Page 55 of Angel's Kiss
“Goodnight, Christine.” He walked as quickly as he could to his own room, wincing at the sound of her door slamming shut. And still his lust remained, aching and hot and shameful as he leaned against the wall. It would be easy, he knew, to deal with it; to make himself come with his pathetic hand to the memory of her kiss. But that would be a violation; a desecration of her almost as terrible as what he had so narrowly avoided.
There was one place he could go to cure himself: the one room in his home he had never shown her and never would. But it was too great a risk. It was just as effective at quelling his lust to remember his reflection repeated around him a thousand times. The misery of Steiner’s cellar and the tortures of the commune and the horrors of the Rosy Hours of Mazenderan were still with him. He had built them for himself because he deserved them. The memory alone served to douse the fire in his groin.
How could he keep doing this? How could he be so mad to think he could simply kiss a woman without becoming a monster who wanted nothing more than to snatch her maidenhood like a thief? Why did he think this time was different?
He had spent so long thinking his life could be more than what Steiner had told him it could be. And yet decades later, it was all the same. He lived in the cellar of a theater, a torture chamber of his own making keeping him in check. He acted as a caricature of death and longed for the touch of a kind hand to ease his suffering. But even that he did not deserve. Not anymore.
––––––––
Shaya did not, as ahabit, frequent taverns. He was banned by faith from spirits and he detested the smell. When he made an exception, it was for nights like this, when he knew the denizens of the Opera would be spending their coins close to work. There was always gossip and tonight was no different.
Every tongue was wagging with the story of Carlotta and how she had finally pushed the Phantom too far by slighting Christine Daaé. Daaé of course was a witch or a gypsy, or a gypsy witch, who had ensnared the ghost as her dark servant. Either that, or she was having an affair with any number of men in and out of the Opera. So far tonight Shaya had heard that she was the mistress of everyone from Gerard Gabriel or Claude Bosarge to Charles Gounod or the minister of fine arts. But the most likely candidates were the men she’d been seen with regularly – Raoul de Chagny and Robert Rameau.
“She left with Rameau last night,” a woman was saying at the table behind Shaya. “The little slut.”
“As if you wouldn’t spread your legs for that devil,” a man hooted back. The crowd erupted in laughter, but the mirth was cut short by a commotion near the door.
“Let me in and give me my wine!” A man was yelling at the entrance, while two more men held him back.
“You need to be at home, Joseph,” a huge stagehand (Alonzo was his name, Shaya believed) rumbled. “You’re not well.”
“Fuck off, you fat clod!” the man – Joseph – spat. “I’m not sick! That thing tried to kill meagainand I want a drink!”
This interested Shaya. Unobtrusively, he made his way towards the door where the proprietor of the establishment was making it clear that Joseph was not welcome. Shaya recognized the man now. Buquet was his surname, an odious man who oversaw the flies. The one Erik had thrown down to the stage months ago. And now his face was purple with bruises.
“It’s alright, my friend. Let me buy you something at a kinder establishment,” Shaya said, stepping through the crowd and leading Buquet away.
“Who the fuck are you?” Buquet slurred.
“A curious friend who’d like to know how you were injured,” Shaya replied, leading Buquet down the street. “Was it the ghost?”
“What hurt me was no ghost. It was ademon,” Buquet said. “Broke Franc’s jaw and his arm. Nearly killed me too. He was a monster.”
“Was this in the Opera?” Shaya asked in horror.
“No, Carlotta didn’t want it there,” Buquet answered with a cough as he leaned on a wall. Shaya’s interest sharpened. “Wanted Christine away from him. Lot of good it did us.”
“So the ghost came to help Daaé?”
“She’s his mistress, that whore.” Buquet spat on the ground then finally looked at Shaya. Really looked at him. “And you – you’re his apprentice! Or minder!”
“No, I’m—” The blow connected before Shaya could protest.
“Trying to trap me again, are you?” Buquet howled as he punched again, connecting with Shaya’s stomach and knocking the wind from him. “Heathen Turk! Go back to the devil with your master the ghost!”
Buquet swung again, but this time Shaya was ready. He spun away and drew his revolver, pointing it squarely at Buquet’s forehead, and the man froze. “I am not his friend. I’m his enemy just like you, you fool. And if you had any sense, you’d know that you’ve happened on the best way to trap him. Threaten Daaé and he’ll come running.”
Shaya delivered the man a kick to the chest and retreated. He rubbed his jaw, fury and suspicion rising. Erikwaswilling to reveal himself to protect Daaé as much as he was willing to protect her. Whether Christine was a whore or a captive, it didn’t matter—
He didn’t finish the thought. The blow to the back of his head overtook him first. Then fear and pain. Then panic.Where was his gun?
