A/N: Thank you as always for the kind reviews.

Chapter 9- Angel of Music

The night had set in fast and though Christine lay silently in her bed with her eyes firmly closed, she was not asleep. She was not even close to sleep. Over the past weeks sleep had come more and more easily to her, as she adjusted to her surroundings, as her soul began to settle. Tonight was an altogether different matter.

Her hands gripped the top of her blanket tightly, so much so that sweat was beginning to pool in her palms. It was the sounds. They were all around her again, not a scraping but the occasional clunk, setting her completely on edge. It was as if they were coming from inside the walls but not one place in particular, it was everywhere.

Slowly, she forced her eyes to open and stared up at the ceiling. With a little more effort she lifted her head from her pillows and glanced around the room. Her eyes adjusted to what little light there was and she saw nothing. Somehow, it did not set her mind at rest.

There was definitely something or someone there.

The next clunk was louder than the others and she sat up straight, dragging her blanket up to her chin.

She found it difficult to believe that there was actually a ghost in the building, or ghosts anywhere for that matter, but something was wrong here. The sound moved again, this time to the left and she jumped, squeezing the covers in her hands.

'Who is there?' she whispered, finding something of a voice deep inside her.

There was no answer, of course, as she listened in silence. The sound did stop, however, as if she had been heard.

She looked down at her arms to make sure she was really there, that she was not simply dreaming.

Taking a deep breath she slowly lowered herself back down so that she was lying on the bed. The darkness that engulfed her was fast becoming her enemy. How she hated not to see what tormented her of the evenings.

She closed her eyes and took in another long stream of air, holding the blanket as close to her face as she could without suffocating.

The next sound almost made her leap right from the bed. She placed her back against the wall to the corridor and attempted to control her trembling. Perhaps she should get out of her room, go down to see if the chef was awake in his area.

'Hello?' she croaked. 'Is anyone there?'

'Did I wake you?'

Christine's heart jumped to her throat and for a moment she thought that she might be having a heart attack. Her breathing was suddenly uneven, her pulse was rapid and uncontrollable. She recognised the voice, how could she possibly forget it? It was the voice she had heard in the corridor.

She tried to answer the voice's question but nothing came from her mouth. Somehow, she had completely lost her own voice.

'Apparently not,' he said.

'I...' she said but could muster no more. There was a long pause and for a second she thought that he may not have heard her.

'I'm sorry I woke you,' he said, his voice like velvet. So smooth, so sweet, so deep.

'Where...' she took a breath and calmed herself. 'Where are you?'

The voice did not answer. She let the question linger for a moment, buying herself more time to completely cool her nerves. When there was no sound after a few minutes she said; 'Who are you?'

Again, she was greeted with a seemingly impenetrable silence. She was not sure she had ever felt so tense in an empty room before or ever found the quiet so utterly suffocating.

'Are you...' she stopped. Don't say silly things Christine, she thought. But still, she could not stop the words from tumbling out. 'Are you the ghost...the, the Opera Ghost?'

It was at that moment that the silence evaporated into a deep laughter, filling the room and, oddly, relaxing Christine.

'Do you think I am a ghost?' he asked.

She thought about how to respond. 'I'm not much of a believer in ghosts,' she said, leaning herself more comfortably against the wall.

'Neither am I,' he said simply.

'Then who are you?' she asked, feeling more confident.

'You know what I am not,' he said. 'Is it not comfort enough to know that I am not a ghost?'

Finding a courage welling inside her she felt a smile creep along her lips. The voice was obviously intelligent, his tone of voice and articulacy told her this much.

'Just because you are not a ghost...' she said with a smile. 'Does not mean you are not the ghost they all speak of here,'

He laughed again and her heart fluttered at it's sound.

'Do you have a name?'

'Yes,' he said simply.

'Should I tell you mine first?' she asked.

A laugh. 'I already know your name, Christine,' he said. 'You have no bargaining chip there,'

'I need to call you something,' she said.

'Call me ghost then,' he said. 'It would appear quite the popular name,'

'But you already told me that you're not a ghost,' she said.

There was silence in response and she wondered if she had angered him. When he finally spoke she felt a wave of strange relief tumble over her.

'What do you think you should call me?' he asked.

'Your name,' she responded quickly.

He laughed again.

'Right...' Christine said, leaning her head back against the wall. 'So you're not a ghost... and you're not going to tell me your name...'

She waited, the voice said nothing.

'So what are you?' she continued, letting a brief pause fall between them.

'You should lie down,' he said. Another change of subject, not too subtle. 'You don't look very comfortable,'

Christine instinctively pulled the blanket up to cover her body again. 'You can see me?' she asked, heart thudding.

'I see most things around here,' he said simply. His tone did not sound quite so jovial now, he was more serious. Christine could not quite decide if he was warning her or trying to frighten her but whatever he was attempting, she was starting to get the picture.

He saw all.

She swallowed. 'But you're not a ghost...'

'I don't walk through walls,'

She sat, feeling her hands begin to tremble again. The initial feeling of comfort she originally felt at hearing his voice had all but drained away and fear had replaced it. She suddenly realised how commanding his voice was, the deepness and richness was almost disturbing when he sounded so serious. The joviality of his tone gone she felt as though she was now being warned.

'You're...' she managed to croak out, feeling her heart pound in his chest. '... frightening me...'

There was silence around her but somehow she knew that he was still there. The air seemed thick with his presence.

'Don't be afraid of me,' he said. 'It isn't my intention to hurt you...'

Christine said nothing, unsure of what to believe. Should she trust a voice of a man she could not see? It seemed ludicrous to even think of it. Yet...

'You've been hurt so much already,' he said quietly.

Christine blinked and looked around her. How did he know about her pain? 'How do you know that?'

'I know a lot of things,'

She took a deep breath. 'But you're not a ghost?'

'Not a ghost,' he said. 'Relax, I'm not going to hurt you, I want to protect you... I'm here to protect you, nothing else,'

'Protect me?' she whispered.

'Yes,' his voice was soft now, almost a whisper. So smooth she imagined his lips must taste like chocolate...

She shook her head, shook those thoughts from it. Thoughts she had never had before, never dreamt before. They were there though, they lingered in her mind.

'Why?' she asked.

'Because I like you,'

This time it was Christine who laughed. 'You don't know me,'

'I know you well enough,' he said.

'How?'

He said nothing in response.

'If you are not a ghost then you must be an Angel,' she said. 'If you are going to protect me... as you say,'

Again, there was no answer.

'That's what angels do, isn't it?' she said. 'They protect people and look out for people,'

'You don't believe in ghosts yet you believe in angels?'

'I can believe... if that's what you say you are,' she said softly. 'You see... my father, when I was a child, he told me if he ever went away then he would send me an angel,'

No reply.

'He called him the angel of music,' she said. 'My father... he was a musician...'

'Angel of music?' the voice interrupted.

'Yes,'

'Then I suppose my name is Angel,' he said. 'Now, you must sleep, you have rehearsals early in the morning,'

'I don't think I can sleep now,' she said.

'Why not?'

She smiled in the darkness. 'Well, it's not often a girl gets to meet her angel, is it?'

'I don't suppose it is,' he said. 'But at least lie down,'

She did as she was told, lowering herself back onto the mattress and tucking the blanket around her body. Settling herself into a comfortable position on her side she closed her eyes.

'I will leave you to rest,' he said.

'Do you have to go?' she asked. 'I thought angels watched over you while you sleep?'

His laugh was much softer than earlier. 'Perhaps I can help you sleep,'

'How will you do that?' she asked, continuing their little game, the teasing.

'I will sing to you,' he said. 'I am the angel of music, after all,'

She pressed her face into the pillow, hoping that he could not see the childish smile spread over her lips. Of course she thought that he was joking, she never for one moment expected him to sing to her.

He did though.

As she lay there the silence turned to the rich sound of his voice as he sang an old lullaby. So gentle she felt her body sag into the bed, relaxed and comforted.

It was not long before she felt herself fighting off sleep so that she could listen to his voice. It was no good, she became drowsier and drowsier.

And in an instant, hearing his voice wash softly over her skin, she really did believe her father had sent her the angel of music.

The tall man walked into the park and stood by the bench in the centre. Unfortunately for him, he was surrounded by trees and therefore could not see or hear anyone coming. It was a fairly warm night, though there was very little cloud cover over Paris. He debated momentarily and then decided it was best for him to sit.

The bench was old and creaked when he put his weight onto it. He glanced down at his pocket watch and could just make out that the hand was edging past the one.

'You're late,' he heard and looked around him. He was here to meet Erik Lambourne, his employer, but by no means his friend. The voice he heard was unmistakably Erik's.

'I thought you said one,'

It's much closer to half past,' he sounded angry.

'Sorry,' the tall man murmured. 'I got held up,'

'I don't like to be kept waiting,'

'I know that,' he said. 'I'm sorry,'

He meant it.

It was then that he caught a glimpse of white from above and looked up. Erik was sitting on a tree branch, legs hanging over the side, white mask peering down.

Erik Lambourne was probably the creepiest man he knew. He had no idea what Erik looked like under his white ceramic but it did not take a genius to work out that it probably was not pleasant. There had been much discussion between his colleagues about what Erik's deformity was, most settled on knife wounds but some liked to think he had been burned in a fire and that most of his body was ugly too.

This mentality came from the fact that Erik was simply so imposing that people needed an outlet. To know Monsieur Lambourne, and to know him well, was to fear him.

And he most certainly feared him.

'Did you get it?' Erik asked.

'Well... sort of...'

'Sort of?' Erik snapped.

'There was only half there...'

Erik jumped from the tree and landed, like a cat, in front of him. 'And what did you do when you discovered there was only half there?'

'I left Louis with him,'

'He didn't kill him did he?'

He shook his head. 'No,'

'And when will the other half be available?' Erik asked.

'Next week,'

Erik frowned but then nodded. 'Fine,'

'That's alright?'

'It will have to be,' Erik growled as he walked away.

'I will see you at our next meeting then,' he called after him.

Erik spun around and, with a smile, said; 'Certainly but next time Gabriele, don't be late,'