marlowemuses | Heir of the Palais Garnier

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Heir of the Palais Garnier

One of the wealthy patrons of the opera was in the mirror room.

Laurent stood just outside, watching him through a pane of glass. His lair was dark, and the mirror room was bright, blindingly bright, and getting brighter by the minute. It made it very easy to watch without being seen, as did all the clever inventions of the phantom.

It was the handsome, nosy patron of the opera. This did not surprise Laurent. He was, after all, remarkably nosy, and remarkably persistent. If any of the opera patrons was going to end up in one of the phantom's traps, it could reasonably have been predicted that it would be this one.

He knew, not from experience, but from explanation, that the interior of the mirror room would be getting uncomfortably warm now. Enough to make a man squirm, or shed clothing.

Laurent had been watching for several minutes, ever since one of the alarms had rung to inform him that one of the pressure plates had been activated in one of the traps. There were many traps, and each one had a wire connected to a bell that would ring if it were activated. The pressure plate activated the trap and began a constant ringing of the respective bell. Laurent reached up and disconnected the wire.

This wealthy patron of the opera was a ghost hunter. Laurent had encountered them before. Most of them he simply ignored as not worth his time. This one intrigued Laurent, though he knew it was only because the patron was young, and handsome, with a healthy, well-formed body that looked more suited to a stage hand than a young heir. Most of the patrons Laurent had seen were fat, pale, cosseted things. This one was golden.

It would be getting hot now, inside the mirror room. Dizzyingly hot. Dry heat, despite the watery subterranean lair. The phantom had been most pleased about that, when he'd shown Laurent how it worked. Dry heat, wicking the moisture from the air, meant that the glass would never fog. He could watch every moment.

Laurent laid his palm against the outside wall of the room. It was pleasantly warm against his hand.

He'd encountered this patron more than once. He thought, though he was not certain, that this patron had seen him more than once. Each time, Laurent had been masked, and they'd been at a distance.

Once, Laurent had been in his box. He'd been in the shadows, impossible to see from the lower seats and difficult to see from the stage. There were the other boxes, but they never really paid attention. They were all glitter and gold, dressed to draw attention, and interested in others like them. But once, Laurent had looked out across to the far side of the boxes, and he had seen a young man, this young man, staring at him. Or, at least, staring at the shadows of his box. Laurent wasn't sure whether he could be seen, dressed in dark red with a death's head mask. He had slipped through his secret door, and away.

He'd seen the young man frequently after that. He was often at the opera house. He seemed to have open access to the place at any hour of the day or night.

Once, Laurent had been watching the rehearsal. He'd seen the young man on the stage. That had intrigued him, and he'd slipped closer, wanting to know if he was audience or performer, or merely being given a tour of the workings. Laurent had been as silent as ever up in the riggings, but this young man had looked up. Laurent had been all in white, with a beautiful, androgynous white mask with gold-painted features. The sailcloth then hung from the riggings ought to have hidden him in folds of white and ivory, and the young man could only have been gazing thoughtfully into space, but Laurent felt as though the young man saw him and saw through him.

There had been more than one close call in a corridor. Laurent had made note of the trap doors and secret passages that the young man had found and solved. It was deeply perplexing. It was concerning.

It would end here.

The glass walls and floor of the mirror room would be scalding to the touch now, though Laurent expected the young man would have better sense than to touch them. At least until he collapsed. The outside wall was uncomfortably warm against Laurent's palm.

The air inside the room, he had been told, would now be gaspingly hot. The young man would likely be feeling some degree of dizziness now, perhaps severe. He might soon lose balance or consciousness. Or he might stay conscious as the room became an oven, as it began to cook him, then to sear and burn, and eventually to char the skin and bones until nothing was left but ash.

The phantom had informed him that he would likely have to replace a few of the panes, after the room was activated. A few of them were always damaged in the process. He had said it with a touch of glee that made Laurent's skin crawl.

The young man would be in agony now. He would understand, now, that this room was meant to kill him. He would understand that all his stubbornness and folly and pride had led him to this.

He would be gone.

Laurent yanked the lever that deactivated the room. All of the traps could be deactivated or solved, if you were fast enough and could spot how the puzzle worked. But they also usually had failsafes on the outside. Christine, the phantom had explained, once got trapped inside this one.

The room went dark. It would still be hot inside, as the trapped air spilled out to warm Laurent's cold lair, but it had stopped heating.

Laurent stared into the dark cell, though he could see nothing. He realized, belatedly, that the mirror room was now darker than his lair, and therefore he was the one who could be seen through the viewing pane. He stepped quickly to one side, though the young man inside could not possibly have seen anything but a mask and a cloak.

It occurred to Laurent that he now had a logistical problem. A scorch mark was easy to tidy away. A young man was not. The mirror room had two doors. One of them opened, one-way, from an underground passageway that branched into the Parisian catacombs. Laurent came through there, occasionally, if he was in a hurry. The other door opened into the heart of Laurent's lair, for his own ease of access, or for the entry of those few allies the phantom might ever have been willing to spare.

It wasn't too late. He could still reactivate the room and dispose of the intruder. But something in Laurent balked at that. He was not certain whether the problem was that the young man was innocent--and he was, as far as Laurent knew, as far as he had heard from the rumors and gossip around the opera house--or that the young man was appealing.

And Laurent was so terribly lonely.

Loneliness had never been a problem before. It was a permanent state. It was a fact of his existence.

And yet, as he began to realize that the young man could not be saved without him being able to catch a glimpse, at least, of Laurent's domain, Laurent began to wonder whether he might just keep this intruder.

The young man had, after all, been very determined to find his way here. He could just stay.

Laurent paced, considering how to handle the situation. The young man was larger, physically. Significantly more muscular. Laurent had wiry strength, but he expected that if it were to come to a physical altercation, he would lose.

There was a firearm buried in a cabinet drawer. Laurent could fetch it, and hold it upon the young man, to make sure that his commands were followed. But there was something distinctly vulnerable about that. It betrayed fear. And, if the young man were to get a hold of it, the situation would quickly reverse. Laurent wouldn't be able to operate doors or traps while keeping a gun trained on the young man. It was too inconvenient an advantage.

Which was why Laurent was bare-handed when he opened the door to the mirror room. There was a knife in his boot that he was accustomed to using. If the young man attacked, Laurent could kill him with it.

Standing outside of the mirror room, Laurent waited. He was dressed severely, in a dark blue tunic, a black cloak, and black trousers and boots. His hood was up, and his face was covered by a plain golden mask. Of Laurent himself, nothing was visible but his mask-shadowed blue eyes, some stray strands of blond hair, and the pale, sunless skin of his throat and hands.

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Laurent watched in awe as Gansey worked. This sort of thing didn't come naturally to him, and he was amazed by how diligent and clever Gansey was.

He made an effort to help, moving some of the smaller stones out of the path and handing Gansey things as he needed them, but for the most part he stayed out of the way, eyes lingering on Gansey's muscles.

"Yes. Thank you." The path was clear, and Laurent could use it again, though he'd have to be careful navigating the rubble.

He picked up the lantern so they could return. "I never asked, did you suffer any burns in the mirror room?"

He was a little surprised by the question; it hadn't seemed like the kind of thing that the Phantom would care about. The well-being of his captive?

"I... may be three shades darker than I was before I fell in there," he said, slowly, "but I'm mostly all right. Nothing major." He'd not touched the mirrors themselves knowing that they would probably peel the flesh back off his bones. Gingerly, he touched along his right forearm with his left hand, "Guess I took the brunt of it here, when I covered my eyes." The skin there was red and bothered, not noticeable unless you looked at how up his arm was a cooler shade. It stung.

Dropping his arms, he went to retrieve the shirt and put it back on, even if he was still sweaty. He didn't want to move back through the darkness shirtless.

He wanted to ask if he really would never return to the surface of the Palais Garnier. He wanted to ask what the Ghost was. Why he was here. How long he'd been here. So many questions. They so desperately wanted to fall from his lips; instead, he merely rubbed them together, taking a few steps closer to his Opera Ghost.

Laurent led him back to the lair, holding the door for him. He took Gansey straight to the bathing chamber again, expecting that he would want to wash up. "Stay here. I'll bring you fresh clothes."

Starting to trust Gansey more when left on his own, Laurent went off to fetch fresh clothes as promised. He took the time to change, putting on a much simpler outfit of black trousers and a white shirt, with a plain white half-mask to cover his face. It revealed his rose-petal lips and the elegant line of his jaw, but Laurent deemed that acceptable. Only Gansey was going to see.

He suppressed the stray thought that he wanted Gansey to see.

Bringing back the clean clothes, Laurent set them on one of the side benches, along with a little jar of ointment for his burned arm.

Washing up after that was indeed what Gansey wanted. Eager to see the interesting pumping system again, he messed around with it a touch before setting his own bath. It delighted him; while he had been born to luxury, there were few things he truly loved about it. Hot baths were one of those things. Nothing beat scrubbing away remnants of the day and using sweet smelling soaps.

When then Phantom returned Gansey did a double-take. Much more human now, the Phantom had the loveliest lips he'd ever seen. It almost seemed salacious to have such a strong thought.

He had to look away.

Scrubbing himself down and hopping out of the tub, he reached for a towel to dry himself off. It was both harder and easier to speak to the Phantom when he looked so much more... human. Like himself.

"Thank you," he said, glancing up in surprise when he noticed the jar of ointment. "That... will help." The smile he offered was shy but genuine. If the Phantom was really as cruel as they said, there was no way he would have brought the ointment for Gansey. He would have never asked about the burn to begin with.

"We can eat once you've dressed," Laurent said, waiting for Gansey to finish with his clothes and the ointment. Then he led him through the lair to a beautiful kitchen, fitted with a coal stove of intricate and brilliant design, just like the rest of the lair.

He put a pot on the stove, filling it partway with water and starting to chop vegetables. He didn't glance at Gansey, simply trusting that he would stay in the kitchen while Laurent cooked.

The kitchen was just as stunning as the rest of the Phantom's lair. Gansey brushed his fingers along the countertops and table, admiring the stove, wondering at it all. It was built to last. It suggested that someone had spent a great deal of time down here. Yet it still didn't make sense. His Opera Ghost was young. The slight show of jaw and lips had assured Gansey of that.

And if he knew how to cook... what vampire needed to know how to cook? Though he tried to take a note on whether or not the man used garlic in his chopping.

Oh, how he wanted to explore. He longed to puzzle out all the various pathways and traps, beautiful things. While he didn't leave the kitchen he certainly paced it. Looking at things, touching things, endlessly interested and not trusting himself near the Phantom, worried his desire to slide that mask right off his face would possess him.

"If James is no good," he continued, "how about Eugene? Maybe you prefer a more unique name?"

The slightest hint of a smile curved Laurent's lips at the question. There was a bundle of garlic hanging inside a cupboard. He pulled some out and chopped it, adding it to the soup along with the other things, not ever suspecting Gansey's theory.

"I don't think I'm much of a Eugene," he said, adding herbs and salt. He didn't seem to have any limitation to his supplies. He still demanded the Phantom's salary from his opera, after all, which kept him living comfortably, and he had several contacts who took his money and shopping lists and returned things to his specifications.

Gansey's company was incredibly pleasant. He'd been uncomplaining, only curious, and his help had been extremely valuable after only a day. Laurent wanted to keep him, and it was with a feeling of utter ecstasy that he realized he could. Gansey belonged to him now. There wouldn't be any leaving without Laurent allowing it. The air of sadness that surrounded Gansey was unsettling, of course, but it had diminished considerably since his initial capture. Laurent allowed himself to believe that Gansey was accepting his new life here. That he could be happy here.

Garlic. So he couldn't be a vampire. So not a ghost, and not a vampire. What other creature stayed young? Not werewolves. They aged. Unless the rumors that the Phantom had made a deal with the devil were true? Eternal youth? Would that make him a demon? He was very polite for a demon. Interesting.

"Okay, so not Eugene." He wanted to get closer to the Phantom. Should he? Not knowing, he continued to pace, picking things up and examining them. Listening to the sound of the Phantom cutting. He was cooking. Every so often Gansey stole a glance.

"Henry? Jacob?"

He inched closer, fingers grazing the countertop.

"Maybe... Edward?"

"What's wrong with Ghost?" Laurent asked, continuing to cook. It felt ... right, to have Gansey here. Natural. He glanced over, heart quickening to find that he'd moved closer, but he didn't seem threatening in his approach. "I'm no one. I don't need a name."

Laurent added a chicken leg from a bundle, sniffing it once to make sure it was still fresh. He'd received it in his goods delivery that morning, and things didn't spoil quickly in the year-round chill in his lair.

His captive seemed surprisingly relaxed. Eternally curious. Laurent reminded himself to be careful. That inquisitiveness could--and had--lead him into trouble.

When he saw the chicken leg, Gansey realized just how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten a lick since before he'd fallen into the mirror room and the smells were beginning to make his stomach twist and growl. Before, he hadn't been hungry, but it had finally caught up to him. Plus, it was smelling quite good. Apparently the Phantom knew his way around the kitchen.

Licking his lips without quite realizing it, "It's not a matter of need. It would be... nice. Ghost is an occupation. A name is... something different."

Even if he had relaxed a bit he still didn't allow himself to approach too close. Lingered, just outside arm's length, as he looked at the bundles of spices.

"How do you get all this?"

"It's not an occupation," Laurent argued, bemused by the suggestion. "It's a state of being."

It would be... nice. Shouldn't Gansey hate his captor? Laurent was perplexed further.

"I leave money and a list in a basket in a certain tunnel near an entrance to the catacombs, and the basket is returned promptly by mid-morning the next day," Laurent explained, because there was no harm in that. He wasn't about to reveal the identities of his contacts, just as he trusted they told no tales about shopping for the Opera Ghost.

Stirring his pot, Laurent let it simmer for a few minutes, fetching bowls and setting the table, which was large but had only two chairs. "There are several bottles of wine, there," he said, pointing to a wine rack along one wall. "You may select and open one, if you like."

So he had someone to shop for him... then he was the sort of creature that needed to eat. For what other purpose would a Phantom need to shop? So that scratched the actual ghost element entirely. A true ghost would not need to eat. A vampire would need blood. It was looking more like something involving eternal youth.

Gansey touched the back of one of the chairs. There were two. Having two meant that there was a reason for two. For if the Phantom was always alone, why would he expect to need more than one? Curious.

At the mention of wine Gansey was distracted from his thoughts. Glancing toward the wine rack, he almost said that he wasn't much a fan of drinking, but then remembered his circumstances. He went to the wine rack.

Scanning the bottles, he selected a rich red wine that seemed like it would go nicely what the Phantom had cooked. The thought almost made him laugh—the Opera Ghost had cooked a meal, and they would be sharing it together, along with some wine.

Popping open the bottle, rest it on the table, allowing it a few minutes to breathe before he poured it.

"A state of being is still not a name."

Laurent ignored the statement. It was somewhat pleasant, having Gansey so invested in calling him by name. It indicated that Gansey wanted to think of him as more than just a captor, more than just a wraith.

He used a pair of forks to shred the chicken leg, leaving the bones in the soup to stew further. They could eat the soup again for dinner. He served two bowls, setting them on opposite sides of the table. "If there's anything specific you'd like to request, when I make my list, you need only to let me know."

Gansey had been so cooperative, so well-behaved, that Laurent felt inclined to indulge any whims he could. Within reason.

It smelled so good that Gansey sat instantly, studying the meal with delight. It was so simply compared to the lavish dinners of roast duck and stuffed turkey that they were so fond of preparing at home.

And the thought of home made him sad again. Deflated, a bit, as he looked at the soup. Especially paired with the fact that he would be allowed requests. All he wanted to request was to be able to return topside. It had been... perhaps a day, day and a half, and he already missed sunlight terribly. The mystery of the ghost was an excellent distraction from the Phantom's unwillingness to return him to his room, but there were still thoughts that weighed on him. He had seen secrets he shouldn't. And, staying here, he'd seen even more.

"There's nothing." Gingerly, he took his spoon and stirred it into his bowl, admiring the colors of the vegetables and meat. It smelled lovely. And the warmth on his tongue and belly was wholly welcome. His dark, thick eyelashes curled against his cheeks as he closed his eyes, savoring the taste.

The sadness in Gansey's eyes made Laurent's heart clench. He felt guilty, knowing that he'd stolen Gansey from his life in the sunshine. Even if Gansey had forced his hand.

"Have you got a family? Children?" Laurent asked, hating the thought of it. Surely they wouldn't be starving, at least, with Gansey gone. He was well off enough that he must surely have provided for any family, though there might be other complications. Laurent felt a sick stab of jealousy at the thought of a beautiful young wife and golden children. Adored, pampered, safe, with such a strong and handsome young man to care for them. And Laurent had selfishly stolen him away, knowing that he could never fairly have anything as pure as Gansey.

"Huh?"

Gansey blinked at the question, the surprised look melting into a sheepish smile. "Oh, no no. Nothing like that. I'm single. I can't even imagine having children right now." Stirring his meal, he continued, "I ... have a sister? We're pretty close. I'm not quite so close with my parents but we manage. They don't approve that I'd rather explore ruins and buildings with grand architecture than find a suitable spouse. But there's so much to see out there, so much history to learn. Books, scrolls, carvings, stories waiting to be discovered and learned. It's enthralling."

As he spoke he perked up considerably, practically glowing as he spoke in an even, honey sweet voice, with a touch of old money and polite drawl to his accent.

The knowledge that Gansey had no one romantic in his life made Laurent's heart swell with relief. No one depending upon him, then. That assuaged Laurent's guilt. The parents and sister would miss him, but that was not the same as a wife and children.

He was entranced by that glow. When he'd seen Gansey before in the opera house, he'd seen handsome figures and a charming smile, and he'd attributed them to a sense of entitlement as the young nobleman had invaded his passageways and conquered his puzzles. Now he saw that they belonged to a sense of wonder.

He knew, also, that Gansey was innocent. At least as it related to the residents of the opera house. It was something on which Laurent kept a close watch. No one under his protection would be harassed or abused.

Most of that sort of trouble could be easily defused. A midnight appearance in one of the Phantom's more dreadful countenances and a stern warning was more than enough to keep most of the handsy stage hands and tenors on their best behavior, and rumors traveled quickly to enforce such things. Sometimes the rumors got a bit warped--the Opera Ghost disapproves of any shows of love or intimacy!--but overall it kept the more vulnerable members of the opera company safe.

There had been two instances where mere ghostly warnings had not been adequate. The first had been when a drunken and belligerent baritone had raped one of the chorus girls. Laurent had castrated him. He'd died two days later, under medical care and in considerable pain.

The second instance had involved a wealthy count infatuated with one of the singers. He had paid the opera managers a considerable sum to arrange for a private tryst with her. Afterward, the young woman had wept for a week.

Laurent could count on one hand the amount of times he had gone aboveground since he had entered the Phantom's lair.

He had killed the count, quietly, so that it wouldn't trace back to the opera house. And he had left a note, also quietly, for the opera managers. After that, they were very careful about protecting the people in their care.

"After we eat," Laurent said, "I'll take you to see the library."

At that, Gansey looked both surprised and delighted. So the Phantom kept a library? So the Opera Ghost enjoyed to read? He had, Gansey realized, brought him a book before.

"What kinds of books do you have?" he asked, not wanting to fall into silence. The Ghost had a lovely voice and there was still so much Gansey didn't know about him. The longer he was in the Phantom's company the more he wanted to know. So far, none of the stories he had heard made much sense. That the Phantom was cruel and killed indiscriminately. That he bathed in blood.

"What kinds of books do you like?" Maybe it was utterly insane of him to want to get to know his captor, but... the Phantom had not been cruel. He'd shown concern. He'd saved him from a room that would have killed him, and then he'd given Gansey ointment to ease the burns.

"Do you read often?"

"Yes," Laurent answered. There had been two other questions, but he answered the one that was easy. The other two would answer themselves. "Constantly."

He sipped at his wine. It was very good, and Laurent wanted the alcohol to help ease his nerves. It was odd to have dinner company. Even--especially--if that company was his prisoner. "I spend my time mostly reading. Other than that, I maintain the lair and repair the mechanisms. I even have--" He paused, realizing that he was about to say built a few rooms of my own design. "I occasionally work to construct new rooms, as well."

Gansey helped himself to some wine as well. It was sweet, went down smooth, and he appreciated the warmth it spread through his body.

"Oh?" He sounded very interested at that. "So you're good with your hands. I suspected as much. Everything I've ever come across is genius; the answers are never obvious but they're not complicated. And I would probably admire your mirror room more had it not almost killed me."

While he didn't approve of traps made to kill... the secret doors and passage ways were incredible. "You're able to navigate through the dark, yes? Amazing. It's all beautiful. I've never seen anything like it before."

Laurent stared wide-eyed at him. He hadn't received praise since he was a child. Even though more than half the praise was actually for the Phantom, and not him, part of it was about him, and it was from Gansey, someone so perfect and golden.

He wondered, briefly, if he could redesign the mirror room to be harmless. Beautiful and sparkling, like the inside of a diamond. So that Gansey could admire it.

Getting to his feet, Laurent set his bowl aside, taking his glass of wine and the bottle with him. "I'll show you the library."

Gansey finished up his dinner and wondered if he should help clean, but it didn't seem that the Phantom cared much about it. Since the Ghost took his drink Gansey took his as well; nursing the drink, he nodded, clearly eager to see what sort of library the Phantom kept. It had to be something of note if the man spent most of his time reading. Not murdering for fun. Reading.

"Please." He was near breathless. "I'd love to see."

Laurent led the way though the lair into a room that was simultaneously cozy and vast. He lit a candelabra as he entered, casting warm light through the two-story room, filled with books of all shapes and sizes.

At first glance, the impression was of leather spines and large soft couches for reading, of polished wood and warm candlelight. It was only upon further inspection that the organization of the library seemed... odd. It was a difficult thing to quantify, but it was as though the library had been designed for a very specific organization, and someone had diligently rearranged all of the books. Some of the books were on shelves that fit them perfectly, while other sets of books were either too tall or too short for their shelves, placed sideways and sticking out.

Upon even closer inspection, it was clear which books had received recent use, and which ones were covered in dust.

The dusty titles were about architecture, and Persia, about crime and medicine, poisonous plants and methods of torture.

All of the recently read titles were about history and language, romances and ghost stories. There were cook books and adventure novels, and a book of fairy tales that was worn and tattered from being read so often.

Once the library was warmed with candlelight, Gansey opened his mouth in a silent gasp. He had been in many libraries before, but none so... interesting. There were the private collections of his parents' friends that were always boring and filled with books meant to make them seem learned yet not with a single crack in the spine, the mad libraries of universities that were a mash of everything one could think of, and the quiet libraries where scholars made their homes. Cozy yet vast was new.

The organization was also quite odd. Nothing like Gansey had ever come across before. Unable to keep his hands idle, he walked along the shelves, running fingers against spines and wood. It wasn't too difficult to pinpoint some apparent favorites. The books that were covered in dust Gansey mostly left alone; while he did have interest in architecture, most else didn't fall into his tent. History and language, even romance, and of course, ghost stories. Adventure novels, fairy tales... when he noticed one book he gasped and tugged it free, spinning on his heel and grinning.

"Oh! I loved this book when I was a child," he laughed, breathless. "Different fairytales of princes and princesses. Mother never cared for it because the stories were always a bit odd, but I thought them fascinating. Fairies and ghosts, things like that."

Gansey flipped through a few pages and then looked up. "It looks like we have some similar interests, Opera Ghost."

Laurent peered at him, puzzled as to how he could be so very cheerful about his fate. The brief sadness had faded away, like fog in sunlight.

Gansey's love of the library made Laurent ache. He felt pride and pleasure, charmed by how Gansey had passed by the Phantom's books and was drawn instead to Laurent's.

"My brother used to read it to me," Laurent murmured. He moved closer, protective of the book, as much as he was thrilled by Gansey's interest in it. It was the only book in the library that was his, a piece of his past.

With an inscription inside the front cover. For Laurent, with love, Father.

Laurent remembered the dedication suddenly, eyes widening as he made a grab for book.

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