Chapter 1
Three Weeks Later
Erik waited in the shadows of one of the great windows gracing the Opera Populaire. Glass shards from its shattered panes lay hidden under a dusting of snow. The flurries had fallen a few days earlier, an unwelcome Christmas gift to the miserable citizens of Paris. He checked a pocket watch, one of his few possessions that had escaped the notice of the crowd howling for his blood during the fire that he had started.
None of the gas lamps worked now, so he heard the horses before he saw them. He touched his black wig and the new mask fashioned from a piece of black leather found in the ruined stables. He could care less what de Chagny thought of him, but he did not want to upset Christine again. Or Catherine and the nameless cousin of the boy's. Nervously, he straightened his neck cloth and tugged at his shirtsleeves. He had dressed as well as he could in the remnants of his once elegant wardrobe, but all that remained were a couple pairs of trousers, a black cape and a few whole, but somewhat stained shirts. None of his tailored vests and frock coats had survived the search of his lair.
Erik melted back farther into the shadowed recess of the broken window, partly to watch the others approach and partly to gather his courage. Catherine and Christine had been the only two people he had ever sought out in his life. The rest of humanity either rejected him or tried to imprison him when they happened to stumble across him. He wondered which path the de Chagny girl would take and, for the thousandth time, if this was all an elaborate trap laid by the vicomte.
The boy had certainly acted relieved when he'd agreed to help Christine, and even offered to bring some food, until Erik pointed out that he had a ready supply of meat from pigeons trapped inside the burnt building. They had agreed that Raoul would check the old chapel once a week until he found a note behind the altar telling him when Erik found an escape route.
It had taken three weeks of steady searching before Erik found a path through the tunnels to a deserted area just outside the city walls. By now, the New Year loomed and the Prussian noose around the City of Light threatened to extinguish it altogether.
The horses halted in the street. Two figures dismounted from the first, indistinguishable in their long, heavy cloaks. One immediately approached the building, obviously searching for him. His heart leaped with the wild hope it might be Christine.
"Erik?" The word extinguished his thought as soon as it had formed. The voice did not belong to his Angel of Music. And he had never told Christine his name.
"Catherine." He stepped forward, hesitantly extending his hand. She stopped a few feet away from him, as if reluctant to come too near. Certainly he deserved no kindness from her after rewarding years of devoted care by destroying her home. He dropped his hand, trying to swallow the devastation he felt at her rejection.
She pushed the hood of her cloak back, looking him in the face. No anger colored her voice, only sadness and hurt. "I hardly believed Raoul when he told us he'd found you. Meg and I came back, searching -- we could not find you, I feared you dead. Where did you go?"
"I heard you, but I could not bring myself to speak." He could barely force the confession past his lips. "I was -- I am -- so ashamed that I destroyed your lives in my madness." He continued in a low voice. "I left a purse with several thousand francs in your cab one day to try and compensate for my actions. Did you find it?"
"I hoped that was you. We were so desperate I kept the money. It paid for us to travel to Italy so I could look for work" She smiled wryly. "I had no luck, but Meg was accepted into the ballet company at La Scala." Erik smiled involuntarily at the obvious pride in her daughter's accomplishment. "Despite the war, I could not bear to live anywhere but Paris. I returned just before the siege began."
He nodded, unsurprised that her fierce devotion extended to places as well as people. His gaze drifted past Catherine to the small figure removing packs from the back of the second horse. The cousin, he guessed.
"Erik?" The softly spoken word brought his attention back to the one person closest to being his friend. She looked at him as if searching for something in his expression. "I'm glad to see you again."
"Thank you, Catherine." A smile broke across his face at the hope that she might have forgiven him after all. "I swear I will get you back to Meg."
"Get me out of Paris and I can make my own way to Italy." The steely ballet mistress had returned. "Swear you will keep Christine safe, mon vieux. That's all I ask right now."
He stiffened. "That goes without saying, madame." Why would no one understand that he would never knowingly harm his Angel?
"That includes keeping her safe from you." Her sternness disappeared as she pleaded with him. "They love each other, Erik. She is happy with him. He's good to her --"
"Enough!" He whispered so as not to draw the attention of the others. "I understand perfectly well. She loves him, he loves her. Neither of them would ever have wanted to set eyes on me again except that I am the key to her escape from Paris." He ground to a halt, not wanting to expose any more of his bitterness. After a shaky breath, he changed the subject.
"Tell me about the boy's cousin. The tunnels are reasonably safe, but we can't afford to be held up by a pampered aristocrat." To his surprise, Catherine let out an angry breath before she answered.
"I was stunned when Raoul suggested she accompany us." She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. "I tried to convince him that she is unfit company for Christine, but he refused to listen." She approached him and whispered, "His cousin is the Baronesse de Courcy."
Erik looked at her in disbelief for a long moment. When the Baronesse's reputation as an unrepentant adulteress made her a pariah in polite society, she had metaphorically shrugged her scented shoulders and shamelessly embraced the demi-monde of prostitutes, rakes and artists.
He had often seen her from his place in Box Five, a petite woman invariably sporting a stunning display of jewelry and wearing a dress cut to display her equally stunning bosom. At first her husband, a suave man several years her senior, escorted her. Later, after he threw her out of his family mansion, she brazenly kept the box in her own name. He had watched the golden blonde beauty flirt -- and more -- with a series of men each season for at least five years. By now, he guessed, she had to be around thirty.
De Chagny considered this high-born whore suitable company for his wife? After assisting Catherine through the window, he stared at the shadowy form with narrowed eyes. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, and moonlight gleamed off the fair hair. She adjusted one pack over her shoulder and picked up a second one. The ease with which she handled them suggested that they must be feather-light. As if his contemptuous gaze touched her shoulder, she turned her head to face him. Her eyes widened and he stretched his lips into his most feral smile. Let the lazy little creature fear him.
Instead, she held his gaze steadily before arching one eyebrow sardonically and led her horse to the boy and Christine. His furious gaze followed her. How dare that brazen slut ignore him? She would, he resolved, pay for her arrogance.
The baronesse shook off the frisson of danger that shivered up her spine under the stranger's stare. Although Christine spoke of this 'Angel' with sadness and affection, Raoul had taken her aside to warn her of his cruel nature. He had begged her to carry a loaded pistol in her pack, but she had refused, preferring instead her favorite knife.
She stopped a few feet from where Raoul and Christine desperately embraced. Her heart ached for them both. That they must part once more after finding each other again was too bitter to dwell on. But it was imperative that the young vicomtesse escape Paris before the siege broke.
"My dears, you must let each other go now." Her words carried no farther than their ears. "Someone will attack Raoul just to get some horsemeat, and this guide said we should start our journey tonight, did he not?"
They reluctantly broke apart at the sound of her voice, their hands framing each others' faces. With a lump in her throat, the baronesse realized they wiped the tears from the other one's cheeks.
Finally, Christine tore herself from her husband's arms. Stifling a sob, the younger woman made her way carefully over the uneven surface to the window. Raoul swallowed painfully.
"Take this." She felt a lumpy leather belt pushed surreptitiously into her fingers. From its weight, she gathered it held coins. "Watch over her for me, Kaira."
"I will, little cousin." A smile twitched at her use of her old nickname for the young man towering above her. "Now go. Christine and your child will be safe." His face stiffened as he fought more tears, but he mounted his horse in one liquid motion and took the reins of the other animal's.
"Adieu." 'Go with God.'
"Au revoir," she corrected him. 'Until we meet again.' She followed the other women to the window, only to trip over a loose cobblestone. Immediately a black-gloved hand closed around her elbow in a grip of iron.
"Silence." She did not need the warning, for Kaira caught her breath at the man looming above her. Taller than Raoul, his dark hair gleamed in the moonlight, which accentuated his high cheekbones and the cleft in his firm chin. She had expected him to be masked, but not that she would be transfixed by the glittering eyes framed by black leather. They stared at close range for a frozen heartbeat, then she ripped her gaze away, only to focus on his mouth.
His luscious, kissable mouth, with a full under lip that begged to be nibbled on and sucked. Unconsciously, she licked her own lips. 'You gave this up for my little cousin, Christine?'
For a moment, she feared she voiced the thought aloud, but sighed in relief when she realized she had not. He regarded her with those wide eyes, before letting go of her and ostentatiously wiping his hand on his pants. Her head snapped up. Common as insults were to her, they still stung. She retained her pride, however, and when she spoke, her voice held only bored amusement.
"I see Madame Giry has already informed you of my identity, Monsieur-le-Fantome." She crooked her elbow for him to take. "Shall we proceed?" He merely swirled his dark cape and stalked away from her. Laughing softly, she followed him, hiding her hurt.
