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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

So the Opera Ghost had a brother. Gansey made a mental note of that without comment; it was another very human thing, though he supposed any manner of beast could have a brother. One that read to him, however? Was that something demons did together? More and more, the man was beginning to look merely... human. Cooking, delighting in wine and literature, having family.

Then the Phantom lunged and Gansey's heart flung itself into his throat. He made no claim on the book, letting it go easily, since it wasn't his to begin with. Then he took three steps back to put space between them, heart beating quickly in his chest and expression alarmed.

"I—ahem. I apologize. I shouldn't have picked it up without asking."

While he was strong enough to possibly overpower the Phantom if the man decided to get rid of him, he wouldn't. Not enough to hurt the other man, anyway. A scruff was one thing. To kill? He would lose. All in all, his plan was to remain on polite terms until he could convince the Opera Ghost to let him go.

Laurent took one step back, hugging the book and watching Gansey warily. They stared at each other for the space of several breaths, and then Laurent remembered who he was.

His nerves and vulnerability vanished, hidden beneath his usual cool exterior. He kept hold of the book.

"You may help yourself to any other book in the library," he said, thumb cresting along the cover of the book. Not this one.

Was his luck so poor that he had chosen the one book in the library that the Phantom didn't want to share, or was it merely a show of power...? Gansey didn't know. To be allowed to look at any book in the library except for that one made him want to look at that one all the more.

"... All right," he said, slowly, though his curiosity had not cooled whatsoever. What was so different about that book? It couldn't be because he expressed that he liked it. Even for a Phantom, something like that seemed petty.

It struck him as odd then that he had some sort of standard for the Phantom. That, somehow, he knew the Phantom wouldn't stoop so low, though he had no real reason for thinking so.

Turning away, Gansey touched along the spines of a few other books.

"Is it all right if I spend some time here?"

Laurent nodded. It sounded like a request to be alone, and Laurent felt that Gansey had earned the right to make small requests. "Don't leave the library. If you require me before I return, open the door and call for me."

He hesitated over his book of fairy tales, but then he put it back on its place on the shelf. Gansey had obeyed all of his commands so far, and to Laurent there was no difference between an attempt to escape and a purloined glance at the book of fairy tales. If Gansey refrained from one, he would refrain from the other.

Heart aching with loneliness already to be leaving Gansey's company, Laurent left him alone in the library. He went to an antechamber nearby, intending to work on oiling the gears for one of the mechanisms, but all he could think about was Gansey.

The book was a constant temptation.

It was like leaving a buffet in front of a starving man. Ever curious, Gansey wanted to know what it was about that book that made it forbidden. In the end, he didn't open it. Testing the Phantom's limits wasn't something he was inclined toward doing. And... it may have been his imagination, but for a few brief moments, it had seemed as though the Phantom was as alarmed as he had been.

As soon as the Phantom left, Gansey was lonely. He instantly wanted to call him back and didn't understand why. There were a thousand books for him to read. He could plan an escape. As he thumbed through a few books that had caught his eye, all he could think of was the Phantom. All the questions he had. So little had been answered and, in return, he only had more curiosities. Nothing was making sense.

He was tired. He hadn't slept well since... even earlier than dropping into the mirror room. Now that the pressure of the white and red room was no longer plaguing him, he figured it might be easier to doze. So, reclining on one of the leather chases, he closed his eyes. The scent of books was a highly reassuring one, more familiar than anything else. Back home, he'd fallen asleep in the library many-a-time. It was the only comforting place.

Upon the Opera Ghost's return, he would find his captive asleep in the same position, head turned revealing the handsome slope of his neck, hair mussed, back of his hand resting on his forehead in a comfortable position.

Laurent returned after an hour. It was as long as he could stand, fearing that Gansey had escaped, or that he might need something, and also simply missing Gansey more than he could bear.

His heart softened at the sight of Gansey curled up asleep like that. He looked handsome and vulnerable, the most precious thing Laurent had ever seen. He knew in that moment that he'd give everything he had to keep Gansey. His lair, his books, the opera house. Anything.

Picking up one of his books, Laurent curled up in a chair opposite to read. He left plenty of space between them, not wanting Gansey to feel crowded, and only glanced over occasionally. It was easier to focus when he could keep an eye on Gansey. When he knew that Gansey was safe, and close by.

It was the best sleep he had gotten in months.

Not perfect, no, but between the exhaust of nearly being killed in the mirror room and then actual physical labor digging out the tunnel, paired with a hot meal and wine? Bodily and mentally, Gansey was exhausted. So he slept for quite some time, quietly, chest rising and falling gently as he did.

When he did wake, it was a slow process. Turning, stretching out, eyelids fluttering as his mind began to churn once more. There was no telling if it was day or night, no sign of yellow sunlight or pale moonlight to let his mind register the time.

Blinking, Gansey sat up. When he saw the Phantom sitting not far away he offered an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. Got a bit tired."

"I don't mind," Laurent said, because he didn't. The contentment of being near Gansey and knowing that his precious new companion was safe was more than enough for Laurent. His days were ordinarily quiet and slow, and there were no urgent priorities that he needed to handle. Attending to his beautiful young man was by far the most important thing on his to-do list. "If you're hungry, we can eat."

Sitting up, Gansey stretched his arms over his head and then rested his forearms on his knees. For a moment, he merely studied his ghost. There was nothing about the man that was expected. He didn't revel in blood, didn't run off to torture the singers, didn't even murder Gansey after he'd fallen into his trap. He cooked and read books.

"I'm all right," Gansey smiled. "Still content from earlier." Clasping his hands together, he leveled with his captor.

"Right now, I would very much like it if we could talk."

Laurent tensed. His experience interacting with people had been limited, but he knew perfectly well that we need to talk tended to be not a good thing. Gansey was altogether too rational, too calm and collected, and it made Laurent feel as though there was some information he didn't have, as though this was a trap about to spring. He was supposed to have the upper hand. Gansey was supposed to be his captive.

He set his book aside, tense and suspicious.

"Talk about what?"

Gansey remained calm when the Phantom grew tense.

"About you."

He had asked question after question and had received little in the way of answers. Only small things. There was still so much he didn't understand but desperately wanted to.

"I'd like to know about you. What you are. Who you are, why you're here. You've been very good about avoiding my inquiries so far." Now, however, Gansey was getting stubborn about it. There was no way he could simply read and enjoy meals when there was a mystery begging to be unfolded right under his nose.

"And," he said, "I... would like to know if there's anything I can do to convince you to return me."

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