No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale

by Pope, Christine

  For the first time since I had awoken in these rooms I went to the closet of beautiful clothing Erik had provided for me and really took inventory of what was there. I had ignored the rack of evening dresses because I had not thought there was any reason to wear them, lovely as they were.

  One exquisitely embroidered and beaded gown caught my eyes, but it was red and had only thin spaghetti straps to hold it up. Somehow I didn’t think it was a good idea to wear red, and I had never worn something that bare. Gorgeous as it was, it just wasn’t my style. And black seemed so severe, even though there were several very lovely black cocktail dresses hanging on the rack as well. I wondered why Erik had even bought them in the first place. Where could I possibly have worn all these exquisite gowns? Had he expected me to dress for dinner?

  Finally I located what I had been looking for—a gown of changeable midnight blue silk, very 1950s in style, with wide-set straps accenting a deep V-neckline and a full knee-length skirt. The bodice was snug and accented my curves without being overly revealing, and the deep blue silk made my skin look porcelain pale in contrast. I found a silver pair of strappy sandals—Jimmy Choos, of course—in the shoe rack, and then nothing else would do to complete the ensemble but a string of diamond-encircled sapphires for my neck and a pair of matching drop earrings. Another sapphire in platinum and diamonds fit the ring finger of my right hand well enough.

  I fought the butterflies in my stomach as I sat in front of the mirror in the bathroom, applying cosmetics with a care I had never used before. Anything to fill up the time—anything to make him want me enough to forgive me.

  By the time I was done I wasn’t even sure I recognized the girl in the mirror anymore—she looked as if she belonged in a different world than the slightly disheveled voice student who usually peered back at me. My curls were glossy and carefully arranged, my full lips stained a deep berry color, my eyes now a deeper blue, reflecting the color of the gown I wore. Sapphires and diamonds winked at my neck and glinted out from behind my hair. People had called me beautiful over the years, but this was the first time I truly believed them.

  There wasn’t much time for me to sit contemplating the girl in the mirror, however, because the next time I lifted my eyes to my reflection, I saw Jerome standing behind me.

  I started, and dropped the tube of lipstick I had been holding. Then I turned on the stool to glare at him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

  For a moment he said nothing, but only stared at me. “You look—different,” he managed at last.

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Erik will be glad to see you finally wearing some of the jewels he bought you,” he said evasively. “He went to a lot of trouble picking out things he thought you would like.”

  I should have known Jerome would never admit to giving me a compliment. But I put one hand up to touch the sapphires that glittered against my collarbone and replied, “They’re exquisite. He’s been very...thoughtful.”

  A strange expression flickered in the back of Jerome’s Delft-blue eyes. Was it my imagination, or was it a dawning respect? “No tricks this time?” he asked.

  I met his gaze squarely. “No tricks. I promise. I’ve had a lot of time to think the past few days.”

  He nodded, but said only, “Then we should go. It’s nine now.”

  Carefully, I pushed away from the dressing table and stood, following Jerome to the door, where I waited for him to unlock it. I could only hope that there would be no need to lock it ever again after tonight.

  He led me to Erik’s office, a room I had never been in before, although it was situated in the same wing as my chambers. Pushing the double doors inward, he announced, “She’s here, sir,” then gestured me inside, closing the doors behind me.

  At first I had only a vague impression of a large dark-paneled room where a fire burned low in a vast marble fireplace. Besides the firelight, the only illumination came from a five-armed candelabra that sat in a far corner, its quivering flames sending odd shadows dancing around the edges of the space.

  Erik stood behind the massive carved mahogany desk, a slender form in black, his profile outlined by the reddish glow of the fire. He said nothing as I approached, but merely waited until I finally paused, irresolute, at the edge of the Persian rug that fronted the desk.

  Now that the moment was upon me, I found my mouth dry, my heart beginning again with its irrational pounding. Why wouldn’t he speak?

  The silence grew too dreadful. Finally I said, “Thank God you said you would see me.”

  A brief dismissive gesture. “I assure you, God had nothing to do with it.”

  So he was going to be difficult. Well, what had I expected—that he would be overcome by my beauty and fling himself into my arms? “I know I did something for which there can be no apologies. But then again, so did you.”

  “I did?”

  His voice was beautiful even when being coldly dismissive, as now. How I wanted to go to him then, feel his arms around me, feel the touch of his lips against mine. But I knew I had to go about this with great care; one misstep, and he could be lost to me forever. “By kidnapping me, you did more than commit a crime. You took away my ability to choose you for yourself.” I took a step forward, then another. Now only a few feet separated us. I could feel the heat of the fire against my bare arms and neck. “Was it really so impossible, Erik? Did you really think that I couldn’t possibly want you for yourself?”

  At that he did turn to face me, but I could read nothing of his expression beneath the mask. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think I do.” I looked him in his eyes, hoping he could see more of my soul than I could of his. “Didn’t you feel it, that first time we met? I did, even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. When we danced, when you held me, couldn’t you sense the connection?”

  To his credit, he held my gaze, although I could see the thin, mobile lips tighten. “You gave little evidence of it.”

  “Well, what did you expect me to do? I had just met you—and I was seeing someone else at the time.” My next words came out in a rush. “Of course you couldn’t know that I felt your touch for hours afterward, that I heard your voice in my dreams that night. But I did. I still do.”

  He made no reply, but I saw his hands clench into fists at his sides.

  “That’s why I thought I had to run,” I continued. I knew that I couldn’t stop now. I had to lay everything before him, try to make him understand. “How could I let myself succumb to you? How could I give in to your plans? I thought that if I didn’t get away, I’d lose a piece of my soul forever.” For some reason I could feel tears start to my eyes, but I refused to let myself weep. “It wasn’t until you stopped me that I realized it was too late anyway. It wasn’t until I thought of how much I had hurt you that I realized I loved you.”

  Silence then, a silence that lengthened until I felt as if the whole world had been stretched thin as blown glass, ready to shatter at the first ungentle touch. Erik stood absolutely still, but his eyes never left my face.

  “I think I know why you felt compelled to kidnap me. I think I’ve finally understood why you’ve hidden in this house, behind the mask.” Again I paused to catch my breath, and for the first time I could see fear behind his eyes. “And I have to prove to you now that it doesn’t matter.”

  And with that I reached across the gulf between us and lifted the mask from his face.

  She didn’t scream. She didn’t faint. Her face went very pale, the stain on her lips looking almost like blood against the whiteness of her skin, but she stood her ground. The mask fell from her hand to the Persian rug.

  Dear God, why wasn’t she backing away, fleeing in terror, or crumpling to the ground, overcome by horror? But she did none of those things. Instead, she stepped even closer. Her hair gleamed like mahogany flame in the reflected light from the fire. The sapphires around her throat seemed to glow with their own inner incandescence
. He found himself suddenly mired in quicksand, as if the wooden floor beneath his feet had turned into a swamp, and he was powerless to move or react.

  “Let me love you,” she said, and although her voice shook somewhat, she still looked steadily into his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, she had taken his ravaged face in her hands and brought her lips against his.

  Nothing, no fevered dreams, no soul-twisting fantasies brought on by sexual deprivation, had ever matched this sensation. He had never allowed any of the women he had been with in his youth to touch his face or kiss him on the mouth, yet here was Christine doing both, unreservedly. The touch of her lips on his seemed to set his entire body on fire, as if every nerve ending had suddenly been sparked by a determined match. And now her mouth opened beneath his, and he could feel her tongue meeting his, every part of her opening to him.

  He raised his hands to hold her finally, meeting the soft, slender flesh of her arms, the shocking openness of the back of her dress. She pressed her body against his, and suddenly he could smell the faint scent of roses rising once again from her hair, feel the curve of her breasts meeting his own chest, the unexpected height of her in the stiletto heels.

  Surely this had to be a dream? Surely it couldn’t be Christine holding him, kissing him, letting her mouth move unreservedly from his lips to his maimed cheek. But no, she was still there, still clinging to him, her heart pounding so it could be felt even through his suit jacket.

  After an eternity or so she finally drew away a little, her breathing ragged. But still she looked at him with no apparent revulsion, and then she smiled, the dimple flickering at the corner of her cheek.

  “You haven’t said it,” she commented.

  He could hardly focus on what she had just said. The feel of her mouth on his was still too vivid. And how could she possibly be looking at him and smiling? “Said what?”

  “I’ve heard it’s what all women dread. Saying ‘I love you’ and not getting the same in return.”

  Was that all? Suddenly those three words sounded so inconsequential, compared to the depth of his passion for her. How woefully inadequate. “I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you.” His own voice sounded shaken, the voice of a stranger. “And I’ve loved you more every day. Even when I thought you hated me.” There had been a time when he thought he would have died before revealing so much of himself. But that had been a lifetime ago. That had been before Christine kissed him.

  Was it only the firelight that seemed to make her eyes glisten with unshed tears? “Erik, I’m so sorry for that. I know that may not be enough, but I am sorry.”

  Not enough? When her kiss and unflinching regard had given him the first step toward healing a lifetime of pain? God, he should be begging her forgiveness for what he had done to her, stealing her from her life, hiding her here. But somehow, despite everything, she had still come to love him. She had found the strength to recognize the attraction between them and act upon it. If it hadn’t been for her resolve, he might never have known the feel of her lips upon his.

  At last he said, “Christine always leaves the Phantom.”

  With that she reached out and touched the scarred side of his face, brushing the tips of her fingers against the raised flesh there. Even after all these years, the nerve endings were still damaged; the feather’s-touch of her fingers against the injured tissue brought on a slight pins-and-needles sensation.

  Holding his gaze, she said steadily, “That was their story, Erik. This is ours.”

  And again she brought her mouth to his, the silk of her gown rustling against him as she held him tightly, almost as if she thought she could erase his pain by every touch, every caress. His arms tightened around her, and he let himself surrender to the flood of sensations that rushed once more over him. There was nothing in the world but her, nothing but the feel of her mouth on his, the press of her body against him. Over and over they kissed, until he thought he would surely drown in her, lose himself forever in the heat of their passion.

  At length, though, they slowly drew apart, although he wasn’t sure whether it was he or Christine who finally ended the embrace. He suddenly realized how naked he felt without the mask, how vulnerable. So he bent and picked it up, then made a move to replace it.

  “You don’t have to do that, you know,” Christine said. Her glossy curls were lying in a glorious tangle over one shoulder, and her mouth looked swollen from his fierce kisses. He thought she had never been so beautiful.

  He turned the mask over in his hands for a moment, watching as the firelight caught the curves and hollows, glimmering over the smooth plastic. “I’ve worn this mask for almost twenty years,” he said. “It’s a part of me still. Even though I know you don’t need me to wear it, I feel as if I should.” And he lifted it to his face, settling the wire that held it in place so it was covered by his hair. He managed a smile. “Besides, I’d probably shock Jerome into retirement if I went out without it.”

  That comment brought an answering smile to her face. “I understand, Erik. As long as you’re wearing it for yourself and not for me. Because for me it doesn’t matter.”

  He kissed her then, gently, on the cheek. “I know that now. And I thank you for it.” He offered her his hand, and she took it. “Come now. I have something I want to show you.”

  “What’s that?”

  The last of my secrets, he thought, but only replied, “You’ll see.”

  And with that he led her out of the room that had been the heart of his isolation for so many years and now, it seemed, had been the beginning of his redemption.

  Chapter 23

  Erik took the candelabra from its stand in the corner of the room and gestured for me to follow him. I thought I understood why he choose to light our way with its uncertain flame, rather than turn on the harsher electric lights. Wherever he was taking me, clearly it was important to him, and he did not want to break the evening’s spell with the prosaic intrusion of such modern-day inventions.

  So I drifted after him in the dimly lit corridors, stumbling once on the carpet runner in those dratted stiletto heels—Erik was quick to reach out to steady me, his hand warm and strong on my bare arm. Once again the corridors slid past like something out of a Cocteau-inspired dream, but this time I was awake, and I at last knew the truth behind the mask.

  In a way, I had been surprised by my own reaction, or lack thereof. Oh, I was no Victorian Christine, carefully sheltered from the ugliness of the world. If nothing else, I’d seen my share of horror movies and the elaborate excesses of today’s special-effects makeup.

  More than that, though, I’d been forced at a very early age to see some of the ugliest this world had to offer. When my parents had been killed in the car accident when I was fifteen, I’d had to accompany my grandmother to identify the bodies, since she had advanced diabetes and glaucoma and was legally blind by then. So even though she had stood beside me and held my hand through the whole procedure, I was the one who had to look down at the shattered faces of my parents and tell the coroner who they were. It had been a head-on collision at forty or fifty miles an hour, and the physics at work had not been kind.

  Compared to that, Erik’s deformity had been almost mild. Oh, there was no arguing that he had a very valid reason for hiding himself from the world, for concealing half his face behind a mask. I of course had no idea what congenital disfigurement or birth trauma he’d suffered, but the right side of his face was still crisscrossed by the scars left behind by surgeons who had obviously tried to correct those deformities. It appeared that his right eye socket had originally been located far lower down on his cheek than it was now; the skin high on his cheekbone was livid with scar tissue, and the eye socket itself was just as bad. He had no lashes on that eye, and a fine fretwork of scar tissue crossed his eyebrow and disappeared somewhere into his hairline on that side of his face. The scarring faded as it moved down toward his jaw line, and his mouth was not touched at all. To anyone else, his visage probably wou
ld have been horrific. But I knew him now, had come to realize the depth of his enormous talent and agile mind, and compared to those attributes, his scarred face was of little import.

  I still felt his mouth on mine, the warmth of his breath on my cheek. I could sense the enormous pent-up passion within him. It should have frightened me, perhaps; after all, I had no real experience of men, had never gone any further with Randall than a few heated kisses. But again I was no cloistered Victorian girl, kept completely unaware of relations between the sexes. I knew exactly what Erik wanted from me, and I knew that I wanted it from him as well. The only real question lay in how long we both could wait before succumbing to our passions.

  After we had descended the main staircase, Erik led me down the main corridor, on past the salon where we had once ventured out into a sunlit day—it seemed years ago now. We continued on, past a seemingly unending number of closed-off rooms, until he stopped at the very end of the corridor, where a set of carved double doors rose up before us.

  He transferred the candelabra to his left hand and pulled a set of keys out of his coat pocket with his right. The key went into the lock, and he began to turn it, then said, “I don’t want this to disturb you—”

  “Unless you’ve got the remains of your last seven wives in there, like Bluebeard, I doubt that whatever is in there will bother me too much,” I replied, taking care to keep my tone light.

  “Nothing that bad, I assure you,” he said, and I was gratified to see that he was smiling.

  “Well, then—”

  And he turned the key in the lock and pushed the doors open, moving ahead of me into the dark space. At first I could see nothing, but he touched the candelabra he was carrying to a similar one by the door, and then more and more as he moved throughout the room.

  It was the Phantom’s lair.

  Or, at least as close as it could be, given that it had obviously been built into what had originally been a large room. Whatever windows the room might have had at one time were now concealed. All of the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling had been covered by black marble faintly veined with gold so that it flickered with errant sparks in the darkness. At the far side of the room was a massive gilded pipe organ, and just a few feet away from it stood a prop I recognized from the stage show: an elaborate mirror frame surrounding a mannequin dressed in Christine’s lace-tiered Victorian wedding gown. I was relieved to see that she did not resemble me very much, although the long curly hair was almost exactly like mine. To one side was a replica of the Phantom’s gondola, now filled with silk cushions in dark, rich hues. I couldn’t remember whether that was something from the show or a detail Erik had added.