, he
estimated it was about a foot long, maybe less. Satisfied, he took another
strand and tugged to see if it would withstand weight without snapping. “I must
commend you, monsieur, on choosing this warehouse. The quality of rope in such
a decayed building is surprisingly excellent.” Erik executed a small, mocking
bow while tipping an imaginary hat.
“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know
I’m preparing the finale, monsieur. While I’d love to keep you with me for
weeks, I fear your screams will soon bring the gendarmes and that simply will
not do.” As he continued in his conversational tone, Erik had removed the
needle from one of the hypodermics already filled with a thick, golden liquid.
“Honey, monsieur. You seemed to have so much fun while I was away. I've decided
to let your friends return to keep you company.” He set about squirting a small
amount of the sweet, sticky substance into every wound on Gachot’s body. Once
he doused the lights, the vermin would swarm for a taste.
“My God, you are a monster! Just
kill me, you bastard. Don’t leave me to the rats.” Erik ignored the man’s
terrified pleas and packed his kit of everything but the honey filled syringe
and the Comte’s own dagger. For the first time since he’d entered the building,
the Opera Ghost’s golden eyes burned deep into Gachot’s panicked ones.
“You aren't fit to feed the fleas
on the rats’ filthy hides, you pitiful excuse for a human being. You nearly
destroyed one of the world’s only angels and for that I am pleased to be the one to usher your filthy soul to hell. Do wait
for me, Monsieur le Comte, for I know
I will join you there when my time comes and then we shall continue this little
game.”
Before he knew what was happening,
Erik had looped the small noose around the bulbous head of his victim’s now-flaccid
organ and dropped the bag of iron. Gachot’s screams echoed throughout the
warehouse and increased in volume when a long slice was cut into the tender
skin and filled with the remainder of the honey. Erik doused the lights and
retreated into the shadows to wait and watch. It didn't take long for the sweet
scent of honey and the acrid tang of blood to entice the rats that lived within
the warehouse’s walls. After less than two hours, it was plain to see that
Gachot was dead. Now, he could return to his angel.