The roar of the crowd thundered in Christine's ears, matching the ferocious beat of her heart. She'd won them over, thanks to Erik's strange siren song. They cheered for more, but she had nothing else to sing. Only more arias and operettas: nothing they would endure. She bowed and left them to a silent, open stage.
She's barely escaped into the wings when his honeyed voice whispered in her ear. Wait for me, he bid.
Her heart would not slow. At its beat, her blood rushed in her veins.
Christine tried desperately to meter her pace toward the back of the theater. Running would do her no good. It would only look like fleeing and give people reason to gossip. It would be like dripping fresh blood before a pack of wolves.
Fresh, cold air would do her good. She walked carefully on, metering her steps to match the waltz in three-four time that had begun on stage, headlong into the darkness, until her hands found the stage door. She slipped through into the icy night.
Erik's song was something wholly different.
The act of singing it, something wholly different. He was not in her mind as before, but something of himself was irrevocably woven into the words and melody. Before, he'd used hypnosis and lies to enchant her. He'd utilized fine melodies of other great composers to captivate her. These arias, his songs, empowered her alone as the seductress. They had their own type of power.
She understood him better now. For with such power, how could she fault him for the use of it? No wonder he'd been corrupted, no wonder madness had festered in him. The power he crafted and could wield when perfected was intoxicating. Even she, who knew what damage could come from it, wanted more.
"Christine, you will freeze out here." The subject of her thoughts wrapped his jacket about her shoulders. It was warm and smelled of him. "And this is most assuredly not good for your voice."
She smiled at his concern and finally took notice of her surroundings. She'd made her way toward the bright lights of the carousel. While the theater had been full, the rest of Phantasma looked deserted. "Where is everyone?"
Erik's hand at her back pressed her toward the mechanical wonder. "The performance tonight is the first of its kind here. Most guests are inside. I thought it would be best, for this evening at least, to minimize the number of people." He directed her through a small gate, nodding at its keeper who promptly left his post. "Come, the ride has a heater at its center."
Erik lifted her by the waist onto the slow moving platform. Tinny music filled the air between them.
"Your song—"
"I had truly believed, Christine, that the greatest moment of my life had passed until tonight. Your voice – my song, hearing you sing it — it was unparalleled." Christine brushed off a small piece of tomato that stuck to her skin. "Though I had hoped they would have enjoyed the classical selections more."
Best not to dwell on it, she thought. Walking carefully through the moving horses and animals she asked, "Did you write it for me?"
The expression on his face was unreadable, though the mask stiffly moved above his features. "No, my dear. I have written thousands of songs for your voice, but that was not one of them."
"You imagine yourself a vengeful wolf."
"That song blossomed from darker moments of selfishness."
"It has –"
"A certain power to it, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"Does knowing its origins change it for you?"
"No." She leaned against a stationary chariot, gilded gold and shimmering in its reflection against the center mirrors. She could not look at him when she admitted, "It makes me feel somehow closer to you. As though we are more alike than we imagine, I believe." She did not have the courage to tell him she imagined herself the wolf; that, should he send her away, she may curse him too.
"I am trying to be better," he said to himself more than to her. Somehow that felt right: he, trying to be better, and she, more worldly than before.
She could not help but ache for his touch, her body pulled toward his own as the carousel spun. "You may not admire me as you do if you knew what I've become."
"You can be nothing but an angel."
"Oh Erik. How very wrong you are."
"And what are you, if not an angel? All goodness and light." He stilled by a black stallion, watching her approach with careful eyes.
"A woman."
The answer did not satisfy him, she could see. Nor had it changed his mind. That disappointed her. How she longed to merely be a person, both good and bad in everyone's eyes. It was as though she was eternally cursed to be seen as nothing but sweet, complying, and naive.
Until she wasn't. Until she was the worst of womanhood. The lines were so clear for women – angel or demon. Nothing in between.
She shut her eyes against the disappointment of it all. The diligence it took to stand on her own two feet exhausted her, and Erik's all too simple answers about her kindness and virtue were sweet morphine to the bitter promises she'd made herself.
How dearly she had wished to be her own woman. And oh, how immediately his presence in her life subverted that.
The air about her changed. Charged. Her eyes opened to see Erik before her, his own burning into her with a demanding intensity. Lord, they were unearthly beautiful.
This close, she could see the small fissures in his skin, just outside the mask. She noted the strange mottled paleness around his lips, slightly bulbous and darker on one side. It was all there, yet softened in the carousel's kerosene lamps.
His broad hands rested at her waist and drew her closer to him, "And why can't you be both?" Hunger roughened his already deep voice. The hushed intimacy of his nearness caressed her body until she throbbed with want for him low in her belly. How had he read her thoughts so completely?
She waited, barely breathing, for his lips to touch her own. Surely, he must realize that if she'd not left yet she wanted this. When he did not move, she clutched fate in her own hands, "Kiss me."
His swallowed, suddenly so very still. Christine let her fingers brush through the nape of his collar and brought his lips to hers. He let her, and at the first soft touch of her lips, he sighed.
His lips were cool and dry from in the cold air, but beguiling in their plushness.
It was her turn to sigh. Just as their first time, the fire which smoldered between them flared, burning any hesitancy in its wake. Christine melted against him, her blood thrumming heavy through her veins. When Erik realized her passion matched his own, he took control of the kiss, sliding his mouth firmly over hers, demanding a deeper response to his carnal invasion.
Christine's whole body shivered when he drew her tongue into his mouth. The hungry slide of his tongue against her own, so assured and passionate, scattered every last thought in her head. She was nothing but desperate desire for the man in her embrace.
Rancorous shouts from the direction of the theatre shattered their focus, and they tore themselves apart.
The performance was not due to be over for another hour, but a larger gang of men, well dressed and well kept, had left early. Of course, they were led by none other than Meg's devotee.
Erik took Christine's wrist in his own and pulled her to a hidden door at the center of the carousel, unceremoniously shoving them both into the small mechanical room and shutting the door behind them.
Suddenly, he was so close and the small room so warm. Christine's checks flushed as every single one of her shallow breaths brushed her chest against his. Erik lifted a thin finger to her lips for silence, and the urge to taste him overwhelmed her.
Their voices grew louder until it was clear that they stood amongst the mechanical horses.
"I swore I saw his pansy ass over here."
"You can't miss that black mask of his."
"Have you seen him without it?"
"Must be ugly as sin if the mask is better."
"Quiet." Palmer bit. "He must be around here somewhere."
"Maybe he and that tart ran off together."
"I'm pretty sure I saw her cute ass with him."
"Boy she must be desperate if she's going to take a ride on that."
"I wonder if she moans as pretty as she sings."
Erik's breath was metered and even, as though the conversation outside mattered little to him. But Christine seethed at the hearing of it. These men, these horrible, bawdy, ill-mannered men, who were considered the more reputable members of Mauch Chunk society, could eat the dirt under her shoes, for all she cared for them.
The surprise she'd first felt at hearing their voices and Erik's rushed movements had transformed into a hot ember of rage in her stomach. So many well-meaning and mannered men had transformed before her eyes into disgusting monstrosities – their masculinity and ego the worst of humanity.
Erik ungloved his hand and rested it against her flushed neck, steadying her with his presence. The coolness of his touch returned her to the present. He lifted her chin to look in his eyes. Desire lingered in them. They reminded her that he was with her, their speech was nothing, and soon they would be gone. It did not calm her.
"Let's backtrack to his little chateau," Palmer announced after realizing Erik would not appear.
"I'm sure we'll find him."
"Do you think she fucks him with the mask on?"
Christine stifled her gasp until she choked on it. Anger shimmered down her spine. Erik's grip only tightened slightly on her neck, the gentle pressure telling her not to be offended. That was impossible.
"Are the lights on or off?" Another shouted, the throng laughing in reply. They waited until the gang's voices could no longer be heard.
It was Erik who moved first, removing his hand from Christine's skin the moment her head leaned into his touch. Though in her mind she knew it was not the time or place for such things, still her heart stung with the rejection of it. He would not meet her eyes.
"Come," Erik whispered, opening the door. "It is time I take you home."
He would not let her sit outside in the Spring Song. Instead, they waited for the Bluebell, his hands gently rubbing her arms as they waited. Once it arrived, empty but for a single Phantmasa man, Erik cleared the indoor car and sat across from her, facing the only door anyone would come in through. His mask glowed in the faint light and he fought the smirk pulling at his lips.
His seeming glee only fueled Christine's annoyance. "What makes you smirk like the devil?" She scowled at him. His soft chuckle added to the music of the railcar. He realized at her expression, that whatever joy he'd discovered upon had not naturally extended to her.
"I was merely thinking that my once sweet songbird would have been a very dangerous thing tonight, left to her own devices."
"You patronize me?"
"No," the world sharp, yet careful. "I marvel at your fierceness. Something, or dare I say someone, has hardened you into steel and filled you with fire. And I have never been less envious in my entire life. In fact, I am thankful. I have the benefit of this new nature, but it seems none of the vengeance is saved for me? What upset you so tonight? Those men mean nothing."
"They're vulgar."
"Yes. And they will pay for their vulgarity."
His statement mollified her, though she wondered exactly how they would pay. Christine gazed into Erik's eyes and found no clear madness seething underneath. She would hope he would not kill them. She refused to ask him if he would.
"Why were they looking for you? Why do you work with them?"
"I work with them because I must. Railroad men, company men. They are no different than opera managers and crew. Selfish, egotistical. But to create things of majesty, one must often deal with un-majestic individuals." Christine was not moved by this answer, so he spoke frankly, "They are the muscle when something is expected of me."
"What have you gotten yourself into, Erik?"
"The railroad and Phantasma live in a special type of symbiosis in these rural mountains. I am free to create and create I do, as long as I keep the population entertained. As long as I keep their minds off their long hours and hard working conditions."
"The strike." Her answer took him aback.
"Has been threatened before and will be threatened again. The railroad merely seeks my many assurances."
"How can you given them assurances there won't be a strike?" He did not answer her, but looked ahead. "So all of Phantasma is a lie? Smoke and mirrors to give a pretty façade to the rich men?" While the question was whispered, and meant for only her, Erik took her hand tightly in his own. Whatever his answer, it did not come, and they lurched into the Mauch Chunk station in silence.
Christine rose from her seat to the exit. He followed her, though he stayed carefully on the threshold of the car. His eyes rose to meet hers, ready for her challenge, and though in her own mind she didn't know exactly what she meant, she still asked, "How much of it is a lie?"
"None of it." he answered, embers burning in his voice.