Lust for Blood

That very afternoon, I was forced back into the routine of preparing for a production. (Apparently Madame Giry had been successful in her undertaking.) As the leading soprano, my whole day was taken up by rehearsals. I thought about trying to contact the Phantom but then decided against it. I needed time to think about my inevitable choice. I also knew that the best way to express my reverence for him—as well as my gratitude to him for saving me—was to perfect his magnum opus.

Raoul was downcast when I told him I wanted to move back into my room in the ballet dormitories, but he agreed it would be better for my rehearsal schedule and sent a carriage carrying my belongs to the opera house. We made no mention of the Opera Ghost or of my scene at Raoul's manor. I dined with him a few nights later in an attempt at a wordless apology; he seemed just as sorry for his actions and even kissed my hand as we parted for the night.

Piangi's mysterious death was the topic of whispered conversation throughout the Opera Populaire. Speculation ranged from accident to suicide to murder. Suspicious stagehands swore it to be the Opera Ghost's doing, and even the most sensible residents seemed tense. Firmin deviated from his customary "gossip's worth its weight in gold" approach and covered up Piangi's death. He knew the theatre's reputation was unstable after the fire and wanted it to have a successful reopening. And in an attempt to boost overall morale for the upcoming performance, the managers even hired a contingent of gendarmes to guard the opera house. When I heard about this latest measure, my gut twisted. I knew the Phantom was clever, but he would need to be especially careful with his plans for Don Juan Triumphant.

Throughout the week, I became more and more agitated. The strenuous rehearsals pushed my limits, and I struggled to refine my soaring vocals. Parts of the libretto seemed slightly off balance due to the lack of a Primo Uomo. But I knew not to question the Phantom's skill in composition. The instrumental sections, magnificent and avant-garde, more than made up for the discrepancy. I felt my Angel's spirit quivering in the ink on the pages, and I would not allow myself to fail him. Yet I knew my endless practicing was merely a method of coping with the true dilemma.

At last it was the day of the performance. During the afternoon rehearsal, I ended up cracking my high notes. My throat was tense, my mind unfocused. When we finally finished practicing, I noticed the questioning looks of both Raoul and my fellow actors. I reddened in shame and slipped away from the main stage before anybody could see me fall apart.

I made my way quickly towards the chapel, seeking solace in my father's presence. But at the last minute I made a detour. I grabbed my traveling cloak from my room and headed instead for the theatre's stables. There, I hired a coachman to take me to the cemetery. I avoided looking at him, unwilling to let him see the tears of frustration running down my cheeks. He didn't pry; in fact, he was strangely silent during the journey.

I departed from the carriage and pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders, then stepped forward to the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. The hooded coachman remained at the gates, waiting until I should wish to return to the opera house.

My shoes crunched softly on the newly fallen snow. Gravestones rose from the low mist, solid and imposing, and my mind wandered in the dreamlike setting—thinking of everything and nothing. I found consolation in silence as I walked down the marble rows towards my father's grave. My god, how I wished he was somehow here again. He would have been able to guide me through this confusion and pain. My world had shattered when he passed on… Perhaps that was the reason I had been so eager to believe in the return of his angel.

At last I beheld my father's mausoleum, bearing the inscription Daae, and fell to my knees before it. Even after all this time, the sight of my father's grave still brought me to tears. Rocking back and forth, I whispered broken phrases: "Why can't the past just die? No more memories, no more silent tears, no more gazing across the wasted years." And then my desperate question: "Please… Who must I choose? Friend or phantom?"

I don't know how long I knelt there, waiting for a sign. I faded into half-consciousness—past the point of shivering with cold, past the point even of feeling emotional pain. Just a hollow, dessicated shell of a girl.

I raised my head slightly as the coachman came up behind me. Then I closed my eyes, "I should have known that you'd be here, Angel," I said weakly.

"I vowed to myself not to interfere, but you were gone so long. I needed to make sure you were alright." He knelt beside me and held me close. "I've caused you so much pain," he murmured. His whisper echoed with endless longing. I turned to look at him but his eyes remained fixed on the mausoleum. Gradually, his warmth and his presence revived my soul.

"I'm ready now," I said quietly. My angel rose and took hold of my hands, drawing me to my feet. After kneeling in the cold so long, my legs buckled, but he swept me into his arms and carried me away from the grave. He kissed me gently on the forehead and smiled sadly.

Suddenly we heard the rhythm of galloping hooves. The Phantom steeled himself as Raoul, mounted bareback on a white horse, hurtled into view. Raoul crouched low over the horse's shoulders, his teeth gritted in anger. "Leave her alone, you monster!" he cried. The Phantom lowered me to my feet as Raoul leaped from his horse and ran to me. "Christine, whatever you believe, this man—this thing-"

"Stop!" I cut in. "Please, just-"

But Raoul would have none of it. "Move aside, Christine. He is tainting your judgment." There was a low hiss as he slid his rapier from its sheath.

"Raoul, wait!" My eyes widened. He circled past me, sword raised menacingly.

The Phantom became suddenly feral in poise, light on his feet. In one sinuous motion, he swept his cloak over one shoulder and freed a sword from his belt. Raoul almost hid his surprise at the turn of events, but I could tell he hadn't expected the Phantom to be armed.

The two men began to circle each other slowly, step by step. The Phantom's sword gleamed as he flourished it decoratively. "I hate to have to cut the fun short," he smirked. "But the joke's wearing thin."

Raoul narrowed his eyes suddenly, then lunged forward, beating a metallic clang against the Phantom's blade. I found myself fearing for both of them. Anything could happen now. Raoul parried the Phantom's lighting strikes, pivoting his wrist to deflect the impact. Steel met steel.

The Phantom swung his arm at Raoul's head. Raoul ducked out of range but lost his balance, leaping at the last moment over a low wall. His knees crumpled on landing. The Phantom descended like the angel of death, his cloak outstretched into wings. His teeth were bared in a demonic snarl. I looked on in terror, knowing it was futile to intervene.

Raoul stumbled to his feet and regained his fighting stance. He met the Phantom stroke for stroke as they wound a deadly dance through the cemetery. The Phantom feinted to one side. With a cry, Raoul slashed at him, but cut only empty air. They engaged again, swords flashing almost faster than my eyes could follow.

The sound of clashing steel rang out harshly across the icy landscape. Raoul evaded a stab and dodged behind a pillar, but the Phantom closed in with a raptorial gleam in his eyes. He took the upper hand, tirelessly advancing. My heart beat frantically as the duel proceeded. I could see that the strength of his attacks were beginning to overwhelm Raoul. The Phantom possessed an impossible balance of power and feline grace.

Suddenly their swords locked at the hilt. A savage grapple ensued. Sweat streamed from both mens' faces, and they grunted with furious effort. And then, with a massive thrust, the Phantom knocked Raoul off his feet. Raoul gasped as he slammed against the hard ground. His sword skittered out of reach. The Phantom closed in for the death strike. His blade sought Raoul's heart.

Raoul instinctively grabbed the Phantom's forearms in a last, desperate motion, trying to force the blade away. But the Phantom was stronger, and he had the leverage of being above Raoul. The Phantom's sword point pricked the skin of Raoul's chest, and Raoul cried out in desperation.

A strange sense of déjà vu washed over me. Piangi. The struggle. The knife descending. "No!" I screamed.

The Phantom looked up at me, his strength unfaltering. He barely seemed to see me.

"Please. Not like this…" And he must have seen himself reflected in my eyes—at this moment no better than Piangi—and remembered his words: I could be good for you. I could change for you.

With an inhuman shout, he plunged his sword downward… into the snow next to Raoul's head. Then he tore himself away from the defeated Vicomte.

He stood with his back to me for a few minutes, breathing heavily, as Raoul lay back against the snow in shock. At last he turned around, took my arm, and silently guided me out of the cemetery.