Chapter Text
Erik sat disgruntled, wincing at every irksome “tap.”
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound alone was a mockery.
Just five minutes ago, Erik had been roaming around his underground realm when he’d first heard it and perked up. The clinking echoed through his most traveled passageway and conjured up the image of a bejeweled hand, clasping a crystal glass.
The thought that followed, naturally, was of Christine’s pale and slender fingers, one of which bore Erik’s golden wedding band.
Thinking that it was his fine Christine, fruitlessly trying to gain access to his lair, Erik’s walk had transformed into a progressively wilder trot.
It had come to a sudden halt upon spotting the figure on the other side of the glass.
Muttering curses under his breath, Erik now kneaded the calf he’d pulled slipping and sliding unceremoniously over the damp cobblestones.
Tap, tap, tap.
“We’ve established what sound it makes, Daroga!” Erik hissed through his teeth, too soft for the older man to hear.
Nadir Kahn’s figure was towering over him, still wearing his astrakhan hat, but clothed in a somewhat scruffy woolen suit.
The Parisian autumn was obviously not agreeing with his Persian acquaintance and it infused Erik with something close to joy.
“Come to visit old Erik?” he chuckled, quickly swallowing his words when the dark-brown eyes abandoned the gilded frame of the large dressing mirror and dropped down to his level.
Erik shrank back into the darkness ever so little. He was not used to people overhearing his personal reflections.
Christine Daaé had been the last to draw a greeting from his lips in a way that had felt beyond his control and now the reappearance of a familiar face threatened to do the same.
It was, however, the Daroga that parted his lips and spoke first: “And this is where the howling comes from?”
Erik’s brows furrowed at the question, when another voice from afar pierced his eardrums: “Si! All the time!”
The ringing in his ears told Erik all he needed to know, but the sight in the door opening confirmed it. There stood Carlotta Giudicelli, accompanied by both Gilles André and Richard Firmin.
With the way the managers were cowering by her side, they reminded Erik of gargoyles, flanking the Notre Dame. What preposterous company the Daroga had found himself among.
“Howling, scratching and screeching!” the soprano continued, “Tirelessly, every time I take up this room!”
Nadir nodded slowly, turning his attention back to the murky glass. “And, have you considered… moving?”
Carlotta threw both her gloved hands up to the heavens. “Porca miseria! Why do we consult this man?!”
André cleared his throat and pushed his spectacles further up his nose. “If I may be so bold; Monsieur Khan’s is rather knowledgeable about the occult, Signora.”
It was like looking into a funhouse mirror, the way Erik’s eyebrows shot up in sync with Carlotta’s.
“So that is it then?” Carlotta called out, “We are accepting that a ghost is behind all of this?!”
“Yes-”
“No!” Nadir’s voice rumbled like thunder and finally sparked some kind of recognition in Erik.
The Daroga heaved a heavy sigh, looking weary and tired to his bones. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Only angels and jinn.”
He seemed to slip into his own inner world, even when Carlotta bundled up one of her many voluminous overskirts and stormed out of the room.
She was heard bickering with Firmin all the way down the hall, while André lingered in the doorway, his watery eyes shooting nervously towards the stranger he’d finally chosen to consult.
Even when the hallway fell silent, Carlotta’s oppressive presence remained up into their nostrils, by way of her pungent perfume.
“Forgive me, Monsieur,” André began softly, “Jinn? I find myself unfamiliar with the term.”
“Creatures born of smokeless fire,” the Daroga muttered. “Shapeshifting spirits.”
“G-goodness.”
The corners of Nadir’s eyes wrinkled when he gave a well-meaning smile to the manager, who’d gone white as a sheet. “They have free will. So they can be good… as well as evil.”
André threw his head back, closing his eyes as the world came down on his shoulders. “Good Lord. I always presumed it was the spirit of some… disgruntled patron that we had a chance of satisfying by… I don’t know, featuring Faust!”
Nadir huffed a sad laugh. “Trust me, good sir. Never in my life have I had the dead on my doorstep. Once people are gone, they are… gone.”
Erik lifted his head, his entertainment suddenly overshadowed. André seemed to sense the man’s grief as well, for he forgot his own sorrows and composed himself.
“I… beg your pardon, Monsieur Khan,” he stuttered, “My… condolences.” He threw a look over his shoulder into the deserted hallway. “I should go. My associate-”
Nadir bowed his head in understanding. Grief made him feel like a leper, the way everyone tried to make themselves scarce at being confronted with it.
“Naturally, Monsieur. But, please, if you do not mind, I should like to proceed with my investigations. To rule out any other reason for your employees’ distress.”
André drew himself up a bit and looked into the tan, well-engraved face of the man offering his services. “You said you were once the chief of police in your country, non?”
Erik found himself silently nodding along with the Daroga.
“Very well. Carry on then,” André said after a brief moment of consideration, “I will see to it that you are undisturbed.” He released a deep sigh. “I should almost hope to be at the mercy of some ordinary swindler if a vengeful spirit is the alternative.”
“If you are, I shall unmask him, Monsieur.”
Erik’s cleft lip writhed in indignation. This was the last thing he needed; to have a walking moral compass tailing him like a stray.
“And if it’s… a daemon, like you say?”
“A jinn. Then you’d be a fool to engage with it like you have so far. Only Allah can provide protection.”
With that, Erik turned on his heel and stalked away through the dark, not interested in the imminent discussion that would follow between a Muslim and a Christian. Worldly affairs no longer mattered to him for he now inhibited another, hounded there by mankind.
He’d allowed Nadir to snoop around the borders of his empire, knowing the only entry point he was remotely close to discovering would lead him straight into the torture chamber.
That said, his peace was mostly built on ghost stories and to have the Daroga spread the word that the Opera Ghost was either a con or an entity better not to engage with was more threatening than some lukewarm detective work could ever be.
Perhaps it was time to make the Daroga believe in ghosts. A ghost with a voice mere prayers wouldn’t fend off. And who knew, Erik concluded, thinking back to the cloud of grief that had swept over Nadir’s face, what good it could do an old friend to believe.