The Angel of Music
Chapter One: In Dreams, He Came
I heard his voice like the small ghost of a whisper upon a light breeze, as if he were in bed with me, lying beside my body under the soft blankets of my bedroom. I thought it was the wind blowing through under the small window slit beside my head, but the curtains didn't give into a draft. My eyes stayed closed, and I wondered if a man had broken into my house and was sitting in the room with me, waiting. The haunted feeling of anxiety and fear crept into my stomach. I tightened my eyes, hoping against hope that my fear was causing some delusion.
Yet, even in the silence of my bedroom—in the mellowed quiet of my small, middle class house—there was the same low drawl of a man's voice in my ear, though subtle and sleek as if he intended not to harm or frighten me. I couldn't feel his breath, but even then I was sure that this specter was lying beside me, hearing my own breathing—though mine was soft panic.
"Joyous song comes from your mouth, little one," he whispered against the prickled hairs of my neck, "I hear you upon that stage, and although you believe that you are the most inferior of the chorus; it is your song that attracts me to you. You hear me. I know this…"
I slowly opened my eyes. Adjusted to the darkness, aided by the sliver of moonlight that peeked through my curtains, I glanced warily around my bedroom and saw only the standing silhouettes of my dresser, entertainment center, end table, and the coatrack hanging against my closed door. I turned anxiously onto my back, expecting a night time stranger; but, to my relief, my right hand met an empty space where a partner should lie.
The clench in my stomach eased only a short while until I heard his voice again.
It was both alluring and frightening; although it held a pleasant baritone, like molten silver upon silk, I was very aware that there was not a soul in my house. Yet I heard him as if he was there with me on my sheets.
"Sing, my little chorus girl; sing as you have done on that stage."
"I don't know who you are, or if you are real," I answered softly. I thought that I was going mad. Here I was in my bedroom alone, talking to myself. Or was I?
"Doesn't this seem familiar to you?" said the silken voice in amusement. "It is very much like the opera in which you play the understudy of the innocent maiden, the one who bequeaths the phantom behind a mirror. Do you know of it?"
"I know it," I replied. His phrase of words gave me subtle hints that he either was not from this part of Kentucky or that he was raised an English gentleman; or, perhaps, he was a constant role player in Shakespearean English plays and admired the wording. I found it liberating from the abusive slang of my generation; it was steadily arousing and equally erotic. I added with a small note of confidence as long as he was polite to me,
"Are you an avid fan of 'the Phantom of the Opera'?" I asked curiously, turning my head left to right. I had been frightened. Now, I was left intrigued.
His voice had only come to me in dreams. Although I thought that it was a desirably abnormal idea to believe that what I dreamed was coming true, I couldn't help but hope to know the face of the voice that spoke to me so easily and serenely through my lonely nights.
"It is a beautiful fairy tale," returned the voice in my bedroom. "No doubt, it is similar to our situation."
"Am I mad?" I asked quietly into the dark.
"You feel so only because those in your situation are put in the confinement of a padded cell and chains, my dove; but no," he assured me with a smirk upon his tone, "you're not mad."
"Then you are the voice that speaks to me in my dreams…Aren't you?" I hoped to receive a clear answer. When he didn't answer me immediately, I felt as if I had offended him. Did I say something wrong? I felt, then, a small quake of fear.
What happened in those films when the voices stopped speaking?
"Whatever you are, whoever…you are…" I whispered in the darkness of my room. "Please…don't hurt me."
There was still silence in the air. Then…
"Unless…" his voice drawled with distinct intention and purpose, "what you want is for me to hurt you."
A long pregnant pause came over me…us…
I bit my lower lip in daunting anxiety.
"I beg for you not do so…" I said under my breath.
"You are very well-spoken among your kind," he answered to my quiet prayer. "There is hope for Midgardians alike, once I avail myself to your Realm."
"Realm?" I said aloud. "Are you an alien?"
"To your mind, and all alike, yes," the voice answered.
"Is that how you can read my mind?" I asked.
"Hmm…" he purred. "You are an inquisitive little thing, aren't you? Questions, questions."
He made a small laugh in the blackness of my bedroom.
It irked me, for I had never heard him laugh—not in my dreams nor in my head. Until now, it didn't dawn on me that this stranger in the night could actually be some sort of dark man with a knack for ventriloquism or a hypnotist. Feeling that I might have been played, I rose from position on the bed and sat up, drawing the sheets around me for security, despite being fully clothed from my shoulders to my feet.
"Whoever is in my house," I said boldly, "I'll call for help. I'll call the police. I'll scream…if you touch me."
The small laugh in the room increased into one of blown amusement and hilarity. It echoed against the walls as if my carpet had been torn away from the floor boards—as if nothing could stop it. The small amount of bravery that I had mustered quickly vanished. I sunk back into my bed, my stomach churning.
"Stop…" I said. "Stop."
"Are you frightened, my little songbird?"
I nodded. Then I wondered if he could actually see me. So I answered honestly,
"Yes," my small voice breathed only to where I could hear. I said with a louder insistence, "Yes. I am…"
"You could call for help; but your rescuers would believe that you've gone mad. You could call out for help, but who would hear you at this time of night; especially since your mind reels with uncertainty that there is anyone really in your house." A small sigh was at my ear. "Midgardians and their rushed reach for logic…It's truly amusing how easily the lot of you crave for a reason to doubt that any true magic exists. Especially," he added with a soft mocking affliction, "when you pray to a God, that elusive and ever gone Jesus Christ."
"Each to her own belief system," I muttered.
"Each to her own God," he returned. "Do you believe that others exist?"
"Other what?"
"Other Gods…Or is this Jesus Christ the only deity that can rule other beings?"
I couldn't give the absent stranger an answer that befitted my truer beliefs. Honestly, I was starting to doubt all that I believed in when I vainly searched for a face that didn't exist, all the while hearing this man so close to me.
"Suddenly quiet, pet?" the voice taunted me. "That is a lot of hesitation for a simple yes or no answer."
"It's not that simple."
"Oh, yes, it is," he remarked. "Either you believe or you do not; surprisingly, it is not as confusing as the human race makes it out to be. You will know soon enough…A coward, this God is, not to reveal himself to his patrons. But I'm not."
"Then you are a God…?" I called out in my bedroom.
"A god, a King, as both are addressed to a man like me."
"Should I call you a god?" I said curiously.
"Once more, you astound me with your line of interrogation; how perceptive you must be." Although his words held some sincerity, his tone was highly condescending. "My dove, you have ever walked in front of me and never turned to me…."
His last sentence made me shift uncomfortably in my bed. So he was a man after all.
"Are you here," I asked with anxious anticipation, "to put me in my place, stranger?"
That laugh returned, the small one that was both amused and yet not so much. It was hard to tell whether or not he was faking how much he found me entertaining or if he thought that I was the subtle idiot that a 'Midgardian' was intended to be. I assumed that it was a patronizing scoff.
"How could I walk past you and not recognize you?" I asked while he was in mid-laughter.
His voice cut off during my sentence. Without understanding, I felt the familiar daunting dread that had filled me earlier when he had stopped speaking for what seemed several minutes. Once more, he withheld an explanation; and I realized that I wanted him to continue talking to me. My curiosity was peaked; and for some reason, I felt a terrible need to please him.
"I'm sorry," I said, though I wasn't sure of the reason for my apology. I was blank.
When he didn't respond, I sat up.
"Don't stop talking," I pleaded. "Please?"
"Now the little Christine wishes for me to speak…"
I felt relieved to hear him, but once more quaked with odd anxiety.
"I didn't mean to offend you," I said. "I just…"
"You…just want to know more about me, is that it?"
"Well, yes," I answered, pleased.
He knew what I wanted, apparently. Although I was relieved to know that he understood my intentions, I was plagued by the fact that he could read me so well. If he had intruded in my dreams, surely he knew every little thing about me by now: my name, my tastes, my hobbies and interests…
I felt my cheeks burn when I realized, too, that he might have dug deeper into my darkest fantasies. I licked my lips nervously at the idea. Although I felt my inner being stir with obvious peril, I felt a burning ache in my lower belly—arousal. Surely this voice—this god—knew that I was beginning to appreciate his presence ever more.
"I know the thoughts that have crept through your filthy mind, my little songstress; and they've gone unanswered," he said with a subtle, husky voice.
I closed my eyes. It was intoxicating, as if his words ran down my throat and fed the spark of what had been a dead pit for the longest years of my life. I hadn't felt this aroused by mere words since my last dinner party with the man who took the part of the Phantom during our last week's rehearsal of The Phantom of the Opera.
The stranger's voice, a low roll of thunder, continued to speak.
"Your dreams are fraught with untouched desires, and I know each," he cooed with distinct flavor, "and every…one of them. I know that you have not enticed your innocent soul with these fantasies…Hm. What would your co-workers think of you if they knew the naughty girl that lay unpunished in your lower belly?"
I bit my lip, not from nerves, but from arousal.
A growing ache kneaded between my legs.
If he continued to speak in the low voice, it wouldn't take much more to pursue my release—a very much needed thing in my upstaged life, I might add.
"I have walked by your fragile body and have seen those human males pass at you, and why shouldn't they? But they only admire your body, as do I, but there is much more beneath you than mild curves and pale skin, isn't there?"
I lowered myself to my pillows.
"You, a Midgardian lark among the scuttle birds in your little choir…Isn't that how you see yourself when you look into the mirror every morning?"
I didn't answer.
"Harper…"
I broke the skin upon my bottom lip upon hearing my name slip through my dark bedroom. My reaction could have been a dramatic one. That sound that I emitted from my mouth was an obvious moan. I was wet.
"Harper, are you listening to me?"
"Yes…" I answered in partial acknowledgment.
My hands were tangled beneath my comforter, twisting and pulling on the sheets underneath my body. It felt as if the room had become a hot zone. I was sweating.
"Is it so easy to arouse my dove that I can merely speak and you are ready?"
Ready for what?
My eyes opened, somewhat alarmed though very much aflame. I sat up apprehensively I glanced around the room restlessly, purged by fear once more. The whiplash of being aroused and being afraid was slowly running my mind and body ragged. A good night sleep would never come to me as long as I was meddling in one of those strong emotions.
To my relief, though certainly making me believe that I was beginning to be paranoid, there was still nobody in the room. I waited, waiting to hear rustled footsteps in the house. Yet through the open doors of my grounded residence, I heard no one come in or out of the house. No locks were being broken; no windows were being opened. I was still alone.
Yet even in my solitude, I felt the breath of a man upon the crook of my neck as if he was sitting in bed with me. I turned and saw no one.
"You're frightened…"
The absent stranger, this elusive Casanova…he spoke to me as if he was right beside me. I assumed that the soft breath upon my heated skin was the same person who was seducing me with his voice. I was amazed and terrified. It was, in a word, exciting.
"Relax, pet…" he hissed to me.
"But…" I objected loosely, as if to save what little pride that I had as an honest woman. My words failed me. What my lips did afterward was unsuccessfully form the word "No".
"No?" he said to me, intrigued. "Your mind is torn in a decadent rival of restraint and benevolent temptation. I can sense it; and it's tasteful."
"I don't want to be thought of as a slut…" I said frankly.
I was still very aware that I was speaking to no one. I faced to where the voice was coming from, and even though I felt his breath on my neck—and then wet lips caress the starting joint of my neck and shoulder—I kept thinking that this was not happening. I wasn't terrified or regretful of what was taking place. As a woman who had dire needs—obviously not satisfied, for I had been single for the last two years—and I was beginning to take kindly to what this spirit had to offer. No, I was curious. No, I was mind blown that this specter or god—or whatever he was—was in my bed, seducing me.
I could feel his lips gently and tenderly kiss the heated skin of my neck.
I made a noise of approval and arousal.
"Lie down, pet…"
Throwing logic and theory out the window, I wordlessly obeyed.
"You're my submissive sparrow, are you not? So easily bridled…"
"What do I call you?"
"What do you call me, Harper?"
I felt my cheeks burn and my stomach turn at the sound of my name on his fictional tongue.
How could an invisible being turn me on so much just by uttering my name? I found it to be a little unnerving. I was not so easy like the other girls on stage, those whom would throw their bodies to the first few patrons who would give them the eye. It was hard to refuse this one, however. It…He…was so mystical and enigmatic. The mystery itself was arousing.
"What does young Christine call the Phantom?" asked the voice eloquently, properly maintained by interrogative reasoning.
I felt my cheeks burn with keen embarrassment, but I felt a familiar gush of moisture spill from my wet sex as I uttered the answer to his trivia question,
"Master…" I said quietly, dipped in renewed arousal.
He apparently knew the answer, for his voice—the only thing that I had to judge with to know his character—was clearly smug and knowing.
"Then," he said, "That is what you shall call me, pet."
He was dominating me, and I knew that's what was happening.
"Why don't we test out our little exchange, hm?"
I remained silent.
"Harper, I know that you can hear me…"
I felt as if my fantasies were warped into reality. I felt filthy, but that's what was so great about it…right?
"Harper, answer me."
"Yes…"
"Yes, what?" he inclined pointedly.
"Yes…Master…" I whispered into the empty darkness.
"Good girl."
I bit my lip once more upon hearing the subtle praise from the low voice in my ear.
Wet lips came to press upon the patch of skin beneath my earlobe. I heard the small noise of initial contact as he kissed the start of a hot trail from the joint of my jaw behind the cradle of my ear—I uttered an aroused whimper as he followed through the line of my jawbone, to the underside of my chin, and to the other side of my jaw. I remained still, though my fingers viciously curled in the sheets beneath my body.
"You have an excellent restraint, but your voice betrays you; how beautiful you must sound when you are pushed over your limits. It is different," he articulated, "when it is a man feeding you pleasure than when it is your…taut fingers…"
I closed my eyes.
It was if the missing pieces were drawn. In my mind, a silhouette of a man lay beside me, his head angled to watch my reaction; and un-seeable eyes watched my hands grip the sheets. I couldn't picture what he would look like, merely because I had no description of what being could arouse me with so much as just saying my name.
"So fragile, so submissive…I should have courted you long ago, before you even were named an understudy. Your voice is beautiful, and so you accept mine…What will further push you over the edge, pet?"
I couldn't answer.
"Oh, Harper…"
"I want to know what you look like…" I said. It was then that I was aware that I want heavily breathing. "Show me…?"
"Have you forgotten our little transaction?"
"Show me, please…Master…" I whispered his title, though I was vaguely uncomfortable in calling him that.
It seemed so unbefitting in a time like this where slavery was abolished. It was so medieval, incomprehensible…but I liked it.
"Good girl, you learn fast."
He said nothing for a minute, then—
"Open your eyes, and I will show you the god who rests in your bed…"
I was compelled to obey, but fright began to creep back into my stomach.
Show me? How long had this stranger been lying next me? The whole time?
I opened my eyes, partially out of beckoned irritation, but my frustration was quickly dispelled as a magical thing happened.
Materializing as if hidden underneath a magic cloak, a man with raven-black hair and deep green eyes peered back at me with a smug look on his face. He wore a…flattering…suit of green and gold armor, made of a leather and metal. His pale skin was as mine, and I stared at him as if…No, there was no 'as if'. This person, this wizard, was a magical feat.
Surprised, I rolled out of bed from shock, and scampered on my hands and knees to dark carpet in the middle of the dark room.
My master to whom I called that made an amused chuckle. I sat clear across the other side of the room, at first huddled with my arms over my knees, frightened. As he slid off the bed with amiable grace, I rose to my feet and grabbed the first thing that I could touch off my dresser. I held it a-vast in front of me defensively, now aware that there was a man in my room.
"You…" I breathed, quacked, still, by the burning ache between my legs. "You…Who are you?"
Although very charming—and it did not help me at all when his lips parted into a handsome smile—I was keenly aware that this had been the same man who had been kissing on my neck and speaking to me all night. It didn't solve my problem in knowing that the same voice had been in my dreams. That was inexplicable.
When he didn't answer my breathless question, I repeated myself,
"Who are you?" I said strongly, flustered but very coherent.
"You are frightened of me," said the stranger.
Although his face was unrecognizable, the purr in his voice was a match to the one that I had submitted to just moments ago. I stared at him.
He didn't step toward me, though he posed no sign of being threatened. He measured my size and strength and evidently knew that I had no way of defending myself.
"I am Loki," said the stranger with measured sweetness, "of Asgard."
"Why are you in my room? Why—? How—? How did—?"
"I'm not from your Realm, Harper," said Loki.
He was able to distinguish my interrogation despite my evident lacked ability to speak.
"Why don't you put that stuffed animal down?" he suggested with a pointed finger at my weapon.
"Wha—?"
I glanced down at my blunt object and frowned.
It was a stuffed bear that I held in my hands. Completely harmless.
I lowered my collectible to the floor.
"How did you get here?" I said quietly. "My house is locked."
"As I said, I'm not from your Realm," said Loki politely.
"How did you read my mind? Who are you?" I asked boldly.
Loki made a gesture with his hand. A whirring sound came from behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw dark, green eyes peering back at me. I jumped, startled, and shuttled forward. It was a clone; and I only figured that out when the real Loki moved his hand and the imposter disappeared like a hologram. I turned my attention to Loki. I was at his feet.
"It's rude to speak to a play mate from across a distance," said Loki, peering down at me. "You are so jumpy. However, it has made the second step of our little midnight rendezvous much easier."
"Second step?"
Loki's hand came to my chin. I started again, surprised by his quick movement, and steadied when he held me fast. I was frightened, and yet now that I had a face to go with the voice, I was aroused.
He could sense the switch of my mood, for a wide smile came across his face.
"Good girl, you're learning your place. I suppose that you're one of the few that I don't have to make kneel before me. Such an…obedient little mistress that you'll make," he mused with invitation.
I attempted to pull my face away, to gain some sort of rebellious action; but he was stronger than me, and he directed my eyes to meet his sternly.
"No, Harper," he said in that arousing low voice. "That is a lesson that you will have to learn. Obedience is a path to reward. Disobedience will earn you punishment." He smirked. "However, considering your brooding little mind, that in itself would be an awarding night for you, wouldn't it?"
My eyes widened.
I forgot that he knew my fairy tale sexcapades.
"Why me?" I asked him with subtle curiosity. "Why choose me? Am I to be your sex slave?"
"Sex slave? You make it sound so obtrusive and disgusting," he remarked. He removed his hand from my chin. He leaned forward, grabbing my hand, and pulled me to my feet. Loki placed firm hands upon my shoulders.
I easily felt intrigued by the objection in his voice.
"I'm an Asgardian who respects the women of my Realm and the others underneath Asgard, pet," he sighed. "An Asgardian can have an Asgardian mistress, and nobody bats an eye."
He smiled.
"Because," he added smoothly, "there are many like her. Now…" he said, "a Midgardian mistress…that's something different entirely."
I stared at him.
"I'm not a pet," I told him.
"Duly noted, but I can make you mine," he said with little resolve.
I licked my lips in consideration.
"Why me, though?" I asked, beckoned by curiosity. "Of all the insolent sluts that roam…Midgard, is it? Why me?"
"Oh, your inquisition is enduring; but you mustn't ask so many questions, let you be vexed."
Loki's hand caressed the underside of my chin vacantly.
I found him sweet and polite, but there was a sure, dominant, and insufferable side to him. Asgard, apparently, was where he was a king. No longer. Or that's what I conceived from our transaction. He intended to make me his servant.
I had no contract to anybody. Aside from my rehearsals at the Opera house, I had nothing going on that was exciting. He had lit me with arousal like no other man ever had. And, perhaps, if he remained so cordial with me, it wouldn't be so bad.
"You've gone quiet again," said Loki.
"I'm thinking."
"That's a haunting perception," he added with a small smile.
"What is your purpose on Earth?" I asked.
I knew that I was prying, but I really wanted to know.
"Yet the sparrow bargains with the fox…" Loki mused with a light glint in his eyes. "One day, your pretty little mouth might receive you answers that you will not want, nor require. Think twice before asking questions that might hurt you, pet."
I absorbed his words. Then I nodded my head slowly.
"Fine…" I said in resignation. "I don't want to know."
Loki smiled, pleased. Slender fingers cupped the right side of my face; they were soft and pale. My stomach pulled with rejuvenated delight. The lightest touch burned me, and I liked it.
"Let this," he said smoothly, "be a taste of what is in store for you, little songbird…"
He leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine. He parted my swollen mouth with his tongue. I closed my eyes. His tongue cornered every fire that had been sparked. He caressed my tongue at first with delicious tenderness then with deliberate passion. I moaned into the kiss; and I felt the corners of his mouth upturn into what was unmistakably a smirk.
His hand that cupped my face fell to the nape of my neck; his fingertips and his thumb pressed into either side of my neck with tepid force. I felt the pads of my fingers prickle in delight. His other hand tangled into my brunette hair and pulled my head back. The new angle deepened his kiss. I returned it, albeit weak. Loki made a small noise of approval as I met his kiss.
He pulled back, and I gasped for air.
When I opened my eyes, he was gone.
I held out my hands to reach for him, making certain that he hadn't put himself—or me—under disillusionment spell as before. I felt nothing. There wasn't anybody in the room.
Then—
"I can't wait to see you perform tomorrow night, my little Christine…"
