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Christine squeezed her eyes shut. What time was it? Had it reached eleven?
Steps approached in the hall. Her eyes fluttered open as her heart hammered in time with them.
She reached out, quick as a flash and turned the small bronze figurine she had chosen.
A wave of relief washed over her. It was all over now. This way, they would all be free. Free from this dungeon. Free from this horrible monster under the opera house. Perhaps it was selfish. Perhaps she would soon find herself in Hell... But at least she was free. Erik couldn’t have this, couldn’t take Raoul from her. Raoul… Perhaps in Heaven he would find it in his heart to forgive her. And it was better this way. Yes, people would die, but Erik’s threats would die with him. Who knew how many others he might have drawn into his twisted games.
A thin, hysterical laughter echoed off the walls.
Christine jumped, body tense and sore as she pressed her hands to her ears. It would all be over soon. Soon Erik’s trap would be sprung, the grasshopper jumping from its place. The explosion would carry them all away. Up, up, like smoke over the Paris skyline. Far from this nightmare.
But the laughter only grew louder, worming its way between her fingers and into her ears. Why wouldn’t he stop? Didn’t he understand it was all over? She tore her hands away and whirled around, seeking the source. Seeking Erik.
“Christine!” Raoul called through the wall. “What happened?”
“I...” Her voice died in her throat.
“You’ve won, silly child! You’ve won! Don’t you see? She doesn’t want me. Your love has triumphed! She would kill us all before spending a single day as my wife.” The laughter resumed, higher, harsher, scraping against her ears even as it petered out into gasps and wheezes.
“Christine...?” Raoul called again. “Christine, say it isn’t true! Say you did not choose the grasshopper.”
Christine stared down at the floor, at the crumpled figure that had been Erik as it shook with hysterical laughter. There had been no way to win, had there? She opened her mouth again, but nothing came out.
“She can’t have chosen the grasshopper! We are still here. She must have chosen the scorpion.”
“Ah, dear darugha, but did you not see the barrels? Did you not hear them sing?” Erik’s voice had taken on a sing-song quality, bouncing about the room in a way that made Christine’s temples throb.
“What are you playing at?” the Persian demanded.
Erik leapt to his feet. Christine staggered back, but he ignored her, staggering past her to the torture chamber, where he knocked on the wall.
“Erik! Answer me!”
“Barrels! Barrels!” That constant refrain of the marketplace echoed disconcertingly here, the voice a precise copy of the man who sang on the street many floors above. “Have you any barrels for sale?”
“Erik!” the Persian snapped.
“Oh, but you see, it is brilliant!” He giggled again, this time in his own voice. “Those barrels of powder have long since gone inert.”
“You lie!”
“Go on! Check them if you don’t believe me!” More giggles drifted around the room. “You were right! Christine doesn’t love me! How does it feel, darugha? Do you feel smart?”
“Erik...” Christine stepped forwards, reaching out before she froze, staring at her own hand. What was she doing? Hadn’t she wanted to be rid of him?
“Erik, let us out!” the Persian called.
“Let me see Christine!” There was a thumping against the wall.
Erik knocked delicately on the wall, mocking or merely mad, that horrid giggle resuming.
“Don’t...don’t hurt them,” Christine whispered.
Erik whirled around, his eyes wild behind his mask.
“You! You treacherous wretch! You killed them, not me.” A horrible grin leered at her from beneath the mask, replaced at once with an equally terrible frown. “No, you do not get to judge their souls. That power lies in the hands of another! Don’t you see? You have killed us all, dearest Christine! That is eternal!”
She recoiled, stumbling back. She had failed. She had failed them all... Oh, God... A sob tore from her chest, and she grasped for the wall.
Behind Erik, there was a loud click, and the wall sprung open, revealing the mirrored walls of the torture chamber. The Persian stumbled out, and Raoul leapt out from behind him, lunging toward Erik. The Persian caught the back of his shirt, but he pulled free, pushing past Christine. But no matter how quick he was, he was still much, much too slow, and Erik danced easily out of the way.
Christine stepped forwards, trying to put herself between Raoul and Erik. “Please…please don’t hurt him.”
Raoul dove back, pulling her aside and blocking her view of Erik. He searched her face, his expression stricken. “Christine! You can’t have picked the grasshopper. I don’t believe it. All those innocent people—you wouldn’t.”
“Raoul, I—”
“Oh, how precious. Is your reunion not quite what you thought it would be?” Erik clapped his hands together and laughed darkly. “Your dear Christine is not quite so innocent as she seems.”
Raoul whirled around, but his balance was off, and he swayed, bracing against Christine. “I…I won’t let you hurt her.”
“Raoul,” the Persian cautioned. “Don’t…”
He fumbled with his pockets—no, a pistol.
Christine gasped.
“Oh, how wonderful! Shall we have a rematch, then? Perhaps this time your aim will be true.” Erik danced away, then closer, his voice echoing unnaturally off the walls. “It can’t be that difficult to kill a corpse, even if you are already dead.”
Raoul swayed again, and his weight came down on Christine. She clutched at him, trying to hold him up, but her strength gave out, and together they crashed to the floor. Raoul did not move.
“Raoul!” Christine grabbed at his shirt, his neck, her fingers lingering on his cheek as she looked up at Erik. “What have you done to him?”
“What a pity your poor fiancé’s constitution is so weak.”
“Be silent, you have brought nothing but terror upon them.” The Persian came to their side and knelt, his eyes still fixed on Erik. “He will be alright. He’s merely fainted.”
“Please, can you help him?” Christine begged.
The Persian shook his head. “He will need a doctor. Erik, let us go.”
“They are beyond saving. She chose this death. They always do. You said so yourself.” He sneered behind his mask. “Why don’t you help him, since you are all knowing?” The horrible giggling resumed.
“Barrels! Barrels!” That other voice sang from across the room. “Have you any barrels to sell...?”
“Erik, please...” Christine grabbed at the wall and dragged herself up. “Please.”
“Barrels! Barrels!”
She swayed on the spot, then steadied, heading toward Erik.
“Ah, my dear, you deign to make demands of the man you have just killed? How presumptuous of you.”
“I’m…I’m sorry! I only wanted— I thought—”
“You’ve proven yourself quite the actress, hmm? You had a choice! And now your pleas fall on rotten ears. So go! Wed your dead prince. I’ve already written your requiem.” With an exaggerated flourish, he bowed to her, then turned and vanished into his room.
Go? Did that mean they were free to leave? But Erik had said…
“Help me!” The Persian was trying to pull Raoul into his arms, but he had been in that awful torture chamber too, and his strength was failing him. He staggered and fell sideways into the wall.
Christine ran to his side, and, together, they managed to lift him.
“Come.” The Persian glanced back the way Erik had gone before sighing and turning away. “Before he changes his mind.”
Christine nodded. “I know the way.”
They both started as a melancholy chord rang out from the organ. Their requiem, a song for the deaths that had not come to pass, and the guilt that had.
It scratched against her mind, thin, sharp claws gouging at her soul, tearing up threads like a seam ripper. The weight of it followed them down passageways, pressed in against her body, filling her chest, stealing her breath. She gasped with the strength of it, nearly crumbled to the floor, nearly gave in to its mortal torment. But she pushed on, led them all out, out of the house on the lake. Out of the labyrinth. Out of Hell.
Never once looking back.