by Colette Gale
“If he permits? Christine, what are you saying? That he is in control of you?”
“Raoul, no, not really…but he is a strict taskmaster. I will never reach my greatest potential if I do not follow his instructions. And…if I do not follow his instructions, he will cease to visit me. I could not bear that.”
“But, Christine, I do not understand. How can you allow this—this creature to control your life?”
“It is simple, Raoul. Without him, I would not be singing as I am today. I would still be simple, shy, lonely Christine Daaé. Under his tutelage, I have blossomed at last. Do not lie and say that you do not find my voice and my talent part of your attraction to me. I have seen it in your eyes.”
“Christine, I do not deny that my love for you is even greater with your success. But if you stopped singing tomorrow, I would still love you.”
“But I would not love myself. I find the greatest joy in my music, and he has helped me to find this joy. Please understand, Raoul…It is a joy, a freedom…a special beauty that I have not experienced since Papa died. I do not wish to talk on it further, Raoul. You cannot change my mind, and it really will not make for a friendly dinner if we are arguing.” She smiled at him, and saw his acquiescence. “So, yes, I will join you for dinner if he does not mind…but perhaps just the two of us?” she added, thinking of the uncomfortable way Philippe had looked at her the night before.
“I will call the carriage and be back for you right away,” Raoul told her, a bit reluctantly. “And I will make arrangements for just the two of us to dine.”
When he released her and strode away, Christine turned and found herself face-to-face with Madame Giry. “You are playing very dangerously, Christine,” she told her.
“No…no, I do not know what you mean.”
“He will not be pleased with your delay tonight, and he will be most especially displeased that you have been flirting with the vicomte, of all people. If he should find out it is Raoul de Chagny who has caught your attention…” She pressed her lips together. “I have warned you…Take care that you do not anger him or you may very well lose him. You saw Carlotta’s disgrace tonight. Make no mistake: Though she brought her own destruction upon herself, he helped to manifest it. And listen to me carefully: You must not tell the vicomte or his brother anything ofhim, do you understand?”
But she already had. Christine’s saliva dried in her throat. “I will heed your advice, Madame Giry. I do not wish to do anything to lose mon ange."
“Very good. Now, into your dressing room. He will come to you soon.”
But even after Christine had entered the room and changed from her costume into a lace-trimmed dressing gown, Erik did not make his presence known. She sat on a quilted seat in the center of the room, watching herself in the mirror as her face grew graver and more worried while the moments ticked on.
A pounding on her door distracted her momentarily; she cracked it open to find an impatient Raoul waiting for her. “Come, Christine, the horses are becoming restless, and so am I.”
Christine cast a glance behind her. The room felt empty; perhaps Erik was angry and was not going to come to her tonight.
“All right…give me one more moment to change into street clothes and to get my cloak.” She closed the door and started toward the small wardrobe that held her meager collection of street clothes.
But before she had even pulled the doors wide, she felt the air in the room move.
“Erik!” she cried, relief sweeping through her.
She knew his presence; though he had yet to announce himself any other way, she sensed him. The five lamps sputtered, then were doused, leaving only one burning low.
But then, there was nothing. Silence…harsh and empty.
“Erik? Angel?” Christine called.
The shadows grew tall, crisscrossing the room, as the half-moon of light left by the single lamp sputtered. The air chilled, moved, and shifted, sending the hair at the back of her neck on edge and her nipples tightening.
“Where are you?”
“Christine? What is it?” Raoul’s voice came through the dressing room door, accompanied by his pounding fists. The doorknob jiggled in vain. “Unlock the door, Christine!”
But she had not locked it.
“Erik? Are you there?” she called again, her voice rising. “Angel?”
“Christine!” Raoul shouted, pounding harder, shoving at the door.
“Christinnnnne…” her name came at last, on a breath that swept through her.
“Erik. You are there! Where are you?”
“Christine! Open the door!” Raoul had resorted to kicking at it, if the low, dull thuds were any indication. “Are you all right? Say something!”
“Christinnnne…step to the mirror.”
At once, lust surged through her body at the memory of her bare flesh against the cold, silver looking glass. The teasing and the pleasure he’d given her…the rising, pounding orgasm he’d brought her to…
But when she came near the glass, she saw that the mirror was moving…and suddenly, strong arms were pulling her, tugging her into what had been solid, imposing glass, which had somehow melted away. Into the mirror.
She was encloaked in something heavy and black; it smelled like damp wool and sandalwood…and then the dressing room and the mirror were behind her and she looked up for the first time into the face of the Angel of Music.
It was shadowed; half was dark and hidden…The other half bore an eye that gleamed, not with gentleness and caring, but with fury and determination. Half the mouth was not shadowed; it was formed as sensually as she had imagined, with full, defined lips that curled angrily above a set jaw.
Before she could say a word, express any kind of relief—but did she even feel relieved, now that she saw the forbidding expression on his half-hidden face?—Erik tugged her harshly away from the mirror, and began to pull her down a dark passageway.
“You can leave your lover to wonder where you have gone,” he snapped at the sound of Christine’s dressing room door splintering behind them.
“Erik, please, you have misunderstood!” Christine tried to pull away from him, but his grip was too strong. Her heart was jamming madly in her chest, and she regretted those foolish moments in the wardrobe room with Raoul.
“I misunderstand nothing,” he told her tightly, continuing their mad rush down the hall. She tripped and stumbled and without his hold she would have fallen more than once. “I did not misunderstand that boy’s hands down your gown, did I? Or your tongue down his throat? Did I, Christine?”
It was a cool fury that iced his words, and that frightened her more than any blistering rage would have done. The fact that it was so calm, and so measured…and the expression in his one visible eye so harsh…Christine began to fear, for the first time, what her tutor might do to her.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“You will find out soon enough.” He pulled her around a corner and she saw, to her amazement, a white horse standing, bridled and saddled, glowing from the illumination of a single torch. Despite the dim light, she recognized the mount as one of the set animals that had disappeared from the Opera House stable some time ago. Cesar was his name.
Erik helped her up and, taking the reins, began to lead the stallion down another, wider hallway.
Erik remained at Cesar’s head, in front of Christine, and all she could see was his tall black figure, with the billowing cape that fell past his knees. She had yet to see him in full light; it seemed as though he was purposely keeping to the shadows.
When the long, sloping hallway ended, after many twists and turns and junctures, Erik helped Christine down—none too gently—and she found that they had left the underpinnings of the Opera House and were on the shore of a small underground lake. A boat waited and, without words, he directed her into it and pushed the vessel off with a long pole.
Her hands had grown clammy and her pounding heart had not slowed; it continued to drum
in her chest, sending tremors reverberating through her. Christine wondered what was to become of her. What Erik planned to do with her.
And in spite of the towering, angry presence behind her, the harsh, curt words he’d spoken to her, and the impersonal touch when he’d helped her into the shallow boat, she warmed to him. Her nervous body responded by awakening and wanting him…wanting his touch, his teasing lips and his gentle, elegant fingers. Her throat was dry, her cheeks were warm, and her fingers clasped together as Christine realized that, despite Erik’s angry distance, she was anticipating his touch.
For surely…surely, now, here, wherever they were going, she would be able to see him and touch him.
At last, the boat slid onto the stone boundary of the underground lake, and Christine saw a small structure, a house, that appeared to be built into the side of a wall, or cavern. A low yellow light glowed in one window.
“Welcome to my home,” Erik told her unkindly. Yet now he was not rough or rude when helping her from the boat. She noticed he had pulled a hood up over his head whilst they rode in the boat, and it continued to obscure his face, leaving most of it in shadow.
Christine stepped down and found herself in ankle-deep water. It was cold, and it shocked her through her silken stockings and fine leather slippers, eating into the hem of the laced and ruffled dressing gown she still wore and weighting it down. She slogged through the water onto the smooth, hard beach, noticing the gray- and black-shining stones scattered along the water's edge, painted with the white glow of six torches affixed to the sides of the vast, domed, stone chamber that housed the underground lake.
Inside the small building, Christine was surprised to find that it was outfitted as comfortably as any home.
“It must be…terrible living in darkness all the time, Erik,” she said, reaching for his arm as he brushed past her.
He nearly flung her away, keeping his hooded face averted as he strode into the structure. “Save your pity,” he snapped, stalking away from where she stood in what was the kitchen and eating area.
Christine watched after him, her apprehension growing. What was he going to do with her? Was she a prisoner?
Moments later, she heard his returning footfalls. They slowed, pausing almost imperceptibly as they approached the room where she sat…and then sped up as if to get there quickly. Get it over with.
When he walked in the room, Christine saw him for the first time. Out of the shadow, out from under the hood. Black and powerful and intimidating.
Erik stood, hands on his hips as if braced, and glared down at her.
She realized now why his face had seemed to be half-shadowed all the time…why, when she had reached back behind her that first time he came to her…and when he’d hung her from her wrists on the opera stage…why his face had felt…strange. Unyielding and leathery.
The mask obscured what surely was…or had been…or, at least, had been promised to be…a perfect face. Smooth, sculptured, sensual. Eyes that sat deeply in their places; one-half of a sharp jaw that curved like the bend in a harp; the deep slash of shadow like dark paint defining his proud cheekbone.
His mouth was uncovered; the mask curved along the bridge of his nose, bisecting the swarthy skin with matte black covering and then following the upper line of his lips, like one-half of a mustache. It extended from the center of his face to just in front of the ear, and up and along the hairline more than halfway across his forehead. She saw the slim black cord stretching from the mask up, over, and into the dark hair at his temple.
But what was under the mask?
She stood, almost without willing it, and reached toward him, but he snatched her wrist in the air.
“Don’t touch it.” He threw her arm down. She felt his deep-seated fury still radiating from him.
“Erik, please…”
“Please, you say? Please?” His voice changed…took on that low, simmering tone that had coaxed her against the mirror…and drawn so much from her. Christine stepped back at the sudden burning in his eyes. Nestled in their deep hoods, they looked at her with the hunger of a lion.
Her chest rose and fell as if she’d been running. Something hot and heavy moved through her, steaming her face and burning inside her body, making her stomach writhe. Her nipples jutted against the light chemise she wore, the only covering under her dressing gown. She trembled, and she saw that his bare fingers trembled too.
“I shall look forward to hearing you say that to me,” he said, in an easy manner that belied the intensity in his eyes. “‘Please, Erik.' Oh, yes indeed, I am quite certain you will find many ways to beg me.”
“Erik, what are you going to do?” Fluttering in her belly rose up into her throat, and her cheeks burned hotter. She had a fairly good idea of the answer to that.
His smile mocked her. “We can start by having you take off your clothes, Christine. And make it quick. I have waited far too long to have you waste my time.”
Her fingers were steady as she tugged the buttons and laces of her dressing gown loose. Christine whisked it off her shoulders, feeling his avid stare on her and knowing her own surge of power at the look in his eyes. She didn’t have to look down to see her nipples poking through the fine lawn chemise, or the tops of her breasts rounding over the low round neckline.
“All of them,” he growled, making as if to reach for her.
Christine stepped lightly to the side as his hand fell back down, and watched him as he stared at her…as if drawing in the sight of her gave him breath. And she pulled the thin shift up and over her head, and felt the gust of cooler air over her sensitive flesh.
His breathing became more shallow, more audible. Then as she watched, he drew in a deep, tremulous breath and exhaled long and slow.
“Now…” The syllable was ruptured, as though his voice broke when he tried to speak it. But his eyes…they remained steady and heavy on her, focused not on her tight, pink-tipped breasts…or even on the triangle between her legs…but drilling into her own gaze. “Now, Christine, you will see what happens when you allow another man to touch you.”
SEVEN
* * *
At last Raoul was able to force the door open and he burst into Christine’s dressing room. It was empty.
“Christine!” he shouted, pulling the wardrobe doors open. It was impossible! How could she have disappeared?
“Christine!”
She’d been talking to someone. Could it have been her tutor, that Angel of Music she spoke of? “Christine!”
There was a noise behind him and he whirled. The stern-looking woman who’d interrupted him and Christine earlier stood in the open doorway of the dressing room. Her hair was scraped back from her face, pulling taut the skin around her dark, glittering eyes.
“May I help you, monsieur le vicomte?"
“Where is Christine? She has gone! Where has that madman taken her?” Fear and apprehension stormed through his veins, and he felt a surge of some other emotion replace it. Fury. Bald, burning fury.
“I do not know of what you speak, but it is clear that Miss Daaé is not in her dressing room. And…tut, tut…the door will need to be repaired before she is to use the room again. Monsieur le vicomte, perhaps you are a bit overset…I would be most pleased to show you to the foyer de la danse, where you can perhaps have something to drink. You know, these beautiful actresses and singers…well, they are prone to fickleness. It is possible Miss Daaé has found herself a new admirer.”
He looked at her, and saw a mask of innocence and calm on her face. Either she did not know, or she did not wish him to know. “I shall find my own way,” he snarled, and pushed past her, his body trembling with fear and rage.
~*~
Despite what had to have been the most mortifying moment of her career, La Carlotta was holding court with a bevy of admirers in the foyer de la danse when Philippe entered the crowded room shortly after the disrupted performance of Faust.
He cast a curious look in her direction, taking
in ink black hair that curled in little whorls around her face as though they’d been painted on her skin; her generous, shivering breasts, barely covered to the nipple by a wine-colored gown; and the luscious lips that looked as though they’d been drawn together in a little bud. Since he had only seen Carlotta before with those lips open wide in one aria or another, he was surprised that they looked so…pouty. Rather delicious.
And along with the rest of her lush, curvaceous body…well, it was nearly enough to put the visions of Christine Daaé from his mind. Nearly.
In fact, Philippe had found it more than difficult to dispel his own imagination’s explicit and extremely erotic images of the Opera House's de facto newest star. Not only was he no longer merely amused by his brother's apparent infatuation with Miss Daaé, but he was now annoyed by it. It would take some careful manipulating to get Raoul to share.
It was not that he didn’t believe he could convince his brother to do so—after all, it was only a woman at stake, and Raoul was a particularly biddable person. It was just that it was going to take so much more effort than he usually needed to expend in order to enjoy a woman. He would have to tread more carefully than he cared to, for despite the fact that he had no qualms about manipulating his younger brother, he did not wish to anger him.
Philippe was lost in mental images of rosy-tipped breasts, shiny lips parted by gasps of pain and pleading, and long dark hair wrapped around his wrist when suddenly Carlotta herself was in front of him. “Good evening, madame,” he said, transferring his thoughts to the voluptuous woman in front of him.
“Monsieur le comte,” she purred in imperfect French laced with Spanish, the expression in her eyesunmistakable in its invitation. “Our newest patrón. Muy bien that you have come.”
“I see you have recovered from your…mishap,” Philippe replied, knowing that he was impolite to mention her mishap, but curious to see how the diva would respond.
Her eyelashes barely flickered. “Está macabro,” she responded with vehemence, keeping her low-lashed gaze on him even as she appeared to look down modestly. “It was horrible. But I have seen to it that it shall never happen again.”
