Page 32 of Angel's Kiss
Christine found herself led into the alley, a dark place betweenLa Grenouilleand a shop of some kind. She took in the setting nervously, shivering in the chill. The stink of old food and new lingered in the air, and the paving stones were cold even through Christine’s shoes. At the end of the alley were two burly figures wreathed in cigarette smoke.
“If you wanted privacy, I don’t think this is the place,” Christine muttered and turned. To her shock, it was Carlotta who stood blocking her way out and grinning, with LeDoux nowhere in sight.
“But this setting suits you, my dear,” Carlotta said with a glee that froze Christine’s blood. “. Among the muck of the gutter where you belong.”
“You aren’t here to negotiate a truce, are you?” Inside Christine was screaming at herself for being foolish enough to hope. At least Erik was not here to say he had told her so.
“Of course not. I was going to just leave you here before your little cabal made more threats.” Carlotta stepped towards her, slowly and intentionally, and Christine braced herself. She could smell the men in the alley behind her and did not want to get any closer, so she stayed stuck to the spot.
“What are you talking about?”
“That little note from the supposed ghost calling down a curse on my Opera.” Carlotta sneered. “I should have expected as much from a gypsy wench. I wonder if the papers will even care what you are, now that your career is over.”
“Do you think they’ll care what you are?” Christine snapped back and Carlotta looked interested. “What is your real name? I have to ask.”
“What do you mean?” Carlotta’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“I know Zambelli is a fiction, certainly. But Carlotta; not a very American name. Is it Charlotte?”
Christine was not prepared for the way Carlotta’s face turned to stone at the sound of that name. She had made her second grave error after coming into this alley.
“Did you know I had a sister?” Carlotta said, poison in her eyes. “Parents aren’t supposed to love one child more but, well, she was the baby, and they doted on her. She could do no wrong in their eyes. So she got away with making life hell for me.”
Christine swallowed, keeping her eyes on Carlotta even as she had the terrifying sense of being watched from behind. Carlotta continued to advance, her eyes boring into Christine.
“She would play the most awful tricks on me. Leaving tacks on my chair and glue in my brush. Then one day, do you know what I found? That little monster had put a toad in my bed. Terrible, huge, slimy thing. I can’t even begin to think where she found it. I pulled back my sheets and there it was. I knew she was waiting outside in the hall for me to scream. But she made a mistake. All her little tortures hadn’t made me delicate like her, they’d made me strong. So, I didn’t scream. Do you know what I did?”
“I don’t think I want to,” Christine replied, teeth gritted tight. If she chose the right instant, she could push past Carlotta and run. She was stronger and younger; she could do it.
“I put it in her bed. In pieces. I used my sewing scissors to do it. You should have seen the blood. Oh, the scream she let out. It was one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever heard.”
“So is that what I am to you?” Christine demanded even as she heard a huff and the scuff of a boot behind her. “Another sister for you to torment?”
“No, my dear. You aren’t the one pulling the strings, I know that.” Carlotta gave a nod as Christine moved to run. Rough hands seized her arms and another clamped over her mouth as she tried to scream. Carlotta only laughed. “You, sweet girl, are the toad.”
Christine screamed in earnest now, but the sound was swallowed by the hand on her mouth, its fingers digging into her cheeks. She struggled against the unseen captors even as Carlotta laughed.
“I’m going to make sure whoever left you in my path gets a message. These dear gentlemen have already been paid and they know what to do.” Carlotta smiled sweetly to the men who held Christine. “Though I do encourage them to be creative with how they teach you your lessons.” With a toss of her head, Carlotta turned away, her singsong laugh echoing against the alley walls as the men dragged Christine back into the shadows.
Christine struggled with all her strength, fear as she had never known it rushing through her. She was damned and doomed and she should have listened and she should have stayed in the light and she should never have come here or to Paris and she was going to bleed and break and die.
The man with his hand on her mouth pulled her with him towards a wall as the other man came around to the front. He looked familiar, like one of the stagehands who all of the women of the Opera were warned to avoid. Against her captor’s hand, Christine screamed again, the sound no louder than the noise of Carlotta’s carriage rumbling away.
“Stop making so much noise, dearie, I don’t want to be interrupted,” the man rumbled as he produced a tarnished knife from his coat. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll leave your pretty face the way it is.”
“Didn’t Carlotta say to break her jaw? Can’t have her singing again,” the man behind Christine growled. She knew that voice for sure, but the words were far more terrifying. She tried again, in vain, to break free, and in turn the hidden one squeezed her arm so hard tears sprang to her eyes. She wanted to beg and weep and scream, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Right you are. Pity. I liked listening to her,” the man with the knife said and drew back his hand in preparation to strike. Christine screwed her eyes shut and braced herself for the pain but instead heard a crash and a man’s scream. Her eyes flew open and she gasped behind her captor’s hand at the sight of a shadow throwing the other man into the wall with incredible force. The shadow turned and Christine’s terror was replaced by awe.
Erik stood in the alley, white mask glowing in the gloom, like an avenging angel wreathed in a cloak of night.
“No! Not you!” the man holding her cried and threw Christine to the ground. Pain shot through her knees and hands as she crashed to the cobblestones, and it took her a second to regain her bearings. When she looked up, she saw that Erik had stopped her assailant’s flight, his hand around the man’s neck before he threw him against the wall. Christine recognized the brute at last: Joseph Buquet, chief of the flies.
As Buquet stumbled to the ground, his compatriot rose, knife catching the light as he steadied himself. Erik flexed his hands and Christine was filled with a new sort of fear. The fight began before she could think and it was nothing like her limited experience and imagination had envisioned. The man lunged at Erik, his knife slicing through the air and missing by a mile as the Phantom dodged away. It went like that three times and Erik had the upper hand in skill and speed until, out of the dark, Buquet joined the fray with a cry. And then it was chaos.
Erik was fast and nimble, but in the dark with two assailants, one armed, it was a brutal fight. Christine cried out as one man grabbed Erik and another struck him roughly across the face, thankfully not dislodging the mask. In a split second, Erik was free and delivered a kick to Buquet’s shin that made the man scream in pain and anger as he fell to the ground in the right place to take a kick to the chest.
The other lunged at Erik with the knife, but Erik caught his arm as it aimed at his abdomen and Christine winced at the sound of something snapping. The man howled in pain, dropping the knife, and pulling back his arm. It now hung at an unnatural angle, but Erik wasn’t done. He seized the man again and dashed him against the stone wall of the alley, face first, and he collapsed to the ground.
