A/N: Thank you for the great reviews! I savor them like dark chocolates. :) This one is especially for the angst lovers …

This Waking Nightmare

Chapter XXI

.

He should have known such good fortune was not meant to last.

The Phantom entered the theatre by way of the secret entrance near Box Five. He had every intention of visiting Christine before her rehearsal started, to sort out the grave misunderstanding – how could she think he would not want her any longer? He grimaced at the opposing knowledge that he'd given her little reason to think otherwise – but first he must ensure his opera was going as planned, a requirement long overdue when dealing with the bungling fools who operated this theatre.

With the despicable sickness, he'd lost three days. Before that, he concentrated all effort on the forthcoming plans and on Christine who was at the center of those plans, as well as looking into the disturbing new mystery involving the uncouth degenerate Buquet and his slimy friend.

Once more he had seen them meet. Once more he had followed, his mood foul – this time along the well-lit streets of Paris. He rarely went out in daylight, detested the harsh light which would bring unwanted attention to his face, even though he used the wide brim of his fedora to help cover the mask. To the untrained eye, everything appeared no different, but Erik spent his lifetime in shadows and had learned to observe. He noticed the furtive and telling looks that, at first glance, what seemed veritable strangers would give his quarry from a distance. Terse nods were exchanged between strangers in passing. And he sensed unrest bubbling below the quiet surface, the city like an unwatched pot ready to boil over. Something was brewing, something he did not believe to be confined to the opera house, and in recalling the snippets of conversation he'd overheard he sensed the theatre was to play a significant part in what was planned.

Normally he did not concern himself with the trials and quandaries of the city, of late besieged by war with Prussia. He read all accounts in the newspapers Madame brought, but such news was similar to reading books of faraway lands. There was the bliss of ignorance to be found five levels beneath the earth, where such unrest could not touch the tomb-like stillness of one already dead. The opera house had never been involved in the nation's politics, such troubles failed to concern him. The theatre provided a place for entertainment, not a podium to condemn or affirm change. Yet now that Christine had resurrected his dormant feelings, he experienced sober unease, hoping his developing assumptions were incorrect, at the same time fearing they were not. There was little he could do, though there were tricks he could attempt should the need arise …

Time, as always, would prove the harbinger of what was to come.

But for now, and for this theatre, time had run its course, soon to prove if Erik was a composer that people would laud or mock. Because of the distractions he'd given no time personally to ensure that preparations were well in order before rehearsals for the new production started this afternoon ...

The gravest of all his mistakes. Perhaps his worst yet.

In horrified disbelief, he took his place concealed within the shadows cast by the alcove's curtain and stared at the blood-red and coal-black lengths of drapery that were a backdrop for the wood cutouts of flames ringing the dual set of stairs. One on each side, they circled up to the edges of a nine-foot, narrow bridge with a fire pit beneath – the set of his new opera.

His opera of death.

All the promises he made Christine faded into oblivion as thoughts of retribution waged heavily inside his mind. If two stagehands had not at that moment swaggered into view, sharing a bottle between them, he would have swung down from a rope and made good on the destruction that pounded out a death knell inside his chaotic thoughts. One flame would send the whole damnable erection of dry wood up into a pile of ashes, as it should have remained. As it should never have been created. But like some damnable phoenix bent on his mortal destruction, the accursed opera had risen up out of its own ashes.

HOW…? WHY…?

WHO in blazes was responsible for this horror?

His eyes narrowed with a memory and he sucked in a harsh breath.

With a quiet curse, he whipped around, his cloak fanning in dark, menacing waves behind him as he silently stormed through shadowed corridors, not stopping until he threw open the door at the end of the last one. This early, he knew his prey would be alone.

Madame Giry jumped in her chair, an uncertain look on her face. "M-maestro? This is unexpected."

"Damn you." His words were as soft and lethal as the precise whoosh of a punjab finding its target. Swift and silent, he closed the door without turning and approached her desk, towering over her. "You blithering idiot! You gave them the wrong opera! Your clumsiness has cost me everything. Everything! Do you hear?"

His vivid dream of a life with Christine, at last so close, once more faded into the darkest pit of emptiness, where his mind threatened quickly to follow. His fingers itched for his lasso, to wrap around this fool woman's throat in vengeance, though never once in all the years of their association had he approached her in true threat with the intent to carry out vile warnings. With Antoinette Giry, due to a trace of something akin to familial loyalty, he had acted solely on intimidation.

But today ...

She recoiled slightly, seeing the murder burn wild in his eyes. "I-I don't understand, monsieur."

He barely refrained from following through with his course of action, the flicker of humanity that Christine had resurrected fighting to ignite inside his dark soul. His eyes fell shut, the image of her face haunting him. Pleading. Trusting. A light to him, always a damned pleading, trusting light. He struggled for breath, to control his rage, and yielded to the gentle vision that stole away what remained of his madness. His later plunge into the other side of sanity had destroyed the future without mercy. He could not allow it to gain hold and destroy this present existence.

The opera would do that.

At the ugly reminder, an ember of his anger stirred and burst into flame.

"You took not only the opera I ordered you to take, but the one I cast aside." His words came quieter. His eyes narrowed when she continued to stare, her expression a blank. "The table you backed into, the papers you gathered from the ground ..."

Awareness dawned, her eyes going solemn, nervous.

"Ah, yes," he bit out. "You remember."

"And – this is a problem?"

He almost laughed at the inadequacy of such a word. Bracing his gloved fists on the desk, he leaned in close and growled, "This, Madame, is a catastrophe!"

"I – I didn't know. There were two in the folder –"

"Precisely. So why in the hell didn't you bother to ask me which one to present?"

"You had other concerns at the time. The masquerade, your torment over Christine. I ... I did what I thought was right." Her chin lifted as she floundered for purchase of her confidence. "I took the opera with the notes scribbled on it. I thought the notes were for the managers, since there was instruction for building the set. The other opera was devoid of notes. I thought it wasn't yet ready for production."

He almost laughed at this fatal irony and gripped the edge of the desk hard to prevent his hands from grabbing her shoulders and shaking her until her teeth rattled. He always made more than one copy of each composition. The one she took of Don Juan Triumphant was his original cluttered with notes to himself. The clean copy of Clowns in Arabesque was what he had wished to present for the new production to the managers. Damn her ignorance! Damn her for not checking with him first. And damn his alleged genius ten times over for not looking into this sooner!

"You must speak to the managers at once! Tell them it was a mistake."

"I can't do that!"

"NO?"

Enraged, he swung his arm out and knocked over the standing lamp at the end of her desk. The discordant tinkle of crystals smashing against the wood panels before hitting the floor hardly helped to stem his rage. The room swirled in bizarre patterns of light and shadow as the flames danced off the prisms' descent before snuffing out, the only light now coming from the wall sconce above her head.

"Perhaps you misunderstood," he snarled. "That was not a request. This production will not go on!"

"It is you who have misunderstood, Maestro. To deliver such a message would cost you all that you have worked so hard to gain!"

"Not to deliver it would be to the detriment of all involved."

"Have you given no thought to Christine? This is her operatic debut as the lead, all that you have dreamed for her for the stage. To withdraw your opera now would cost her any future as a singer here."

"Give them the other damn opera!" He leaned in on the desk again. "It is that opera she has practiced for, it is that opera she knows." He had never told Madame about the future shadows or anything of his encounter that night, and he wasn't about to bloody well do it now.

"The sets have been built, the costumes made. What reason shall I give for your insistence to change productions at this late date? The managers will see it as nothing more than the fit of a temperamental artist. Unless you give me good reason to approach them with such an outlandish demand, that is all I see as well!"

Something in his eyes must have warned her she had gone too far, for suddenly she drew back in her chair, her expression uneasy.

"Monsieur, I beg you to reconsider. If you do demand this from them and they give in, what guarantee do you have that they will keep Christine as the lead? They only agreed to the role because of the pact you made. If you withdraw, they will consider it a breach of contract and likely will again sign La Carlotta to the lead of whatever rehash of an opera they choose to present in its place. They would dare not take a gamble on a little-known singer and will settle for a well-known diva who has proven to fill seats in the house. They will already have lost what revenue it cost them to prepare for this production. Christine will have lost her chance at stardom, because they will no longer trust you and you are her teacher."

"CONFOUND IT, WOMAN!" He slammed his fist on the desk. "YOU have destroyed everything. If Christine loses her rightful place, it is your fault!"

"There is nothing wrong with that opera," she lowered her tone, her manner going quiet, as if to encourage. "It is bizarre in nature, but I believe it would appeal to the populace at this time. The citizens of Paris are restless, looking for something different. Faust, Il Muto, Robert le Diable – at one time in history they all would have been considered bizarre. Perhaps your opera will be a revolutionary idea to inspire other operas of its kind."

Her placating words faded away like an annoying buzz, his anxious gaze having dropped to the paper on which his gloved knuckles rested. He stood frozen, as every focused thought seemed to merge and settle on that one piece of paper, a piece of torn parceling that rendered him suddenly numb.

She followed his rapt attention. "It belongs to you, Maestro. I was planning to give it to you when next I saw you. The seamstress gave it to me days ago. With all that has happened, I had forgotten..."

Her words rippled around him, intangible, to make sense of them like trying to hold onto water. He could only focus on the childish scrawl of letters and the hand-drawn picture below:

My Angel

And below that a smiling man in cloak and mask, with wings drawn at the back.

"Her daughter drew the picture to give to you," Madame continued very softly. "The child you helped. I gave the mother the franc notes for the child – Tina – to see a qualified physician, without telling her it was by your order, as you asked of me. Her mother was very grateful – though I do not understand why you wish to remain anonymous. Such a generous deed should not go unrewarded and would surely gain you public favor. It could help boost interest in this Don Juan opera, if failure of its positive reception is what has you so concerned."

Past, present, and future collided in a macabre swirl, the events of all shadows reflecting like chaotic lights of prisms in this bizarre parody of the moment now lived. If the timing of events did not crush his soul, he might have fallen under the weight of crazed laughter. Providence indeed did have a wicked sense of humor.

"Say nothing." His voice came out a low rumble, barely recognizable. "But speak to the managers at once."

With that he turned and swept out of her office before he did something he would later come to regret.

xXx

"Only one more day of this," Christine muttered to herself, wondering why she had ever wanted to become part of the chorus.

Later in the afternoon they would begin rehearsals for the new opera, and continue through the week, but during the nights they would perform this final week of Il Muto. Officially, her last day to dance should have been yesterday, Erik wanting her to get as much rest as possible for her upcoming debut. But Bridgett was sick and Christine agreed to Madame's request to fill in her spot for tonight's performance. Unfortunately, that put her in position next to Chantel who had sneered at her throughout practice and snorted when Christine fouled up in her steps. Twice Christine barely prevented herself from slapping the superior smile off the hussy's painted face. One minute more, and she would have followed through with the overpowering urge. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed when Madame called a temporary end to practice and ordered everyone to take a break.

With her head down, Christine retied the slipping ribbon that did a poor attempt of holding back her unruly hair and did not pay close attention to where she was going. She almost walked into someone, a pair of strong hands grabbing her arms before she could step on any toes.

"Oh – pardon." She looked up in apology, her manner cooling when she stared into the constant blue eyes of Raoul. Their color, she noticed, was a match to his stable somewhat predictable personality.

She barely withheld a groan. Not this. She did not need this right now.

"Christine, are you alright?"

At the genuine worry in his tone, she felt bad for her unkind thought and managed to smile. "It was only a difficult practice. I'm fine."

He nodded, his expression solemn. "I would like to speak with you, if I may?"

"Now is not a good time. I'm sorry."

She moved around him, hoping he wouldn't follow. The last thing she needed was for Erik to see them together. Madame had told her that he would be visiting with her early today, to discuss matters, and Christine had many questions. After the horrible misunderstanding on the rooftop, she did not want him to misconstrue her speaking alone with her old friend. Things were already bad enough between them for whatever reason Erik chose to foster. She did not need them getting worse.

"Please, Christine, it's important." She felt Raoul grab her arm above the elbow to stop her and she looked at him in surprise, relieved that no one was in the vicinity to notice.

"Can it not wait?"

"Why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not." She fidgeted a little at the lie. "What is it you wish to say?"

"It's about your teacher. What do you know about him?"

His questions surprised her. "Why do you ask?"

"I understand no one has seen him, save for you."

"Are you doubting his existence, believing I only made him up in my mind?" She laughed in soft incredulity. "Madame Giry knows him. And Meg has met him. And you must have seen him with me at the ball."

He waved that aside. "I mean no one has seen him on a routine basis. I understand he hides himself from all others and has developed a rather nasty reputation at the opera house."

"He's a private person. There's nothing wrong with that. And really, Raoul, I don't wish to stand in the corridor and defend Erik to you."

"Perhaps we should talk elsewhere."

"Perhaps you should just go."

To her chagrin, Monsieur Firmin chose that moment to walk into view. "What's this?" He sent a warning look to Christine and smiled with effusive geniality at Raoul. "Vicomte, it is indeed a pleasure to have you with us again. Take no mind of the girl. She's a bit flighty as these dancers often are. Have you come to watch the rehearsals for the new production?"

"Yes, but first I was hoping to speak privately with Miss Daaé."

"Ah, of course," her manager said in his smarmy tone reserved for the Vicomte, "I'm sure that can easily be arranged and Miss Daaé will be happy to oblige you in whatever way you wish."

Her face flushed warm in her irritation as the matter was adroitly snatched from her hands and given an embarrassing spin she did not like one bit.

"Miss Daaé," Firmin turned to look at her, his tone soft but carrying a hint of steel, "why don't you take the Vicomte to your dressing room where you can discuss matters in private?"

"Oh, but I –"

"Yes?" he snapped the word out like a command not to be crossed, his dark brows lifting and black eyes glittering a warning that she should not defy him.

"Dance rehearsal will resume soon," she explained, trying her best to keep a level tone.

"I'm sure they can do well without you for one practice. Besides, you won't be dancing long and will soon be entertaining us with that lovely voice of yours. Run along. I'll make certain that you're not disturbed," he said in an aside to Raoul.

Livid with fury, Christine stiffly walked a few steps ahead of Raoul, sorely tempted to slam the door in his face once she reached the dressing room. But that decision was also wrested from her as he hurried the few steps ahead to open the door, letting her precede him into the room. She walked to the dressing table and snatched her wrapper from the chair, shrugging into it and tying it around her waist with a few quick snaps.

The moment the door closed, Christine whirled to face him. "If your intention in coming here is to further criticize Erik, please don't bother. I love him and nothing you can say will change that."

He sighed and approached her but kept his distance. "I am merely concerned, Lotte. When I hear of an elusive masked villain that has been haunting the opera as a ghost for years, and I learn that my childhood sweetheart has fallen under his spell, thinking herself in love with such a beast –"

"I am in love with him! And never call him by that name! Don't speak evil of him, Raoul. Ever. I thought you were better than that. He can't help it if he has to wear a mask."

"Has to?"

She wished to bite her tongue in half for its disloyal slip. Raoul's eyes narrowed, his interest suddenly sharpened.

"Why should he have to wear a mask, Christine?"

"I'm not answering any more of your prying questions about Erik. I have known him nearly ten years and he is none of the horrid things people say he is. He is wonderful and kind and generous. And very talented. It is HIS opera that I will be performing – did your allegedly informative contacts tell you that? If you can't trust my judgment then you don't know me at all, and that is your problem alone. Now, please go. I would like to lie down and rest before practice resumes."

"Christine ..." he sounded weary. "What happened? I thought at the Bal Masque we parted as friends? Why do you now treat me as your enemy? Have I offended you in some manner? Only tell me, so that I may offer apology and right whatever wrong I've committed."

His eyes implored her for an answer, the gentle blue eyes of the boy who had come to her rescue once for her scarf and many times in their pretenses, giving her companionship when she was lonely, and suddenly she felt like a shrew for her icy behavior toward him. He couldn't know that he had been the root of the problem between her and Erik and that it was because of her time with Raoul on the rooftop that she had almost lost her dear Maestro forever. Nor could Raoul know that he and she were the victims of vicious theatre gossip. He did not live there, only visited on occasion, and no one would risk letting him hear their scandalous rumors for fear of being discharged or offending their sole patron.

She feared anyone seeing her with Raoul and getting the wrong impression, but mostly Erik. She never again wanted to live through another harrowing week like the one she'd spent without him, though his curt distance of late gave her new cause for bitter angst. But Raoul did not deserve her callous disregard either. He had done nothing wrong, and if his line of questioning was arrogant and not favorable to Erik, she knew he only spoke because he did care about her welfare and had never met her Angel.

"I'm sorry, Raoul. I haven't been very kind." She smiled and shrugged lightly, too embarrassed to tell him what people were saying. "I suppose I'm nervous about the opening. A lot of people are expecting much from me, and I don't wish to disappoint."

A smile broke over his face like the sun's rays as he moved forward and took her hands in his, gently squeezing them. "Dear Lotte, you have nothing to fear. You could charm the birds off the trees with your angel's voice."

She smiled at the irony of his remark. "You are kind to me, more than I deserve."

"You deserve more than most men can give."

"Raoul."

At her abrupt warning tone, he grinned and backed away, letting go of her hands. "I only speak the truth. Is there a crime in that? If friends are anything, they should be honest with one another. No, don't look at me like that. I assure you there aren't any hidden motives. I know when I'm beaten. Only ..." He hesitated then reached up with one curled finger to briefly stroke her skin at the corner of her mouth. "Be careful, Christine. I don't want to see you unhappy and I have rarely seen you smile since the day I arrived at the theatre."

"Thank you for your concern," she said quietly, leery of saying too much. "You have often been to me the brother I never had."

His eyes flinched at her deliberate message before he nodded in understanding and again smiled. "Then I shall treat you as the little sister I always wanted. Beware, Lotte, as an older brother I can be very protective. I'm still not pleased with your choice of a reclusive troublemaker for a beau. What do you know about him, really? Where does he come from? When will I meet him – ?"

"Raoul."

He sighed and lifted his hands in surrender. "Alright – for the present. But don't think I won't investigate into the matter. I will be assured that he is worthy of you, my dear. Have you had luncheon?"

"No, I'm not hungry, and I don't have time for a meal even if I was."

"Very well. Perhaps later we may talk in a more comfortable environment – only to talk," he assured with a chuckle at her raised brow. "In some place not so private. For now I shall leave you to your rest and bid you adieu." In a thoroughly noble gesture, he gave a little rolling wave of his hand from his chest as he smiled and said the last word, then left and closed the door behind him.

She had little time to hurry and lock it before the mirror door crashed open. She whirled around, surprised that with the force of his entrance the glass did not shatter.

Her heart fell at the dark scowl that covered her reclusive beau's face. With his white half mask and cold expression, his cloak swirling around his towering form as he stepped into the room – he looked every inch the Phantom of the Opera.

xXx

A/N: Oops.

*smiles

Please review … and have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday! :)