CHAPTER THREE: Intersection

VICOMTE De CHAGNY FOUND DEAD, MANOR ABANDONED

In six long years nothing had changed. Erik's heart remained so tied to Christine that any mention of Miss Daaé or the de Chagnys brought him to immediately find out more information from the speakers through his many ingenious inventions, which never failed him.

Ever since the events of Don Juan Triumphant and afterward, he had departed the Opera Populaire for one and a half years, knowing the Parisians would rebuild to maintain their high culture and their pride. The moment it was completed, he had quietly moved back in, taking the upper floors and forgotten corners as his own. He avoided thinking about or going back to his former dwelling in the deepest levels of the opera house. He knew part of his soul would never leave that place, but as far as his haunts were concerned, he had no intention of going back down there. Now remade anew, he finally embraced the knowledge that having finally experienced something all were supposed to experience, he, too, could look outside his windows on Paris and feel he truly belonged among the living. The legends and wild gossip about the Opera Ghost and what had happened in the underground cellars that tragic night had rapidly disappeared, replaced by other gossip from the City of Lights . And although the ballerinas, opera singers and stage hands often sensed a quiet shadow moving above them in the balconies and rafters, it was a lucky, if very strange, coincidence that no strong connection was made between this apparition and the previous one that had ruthlessly killed so many of his enemies. Transformed by Christine's gesture of love so long ago, he created a more benevolent persona in the opera house. The uncontrollable desire to destroy what was against him was largely gone. The new owners Monsieur Rousseau and Monsieur Bertrand found, every one or two years, a newly finished opera sitting on their desks with a written request to consider it for the Opera Populaire's repertoire.

But Christine, always Christine. All his motions in daily life were fueled by his thoughts for her. He had gotten used to a physical ache in his chest whenever he thought about her, which was often. Her health, her safety, that was what he wondered about. He was not fond of Raoul, besotted rival that he was, but he trusted Raoul would give her a good life. He knew if she died, it would appear in the newspaper because of her heightened status as Vicomtess. Every time the headlines blared the expectable, normal things, he breathed easy. But not now.

He scanned the article standing up, his hands growing white as he gripped the edges of his mahogany desk harder and harder. The house had been deserted by the time the police had arrived…the body was still there and the back door ajar…an unidentified person had mentioned the Inn of the Blue Moon, and the assassin had promised to return.

The Inn of the Blue Moon, That was where Christine was, he was sure of it. He knew, without knowing how, that she was there and still alive. No doubt terrified for her life and half-mad in grief.

He would go there. He nodded curtly and swung his cape around himself. Perhaps she needed him, or at least someone who could understand something of what she was going through. Christine would be furious to see him after the attempted murder of her then-fiancée. She had a right to be…

"No matter what, someone's going to get hurt," Madame Giry had said when he succinctly retold the events that unfolded after Don Juan Triumphant.

Let me be the one that gets hurt rather than Christine, he thought as he swept around, gathering his belongings. She's all I truly care about. I would gladly suffer for her, die for her. I have, all these years, always loved my Angel of Music…

The inn owner carefully hid his surprise at seeing a second client reluctant to reveal his face and gave him the key to his room, diagonally from Christine's at the stranger's request.

He was in his room now, his body unable to relax from its tense posture. The knowledge that Christine was finally a mere thirty feet away from him after six years of eternal separation made his heart burn almost painfully with both joy and wariness. He glanced at the mirror, the mask a normalcy to him long ago, and left the room, crossing the hallway and knocking quietly on the door.

Her light tread quickened as she approached the door. She threw it open and he instinctively threw out a hand, catching her wrist to stop her weapon from descending upon him. A dagger? Even in the wake of death, she still held some of her former spunk…His eyes flickered over her face and the pain ripped through his chest again more painfully than ever before. Her face was gaunt, the cheeks more hollowed than he had ever seen them, and her face was streaked with dried tears. She looked like she had lived through a thousand nightmares. Her mouth slackened and she whispered his name in shock before her dagger fell and she crumpled to the ground unconscious.

He couldn't stop the wry smile from spreading over his face as he retrieved the dagger from the floor, gathered her limp body in his arms, laid her softly on the bed and knelt next to her. Underneath the terrible expression of grief on her face, she hadn't aged a day.

The longing rose in him to touch her face with his gloved fingers like that night so long ago, still embedded clearly in his mind. Holding his breath, he extended a hand and swept a dark lock of wildly curly hair away from her face. She didn't stir. Feeling a little bolder, he slid two fingers into the hollow made by her curved hand resting on her stomach. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of her warm fingers loosely gripping his, then reluctantly stood back up and retreated to a chair in the most distant corner of the room. He waited, keeping his mind empty of all thoughts and afraid to close his eyes.