Castiel and the Phantom of the Opera [Destiel]

Chapter 6: Letters from the Opera Ghost

          The press went wild after Castiel’s performance the previous night. It hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours and already the papers were teaming with gossip. Who exactly was the rising star that had replaced Meta Tronne at the last minute? Who was the devilishly handsome young man who sang like an angel? What happened to Meta Tronne? Was foul play involved? All of these questions seemed to go unanswered, but Monsieur Speight was glad of that. It only added to the mystery surrounding the previous night and Castiel Novak. And it made business boom. Tickets were selling faster than a beam of light it seemed.

          Monsieur Speight sat in his office, looking over the ticket sales. Next week’s performance was nearly sold out already, but he still contemplated jacking up the price a few dozen francs. It seemed only appropriate to take advantage of the situation and make as much money as he could off Meta Tronne’s misfortune and Castiel’s sudden stardom.

          Just as he was about to begin to debate how much money he should raise the prices, he heard the heavy footsteps of his co-worker approaching. He knew it was Monsieur Fuller mostly because, after many years of working with him, he had learned to recognize his very distinct gate. He always walked and moved as if he were angry, or as if he had great purpose.

          “Gabriel!” his partner’s voice bellowed as he entered the office they shared. “Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
          Monsieur Speight sighed. “Yes, Zachariah,” he nearly groaned. Must his friend always act so inept? Must he think so little of him? Sure Gabriel liked to goof around and have a good time, but he did do his job. “Of course I’ve seen it.”

          “This is an outrage!” Zachariah continued to rant. Gabriel knew better than to try to rein him in now – he was already off and nearly possible to corral. “‘Foul play’? Are they mad? This is downright scandalous!”

          “Oh, Zachariah,” Gabriel said, waving a dismissive hand at him. “It’s publicity! You should see the ticket sales! Do you have any idea how much money we’re making? Much more than we ever did in the junk business!”

          The other man stiffened. Gabriel knew that attacking their former occupation was a bit of a low blow – it had been Zachariah’s idea after all. It just didn’t work out the way either of them had planned. They went into debt early on, had to go hungry a few nights, Gabriel’s third wife left him (then again his romantic partners leaving him in the dust wasn’t exactly a new occurrence), and all in all it was not successful. By the time they had finally paid off all the money they owed, Gabriel was tired of the damn thing. So, he suggested that they start anew in a different field entirely. And then he just happened to stumble into an old friend that afternoon who told him that an opera house in Paris was looking to change management. When Gabriel had gone to Zachariah with this proposition, the older man had immediately turned him down. It was too far-fetched – too wild. But Gabriel talked him into it, and . . . well . . . Here they were.

          “Gabriel, the cast pretty much walked out on us after last night! After what happened with Meta Tronne . . .” Zachariah continued to fret.

          His partner huffed in response. “Please . . . Zachariah, have you even seen the queue? Oh, it seems you’ve got one too,” he said, spying the envelope on Zachariah’s desk. It looked identical to the one that Gabriel had discovered when he entered the office that morning. He hadn’t opened it, though; he wanted to wait for his partner to arrive. Now, he picked up the folded parchment on his desk. He was about to break the wax seal that kept the message concealed, but paused. There was something odd about it . . . The color of the wax was blood-red – not exactly uncommon – but it was the shape pressed into the wax that made him do a double-take. It was the shape of a skull and, surprisingly, it didn’t disturb him as much as it probably should have. He broke the seal and opened the note. Inside, a message was scrawled in messy but legible handwriting. However, there was a kind of . . . method to the madness of the script – almost a sophistication to it. The note read: