Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology (26 page)

“On the evening after our last meeting, Monchamin and Richard’s men erected barriers of stone and mortar over each and every one of my outlets into the world above.”

The ghost supplied the answer to her ill-framed question, his pace quickening as they progressed through a large sitting room lit by no less than a thousand candles. Meg now compulsorily swiveled her head to take it all in before they hurried into the next, equally opulent room, this one graced with a large pipe organ. The grand instrument was truly an ornate piece of art, such a one might have been seen in churches a hundred years prior.

“So the night I flew for the first time . . . ”

“Was my last night of freedom.” The bitterness in the phantom’s voice carried a new menace and Meg gasped, partly out of fear, partly out of pain, for their rapid pace and her lengthy sojourn had greatly taxed the still-sore appendage and she found herself longing to rest her poor ankle.

Either they had arrived at their destination, or the opera ghost became cognizant of her needs, for he now let go of her arm and bade her sit, offering her a glass of very old, very expensive wine. Perching gingerly on the edge of a large overstuffed armchair, for this room was singularly ill-lit in comparison to the prior one, and the couch smelled faintly of disuse, Meg waited numbly with glass in hand as the ghost moved about, lighting lamps and asking questions.

“And your mother, how is she? How goes the current production? Has your own rolé in The Wasp and The Butterfly proved sufficient?” His rapid-fire collection of inquiries startled and baffled her, and she stammered to answer each in turn. It struck her suddenly that the opera ghost seemed nervous, anxious.

“You’re here to ask for my assistance in your mother’s recovery, yes?” The sharp eyes turned back to her, demanding honesty.

“Yes,” she breathed and took a sip of the reassuringly aged wine that swirled darkly in her glass. Dismayed at her own simplicity, knowing it was her own exhaustion and fear making her speak so, she moved to explain, “I didn’t know what to do. And when I found out that Firmin and Armand had trapped you through their treachery . . . They’ve been passing the company notes these last few weeks as though the instructions came from you.”

“Ah!” the ghost turned his back on her now, doubling over, his gloved fingers picking at his mask, as if he might rip it from his face. His voice radiated a pain that nearly moved poor Meg to tears. “Say no more, dear Meg. I should have known. I should have known you would not prove false to me—you or your dear mother, who has served me so faithfully all these years.”

Meg moved to rise, was forced into stillness by the ghost’s cries, “Stop! Come no closer.”

Pacing like a caged animal, Erik strode the room, the violence in the delivery of his next words matching well the manic energy in his movement, “Meg, you must know that I never meant for you to make this choice. But these past weeks have proven disastrous to my plans. My father is here, in Paris. Quite nearby, in fact. But he—” his gait caught a hitch and he appeared to consider his next words before continuing “—he has fallen ill and it appears my hand is to be forced.”

He stopped his frantic pacing and turned to her, his eyes losing their menace for once, instead appearing to glitter with tears, “The medicines that I had given Mme. Giry. My father has told me that she—that she is the only one who might save him, and him, her. That the treatments once meant to cure them both have now become the only thing that might allow me to rescue one of them from the jaws of death.”

Frozen with wonder, knowing that in his raving the opera ghost was trying to explain something very, very important, Meg fought through the fog of fear that had begun to enshroud her mind, “I’m not sure I understand. Your father, is here, in Paris?”

“Listen. Listen to me,” the crazed energy returned to the opera ghost’s voice as he crossed the room to her. “You have a choice. I—I’m giving you a choice, though it may mean my imprisonment here forever. Meg Giry, only one may be saved—as your mother’s lungs are failing, so is my father’s heart. My father has assured me that the medicines coursing through each of their veins is enough to guarantee compatibility. Should you wish to save your mother, my father will die. And with him, my chances of his healing me of this . . . this . . . ” his hands now made good on their promise from before, tearing off the masque and flinging it angrily at her feet “—this disease, this deformity with which I am cursed.”

With a shriek, Meg found herself mere inches from the truest nightmare she had ever dared to dream. Old Joseph Buquet, chief scene-shifter dead these four years, had not even come close to describing the horror when he’d terrorized the ballet corps with his stories.

Yellow skin, like parchment, flaked away from the edges of ragged wounds, sores weeping angrily at the world. Unmasked, the glittering eyes turned sunken, falling back into the depths of the man’s skull-head, as if to escape affiliation with the crooked nose that was barely present in the center of the broken monstrosity of a visage.

He continued. “My father. My father has within him the power, the medicinal know-how to fix this.” He jabbed a finger at the abomination that was his face. “This face that would imprison me at the hands of ‘good men’ such as your Firmin and Armand.” His voice dripped sarcasm at these last words, and he seemed to gain some modicum of control over himself. Turning, he appeared to have forgotten that he’d flung his mask from him, and he looked wildly about, flinching like a whipped dog when Meg bent and picked up the ghost’s discarded guise and held it out to him, tears in her eyes.

“I cannot. You are wonderful, but I cannot,” she choked. Surely he understood? Understood that she could not seal her own mother’s fate. “Please—”

“Then you must stay with me,” he stepped back, voice low. “If you are to consign me to this fate—”

“No.”

“No? Come, come. If I am to save your mother at the expense of my father, surely you owe me something in return.” He cocked his head to the side, seemingly surprised at her boldness and more than a little bemused.

“There has to be another way,” she shook her head, the motion making the room spin around her.

“I eagerly await your erudite suggestions, dear Meg Giry,” as he stepped backward into the growing gloom, “But I fear we—and you—are almost out of time. I shall fetch your mother while you sleep off your wine.”

Something, some unknown instinct in her, had bade her imbibe no more of the phantom’s cloying vintage, but it seemed that the insight had come too late. Meg’s last conscious thought rang with the stomach-churning echo of the phantom’s laugh.

Waking in near darkness, Meg sat and waited, fearful of the ghost’s return, but somehow sensing that he’d left the cavern entirely. There was an emptiness, a dullness to the phantom’s house. She tremulously rose to her feet, surprised that he should have left her to freely roam about his dwelling-place in his absence. Perhaps he had no fear of her escape—after all, every passage into the opera house, save one, were sealed.

A small, clattering noise arrested her attention, and she froze. Echoing through the dark, in a room beyond that which she presently occupied, the miniscule sound repeated itself. Scrambling to lay hands upon a lantern, she hurried toward the noise, heart pounding in her chest so as to nearly drown out the faint utterance she so anxiously followed. Meg quickly arrived at a closed door, light bleeding out from underneath. She tried the handle—unlocked—and found herself in the presence of the phantom’s other captive.

“Oh! Thank God above. An angel!” the man cried out, half-rising from his chair, still keeping his voice low, but full of unchecked emotion. Painfully thin and pale, he seemed more skeleton than man. A shock of white hair fell over his shoulders and the sunken cheekbones and dark eyes bespoke a grave illness. His first reaction had come from involuntary impulse and he grew still, eyes betraying a cunning that Meg had seen before.

“My son did not send you, did he?” the question was blunt, mistrustful, and Meg was moved with pity.

“Oh, sir,” she quickly set her lantern aside, its brilliance redundant in this, the first splendidly illuminated room she had seen thus far in Erik’s lair.

“Olivier. Please, call me Olivier. The world should know my name before I die,” the old man spoke with a bitterness, a despair, which broke the girl’s heart.

“What can I do, Olivier?” Meg looked about the room, eyes dancing across all manner of clockwork schematics, bits and pieces of machines, vials of chemicals, and complicated instruments of the medical profession. Her eyes widened,
It was in this room that the mechanicorps had undoubtedly been born.

He followed her gaze, “My other children, yes; I am the one behind many of Erik’s inventions, but his is the real genius. My talent lies in potions, medicinals. Or at least it used to.” He shifted uncomfortably, the clink of a chain betraying the true state of his imprisonment. “Erik blames me for his . . . affliction. And I suppose he has a right to. But you must understand me,
I never meant for any of this to happen
.” A gnarled hand reached out to clasp her own, and Meg shivered, unable to break away from the mesmerizing eyes of the old man. “His mother was dying. Dying! The medicine I administered was meant to save her,” he hissed, breath pungent and stale through broken teeth. Meg moved to back away, and found herself unable.

“And I did! I did it. But at the cost of my son’s dignity.” He released her, moaning to himself, “I still don’t know what went wrong. He came out of the womb a monster.” He looked into her eyes once more, pleading, “I wanted to fix him. Cure him. Really, I did. And I’ve tried for the two years since I found him here, rotting beneath this accursed theatre. But his very soul is twisted, and I fear there is no help for him. Please help me, Mlle. Giry. The choice he gave you is no choice at all. Please let me escape, and in exchange—” he pressed a small phial of liquid into her hands. “When Erik thought himself to be trapped, I made this for your mother, in hopes I might yet save her. Please, administer this to her—one drop per day—until it is gone. It should help.”

Nodding, shocked that a man so kind could have so cruel a son, Meg asked where she might find the keys to Olivier’s chains.

“You’ll find his ring of keys by his organ. I’ve seen them but once, though I know he rarely moves them,” he explained, eyes bright with gratitude.

The keys were where he promised, and within moments Olivier was free, staggering on long-unused muscles. “I thank you, Meg Giry,” he wheezed weakly.

“Come, let me help you,” Meg moved to support the man’s frail form, and together they made their way arduously out of the phantom’s mansion, towards the lake, towards freedom. The boat was, miraculously, still pulled up tight against the dock, and the two escapees quickened their pace.

“What have you done?” Erik’s words rang out across the rippling water, a promise of murder in his voice.

The shock alone would have been enough to bring Meg’s attention to the dark figure that now strode towards them along the silent shore, but it was another movement entirely that now arrested the young woman, that of the violent twisting of her arm. A knife flattened against her throat, its cold blade startling her into immobility.

“Ah, Erik. The prodigal son returns,” the figure at her back laughed deeply, maniacally.

“Let her go.” The phantom halted his own forward progress at the sight of the gleaming blade.

“Why? So I can spend another two years rotting in your dungeon of a house?” Olivier spat back, his words hissing angrily past Meg’s ears. She struggled to remove herself from the close embrace, was stopped short by a meaningful press of the knife’s blade, “Not so fast, dear Meg. You’re my ticket out.”

One slow footfall followed another. The ghost crept closer, bright eyes on the blade at the ballerina’s throat, “You know why I kept you here. Once you followed me to Paris, to the Palais Gar—”

 “You thought that by holding me here, by forcing my hand in your cure, you might win retribution,” Olivier screamed, spittle dotting his lips as he took another step back towards the waiting boat, his iron grip on Meg’s arm inhumanly strong, though perhaps not as strong as the fear which gripped her heart.

Don’t fight him, Erik. Let him go,
her eyes pleaded, a meaningless gesture in the dark cavern. She could almost hear the pop and creak of the clockwork buried deep within her captor’s imprisoning limb, and she wondered absently how much of him was man, and how much of him machine. The voice at her back taunted further, “You, my greatest creation, hiding from the world in a cave, writing operas! Misapplied genius . . . together we could have the world. You, Erik, are a perfect fiend, and my triumph that will be complete when I finish what I started—”

The opera ghost lunged, cloak sweeping out in a dark arc and revealing his own weapon, a cane black as midnight, a bright metal skulls-head at its top.

 “Run, Meg.”

She did indeed run, as Erik’s father turned to defend himself, letting go his hostage. Throwing her weight to the boat-winch’s lever, she was rewarded by the heavy clink of metal on metal, the chain reversing its progress to carry the boat to the farther shore. A sharp gasp punctuated the heavy tumult on the water’s edge, and she turned involuntarily to the scene behind her as the boat began to glide silently away, carrying her towards blessed freedom.