Page 100 of Angel's Kiss
“The Bois is full of criminals, vagrants, and degenerates,” Philippe cut in. “One of them must have attacked you.”
“No. It was him. Christine’s good genius. Her angel. I saw her with him,” Raoul went on, remembering Christine in the man’s arms before she took off his mask. “He wore a mask. And under it... I swear I saw...”
“That doesn’t mean he’s a ghost!” Philippe scoffed.
“No of course not, don’t you understand!” Raoul cried, springing from the bed despite the pain in his skull. “Heisa man! A human man! I don’t know how he could put on such a charade, but the Ghost is Christine’s teacher, and he has her! He has her captive!”
“I’m calling the doctor back in to give you something to calm down,” Philippe said slowly, patting Raoul on the arm. Sabine heaved a fresh sob and ran from the room weeping. “Now look what you’ve done!”
“I have to find her, Philippe! The fiend has her! He caught me and did this to me!” Raoul pointed at his neck even as dizziness overtook him and he fell back into his bed. He had been certain he was about to die before Christine saved him.
“You’re telling me some Phantom strangled you and nearly broke your skull? You’re lucky you’re so hard-headed or you’d be dead.”
“Christine begged him not to,” Raoul muttered. Everything was jumbled and it hurt to try to remember. But when he closed his eyes, he saw one image plainly. A masked face and eyes like a demon’s. “His eyes glowed.”
“Now you do sound insane,” Philippe sighed just as a servant entered. “Go get me the laudanum for my brother. Then—what’s that?”
“A letter for Monsieur le Vicomte,” the footman stuttered. Raoul’s heart jumped. “I was given instructions to only hand it to him and to tell him it was from the Opera.”
“Give it here!” Raoul grabbed the letter. The hand on the address was delicate. It had to be from Christine. His head swam as he tried to focus on the words on the ivory paper.
Raoul,
I pray this reaches you before you have done anything rash. Please believe me when I tell you I am in no danger. I can explain everything. Go to the masked ball at the Opera this Tuesday night. At twelve o'clock, stand near the door that leads to the rotunda. Wear a white domino and be carefully masked. As you love me, do not let yourself be recognized.
~ Christine
“Well, what does the little trollop have to say?” Philippe asked as Raoul read and re-read the note. He didn’t understand.
“She says she’s safe and...” He bit his lips and looked at his dubious brother. “And that she can explain.”
“Well, that’s encouraging,” Philippe scoffed. “I hope it also says to leave her alone and never worry about this again for your own good!”
“What if she was forced to write this?” Raoul mused aloud. “What if she’s with some madman? He could have killed Buquet. Everyone thinks it!”
“Who?” Philippe looked like he had a headache worse than Raoul’s. And Raoul’s was significant.
“The stagehand who died the other week. The one I found! All night I listened to stories about how he was on the wrong side of the Opera Ghost, how he’d seen the thing’s face.”
Raoul remembered the night before and the image of Christine with that man. Raoul had thought at first it was just a trick of the moonlight, the way his face had looked like a skull. That was the story the Buquet had spread that got him killed: the ghost looked dead under his mask. But how? Was it a second mask? Why would he go to such lengths?
“Raoul you need rest, you’re raving,” Philippe said, calmly stroking Raoul’s arm and pushing him back into his bed. “You didn’t see anything. It was a dream. It was all a dream.”
“This isn’t like when I was a child!” Raoul snarled, but the look in his brother’s eyes made him doubt his senses.
“You were eighteen. Remember how you woke every night, convinced the house was on fire after Father died?” Philippe went on, soothing and infuriating. “Stories have a way of getting into your head, little brother.”
“I didn’t dream it!” Raoul cried again.
“Sir, I have it,” a servant’s voice came from the door. Raoul recognized the brown bottle the vale held.
“I don’t need to be drugged! I need to go—” But Raoul didn’t know what he needed to do.
“Take it. For me and so I can tell Sabine I’m looking after you.” Raoul stared at his brother, hanging onto his petulance for one second longer, before nodding and downing the concoction. “Good boy. Now, rest some more.”
Raoul fell back onto his pillows. The memories danced through his head. And they were memories, no matter what Philippe said. He had seen what he had seen; but what had he seen? What an absurd way to think about it. But he remembered that moment in the clearing, the full moon so bright above and a death’s head revealed for a terrible instant before he had stopped them.
“Why would he have another mask?” Raoul muttered, surprising himself by speaking aloud. If Philippe heard, he didn’t say anything. He had to learn the truth. And he would do anything to be there so Christine would tell him. At the masquerade. There he would finally learn the truth.
