Smoke & Mirrors

By S.J. Endeavors

Chapter 04

Raoul caught her outside.

"Whoa, what's the rush?" he asked, grasping her wrist. "House burning down?"

Breathless, Christine replied: "Forgot something. I have to go take care of it." Carefully she extracted her arm from his gentle clasp, mind focused not on Raoul but on what she'd say to her invisible friend when she saw—well, heard—him next.

"Wait," Raoul protested as she jogged off. "What about our date?"

That brought Christine to a grinding halt. Swearing, she turned around and put a hand to her forehead. "Jesus, I forgot!" Indeed she had; she had been so focused on the antics of the phantom that she had let every one of her other concerns drift to the extreme far corners of her mind.

Raoul's face was a collage of disbelief and gloom. "You forgot," he repeated. "Oh."

That single syllable was like a dagger in Christine's heart. "Oh, Raoul," she murmured, hanging her head. "I'm so sorry, but can we take a rain check? I've got something I need to take care of."

"How long will it take?"

Christine was caught off guard. "I'm… not sure," she blurted, face reddening. "Maybe minutes; maybe an hour. More, if…"

"I'll wait for you."

Christine started to protest, but the look on Raoul's face was too heart-wrenching to fight. Her resistance wavered, then crumbled entirely. "Oh, fine," she mock-grumbled. "Stay here until I get back." And with that, she ran off towards the staircase.

Raoul's voice called after her. "Will you tell me what you're doing? Maybe I can help."

Christine grimaced, but did not answer him. She knew there was nothing Raoul could do.

Christine was alone.

Christine burst into the sound booth less than a minute later.

"Phantom!" she panted, winded from taking the massive flight of stairs two-at-a-time. She blindly fumbled at the door, and locked it. "Phantom! I have to talk to you!"

Silence for a minute, and then… static.

Months earlier, the Phantom had spoken to Christine for the first time in the same way he did now. The image on a monitor above the main electric console, wired to a security camera whose field of view encompassed the entire main stage, flickered and waved, and was then replaced by a new picture of a plush red-velvet chair whose legs terminated in clawed lion's paws. The wood of the chair's frame was gilt gold, and the cushions shining and lustrous. Other than the regal chair, however, the screen was empty.

"Hello, Christine," said a voice. It issued from the low-grade speakers installed on the monitor itself, and the man's honey smooth voice was made tinny over the connection. Still, it was a voice of velvet, of promise, of feeling, of… sensuality. It sent a shiver down Christine's spine. "You called me?"

Christine tried to ignore the voice's pleasantness; its seductive timbre and cadence would distract her if she allowed her goal to slip from the forefront of her mind. "Damn right, I did," she snapped.

"Now, now," said the voice of the Ghost. Though his tone was still even, Christine could detect a hidden edge buried deep beneath the pretty pitch. "Profanity does not suit you, Christine."

Christine sighed and took a deep, calming breath. The Phantom was a strange one. Though he himself had no reservations about swearing, he abhorred for improper words to come out of Christine's mouth and refused to answer questions phrased in what he deemed as an inappropriate manner. Getting mad and giving into cursing would alienate him, and Christine wanted her finicky tutor to talk.

"I know," Christine said slowly. "I'm sorry."

Silence.

Christine sighed again. So it was one of those days.

"I take it you wanted to ask me a question," the Phantom stated bluntly. His voice was a degree cooler than it had been previously, though no less appealing. Not for the first time, Christine wondered what he looked like. Surely he had a body to match the voice. She hoped so.

"Yeah," Christine admitted. Suddenly, her tongue was stuck in her mouth. She couldn't find the words, and mumbled incoherently up at the video screen. The empty chair taunted her.

The Phantom chuckled; a deep, throaty sound that made the hairs on Christine's arms rise to attention. "I could guess your thoughts, if you'd like," he mused, "and though I enjoy games, I don't really want to play that kind of game right now."

His voice fell on the last words, dwindling into a lascivious growl. Of course, the thoroughly innocent (though unintentionally suggestive) remark got Christine to wondering exactly what kinds of games the Phantom liked to play, and felt a blush creep into her pale cheeks. She tried to send the thought packing, but found herself having a hard time of it. Had the Phantom intentionally phrased that to be an obscure double entendre, or had Christine concocted it on her own?

That voice of his brought out the worst in her…

The Phantom laughed softly, and once again Christine wondered what he looked like. "You're blushing," he remarked, the tone of his voice evincing that he'd suspected she'd end up in such a state.

The nature of his knowing words grounded her thoughts. He's been baiting me, Christine realized, to make me forget what I came for. He's trying to distract me!

"Phantom," Christine said, blush draining as her voice became no-nonsense. "Did you throw that light bulb at Caro?"

Silence reigned, then, and the quality of it was contemplative.

"Maybe," he said at last.

"Ah." The maybe said it all. Christine slumped backwards in her chair. "Figures."

The Phantom chuckled. "I found her reaction most amusing, didn't you?"

"Kind of." Christine hesitated, but steeled herself. "I'm more mad than amused, though."

Silence, and then: "Mad?" The voice contained a hidden thunder. "Mad? Why mad? Grateful I can envision, but—"

"Wait, wait, grateful?" Christine replied incredulously. "Why the heck should I be grateful? Caro's the best guitarist we have, and you very well might have alienated her for good!"

The silence fell like a leaden curtain, unbroken but for the sound of static coming from the TV. Christine felt a bead of sweat form on her temple, then make its salty way down the side of her face until it vanished in a stray lock of her hair. Her heart rate picked up. She had never spoken to the Phantom so… heatedly, before, and did not know how he would take such disrespect.

The flow of silence was interrupted by the sound of a harsh intake of breath. The Phantom had breathed sharply, but why? Was it a bad sign, or a good? Christine sweated more, until—

"Oh, Christine," the Phantom whispered. "What did I do wrong?" Before the recipient of the question could open her mouth to reply, the Phantom continued: "I threw that light bulb for you, only you, and our music!"

Christine found herself at a loss for words, but knew one thing: she did not like the way her friend and teacher had said 'our' music. It was possessive, fevered, fanatical. Something about that word—that whispered, caressing 'our'—did not sit well with Christine. Not that it sat with her in a bad way—it simply didn't sit, like she didn't quite know what to make of the feelings it stirred inside her. She was not sure, but—

A knock sounded on the door, making Christine jump. She was used to melodic, precise sounds when in the company of her tutor, not harsh raps of uncertain tempo. "Christine?" came Raoul's voice from the other side of the locked door. "Christine? Are you in there?"

Christine dared not answer. The Phantom, however, remained les than silent. In a whisper so filled with an emotion that teetered precariously on the brink of rage, the Phantom asked: "Who is this, Christine? A friend of yours?"

The doorknob turned, jiggled, but held shut. "Christine?" Raoul entreated again. "Christine? Is that you?"

Mustering her voice at last, Christine called "In a minute!" to Raoul and said, more quietly, "Just an old friend" to the Phantom.

In a less patient version of the soft, silken, angry voice the Phantom asked: "And why is he asking after you so late?"

"He came in to town last night," Christine said mutedly, "and won't be here for much longer. I thought it would be okay if I got dinner with him and talked for a while, though—for old time's sake?" Somehow, the phrase turned into a question—one of sought-after permission.

Silence. Then: "It isn't."

Christine blinked, confused. "It isn't… what?"

"It isn't okay," the Phantom snarled in way of reply, "but don't let me keep you from him, Christine. I'm sure he's the one you would much rather spend your time with!"

And with that, the TV blinked off abruptly, leaving Christine alone with her ghosts and insecurities.

"Can I ask you something?"

Christine looked up from her plate, where she had been constructing a volcano out of scrambled eggs. She had just been about to pour on the syrup/lava when Raoul asked the question.

She and Raoul had been sitting across from one another in an IHOP booth for nearly twenty minutes, but had had little to say. Christine's mood had turned sullen and distracted after her fight with the Ghost, and her sullenness had, in turn, affected Raoul's mood. He was the type of person to pick up on and absorb the emotions of other people, and with Christine there was no exception.

"Shoot," said Christine, and put down the syrup pitcher.

Raoul took a deep breath. "When I went up to the sound booth to get you, I thought I heard… well, someone else in there with you." He looked at her from under his lashes sheepishly. Her face must have appeared incredulous to him (though to her she was sure it displayed everything, and from it he would be able to expose her, oh the horror!) because he blurted: "I know it sounds stupid, but for a minute I really thought you had either injected yourself with testosterone or had another guy in there with you."

"I was messing with sound equipment. You probably heard stuff on the speakers downstairs. I get most of it rerouted to the TV, you know." The excuse was utter bunk, but Raoul didn't know that and looked appropriately relieved.

"Good," he said, and took a bite of his omelet.

Christine poured the syrup lava and dug in, too, relaxed now that the heat of discovery was waylaid.

"So Meg told me you played some really complex chords during sound check today."

Christine nearly choked and downed a big gulp of milk—a move with double motives, as it both cleared her throat and bought her time to think up an answer.

Raoul, oblivious, went on: "She also said that you weren't that good last time she heard you play, which was… oh… a couple months ago, maybe?" He glanced at Christine, who had frozen. "What's up with that?"

She fixed her eyes on her food, which suddenly didn't seem so appetizing. "I… don't know what you mean," she said, stirring her volcano into oblivion with her fork.

"I think you do."

Christine looked up, heart beginning to pound. Raoul's eyes were hard, though not cold.

"Christine, look," he said, "I've heard you play. Not recently, I'll admit, but I've heard you. You're mediocre, at best, and I'm sorry to have to be the one to say it." He looked back at his food—unhappy to be the bearer of bad news, it seemed. "Avery refuses to let you take lessons, your ear is nothing to brag about, and your guitar is less than top-of-the-line quality. The only thing you've really got going for you is your energy—you're very passionate when you want something, but that isn't enough to turn you from 'okay' to 'great' in a matter of months. Frankly, I don't see how in the hell you could have improved without a teacher." He looked up. His eyes were like cobalt drills. "So spill it. Did you go buy 'learn-guitar-at-home' video tape bull shit or what?"

"Why do you care?" Though she had not meant for it to, the reply came out as a defensive growl.

Raoul visibly backed down. Putting up his hands in a 'don't shoot the messenger' gesture, he said: "Whoa, whoa, look, Meg's just concerned you might be—well, I don't really know what she meant by it, but she and her mother both used the phrase 'Christine might be getting in over her head,' so…"

"'Meg and her mother?'" Christine parroted. "You mean they were both talking about me? And to you, of all people!"

"Christine, please." Raoul's eyes pleaded with her more effectively than his words ever could. "Please. They were just worried for you… and now, so am I."

Surprised, Christine said: "'Now' you are?"

"You know I'm getting a music degree, right? Well, the truth is, I'm double majoring in music and psychology." He smiled. "From what I've learned, all the ways you've behaved tonight indicate that you're hiding something—the defensive attitude, the snippy way you answer questions—even your hunched shoulders screams 'I'm keeping a secret!'."

Christine tried to straighten her back, but failed. Her stopped posture had become a habit. "Is it really that obvious?" she asked.

Raoul nodded.

Within Christine, a battle raged. Her teacher—the Phantom, the Ghost, the velvet-toned voice in her dreams—had warned her to never tell anyone of him, or the connection they shared. But here was Raoul—trustworthy, dependable Raoul—who had a psych major, of all things, and was well aware of the fact that yes, she was keeping a secret.

A big one.

What choice did Christine have?

"You're fighting telling me, aren't you?"

Christine's head jerked. She laughed nervously, then calmed as she felt her inner turmoil resolve itself beneath Raoul's warm blue gaze. "Can you keep a secret?" she asked, and leaned toward him.

Meg leaned into her hand as her elbow rested firmly on the surface of the bar. "Mama," she asked, "do you think Raoul will be able to get anything out of her?"

"I assume you mean Christine," said Ms. Giry, who was in the middle of wiping down the bar with a damp, Clorox-covered rag.

"Who else would I mean?"

The elder Giry's hand stopped making circular motions on the brass counter as she thought about it. Her contemplation did not last long. "I think we can expect quite a bit on information from our's and Christine's mutual friend," she said, and smiled.

"I found him about a month ago, just after my awful audition for the house band," said Christine. "I was practicing on the stage after hours, playing along to one of Avery's old recordings I managed to steal from his closet, when somebody called my name.

"It confused me, at first. I couldn't figure out where the voice was coming from, even though I looked everywhere. I even went and took all of the microphones to make sure no one was using them to play a practical joke on me, but of course no one was. But I then I noticed that the rear catwalk backstage was swinging slightly, and realized I hadn't imagined anything. The voice was real.

"I started playing my guitar, thinking he had gone. But then he started calling my name all over again. I stopped playing and just sat there, still, on the lip of the stage, my feet dangling over the edge, and said: 'Who's there?'

"Raoul, I can't really say what happened next. He didn't give me his name; just launched into a really harsh critique of how I was playing the guitar. He was so blunt I went home in tears.

"But, you know what, something about his words struck me as true, so I listened to them. I didn't go back to the stage for three days, but I was noticeably better at playing just from one round of advice, all thanks to him. And it wasn't even big things that were holding me back—my strap was way too loose, he said, and my grip on the pick a little bit off. I was trying too hard to look cool, he said, and not worrying enough about comfort while playing. There was more, but I've forgotten it. The point is, he pointed out all the basics nobody ever thought to tell me, and it helped.

"After I realized that he actually did improve me, I went back a second time, three days later. The lure was just too strong, and I guess the fact that I couldn't see him made the whole situation mysterious enough to keep my intrigued. He gave me another harsh critique, but before I left he told me to check out a specific song. Over the following few days, he taught it to me until I could play it in my sleep.

"I got better and better, Raoul, and loved it. Only, there was a downside to learning from the man I couldn't see. After the first month of tutoring—it's been going on for three—he got rather… possessive. If I didn't show up on time or—heaven forbid—didn't show up at all, he would rave and rail during the entire next lesson about how I was 'abandoning' or 'maltreating' or 'not being grateful enough to' him.

"Worse than that, sometimes he gets on to me about stuff that doesn't have to do with guitar at all—he comments on my opinions, my friends, my appearance. He forbids me from listening to certain types of music and artists; insists I listen to others he finds worthy.

"But that doesn't matter so much, because of the conversations we have. He listens to me, Raoul, and actually tries to get to know me. He and I have a lot in common, and after three months, I feel… well, this is going to sound silly, but I feel like I know him, you know? Like he's the friend I didn't know I was looking for until I found him. He's… angelic, in a way. He's my angel; my genius angel. He brought me a gift, the ability to play guitar, without asking anything in return.

"And I—well, I kind of think I love him, a little."

Raoul favored Christine with a level stare, then ran a hand through his hair in agitation. "I regret to inform you that you've now got me even more worried."

Incensed, Christine replied: "How?!"

"Think about it, Christine!" Raoul leaned forward in his booth. "How many other young hopefuls do you think this 'genius' of yours has fed all those lines to?"

Christine's pale cheeks colored. "That's not true."

"Is it?" Raoul asked. "I've studied things like this in school, Christine, studied monsters who make impressionable kids become emotionally addicted to them. It never ends pretty—never!"

"So that's how you think of me," Christine said. "An emotional, impressionable child."

"Stop twisting my words!" Raoul snapped. His harsh tone was so uncharacteristic for him that Christine shut up immediately. "Bottom line, here, is that you should stop seeing him as soon as possible, before he gets his hooks into you even deeper than he does now. You 'love him,'" Raoul mimicked, "gimme a break!"

"What do you know?" Christine fumed. "You think you can tell everything about me because of your stupid psychology degree?"

Raoul glared at her. "I think I can tell that you've been totally taken in by this weirdo. You said it yourself—he tries to control you, manipulate you!" Suddenly his voice turned soft. "Please, Christine, stop seeing this guy!"

Her reply was morose. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"He… he needs me."

"'Needs you?' Again, just how many people do you think this guy has fed that line to?"

"It's not a line! He's just… well, he's been alone for so long, that I…"

Raoul snorted and waved a frustrated hand. "There you go again, proving my point," he said. "That's the oldest line in the book. Look, I get that you're an optimist, Christine, but I've known you for a long time, and can say from experience that your optimism can very quickly turn into total naïveté, and—"

"Enough!"

Raoul stopped mid-sentence, stricken. Christine's cry—a mix of a terrible sob and a broken scream—had halted him more effectively than a brick wall. Tears poured down Christine's alabaster cheeks, streamed past her reddening nose in pearly rivulets, and dropped like rain onto the breast of her hoodie, which was soon dappled more completely than a fawn's mottled hide.

"Stop it," she moaned, cradling her head in her hands. "Just stop it, please." She grabbed her coat off of the slick vinyl cushion beside her and slid, crying, from the booth. "Don't talk about me and him like that, not when you don't know anything about how we feel." She hiccupped, sniffed, but couldn't keep her nose from running slightly. "Just leave us alone," she said, and ran from the restaurant.

Raoul tried to follow, realized no one had paid for the meal, fought a battle with his morals, and stayed put.

Outside, Christine ran for home, trying to leave Raoul's words far behind her; trying to forget them. It was better that way.

But it nagged at her mind like an abscessed tooth, because what if, on some off chance, Raoul was right about her Angel?