Soul Consumption

Chapter Eleven

Disclaimer: Same as always. I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. It belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Also, I've been introduced to the wonders of Susan Kay's Phantom, so you might see a few things from there (especially dealing with how she ended Erik and Christine's relationship).

Author's Note: This chapter is a lot more… sensual than those before it. Nothing major. Just a warning. Christine-Erik sexual tension. O.o;;


The notes that drifted from the organ made Christine's head spin. She felt like she was being drugged and had to force her eyes open so that she was pulled to her knees by the beautiful music. She had always been lulled by the beautiful music the disfigured man could create… anyone would have been. But she knew that only she was affected in this way, that she was the only one had the urge to cry out from pure passion. Yes, Erik's music affected most people, man and woman, alike. But it affected them with a need to obey. It affected Christine with a need to embrace. She yearned to reach out and touch him.

Slowly, the music turned angry, and with a sudden wave of dread, Christine recognized the music all to clearly. It was ironic that the music seemed to fit her feelings so well. The Point of No Return. It was all to true, and Erik knew it. She had come back a second time, even after he demanded that she not step foot in world once again. She had disobeyed… and this was the price she had to pay. The sensual, passionate ballad that stemmed from the angry notes sent shivers through her body and she had to clench her teeth to stop from murmuring his name.

Erik took his key. He sung softly at first, his voice ever so slowly growing in passion and volume. His head swayed to the sound that pounded out of the organ, his voice growing deep with emotion. Christine swayed on her feet as well. His web had been spun, and she knew that she was now deliciously stuck there.

When Christine started to sing her piece, Erik's body, spare his hands, had gone completely still. He did not rock with the rhythm any longer, only sat, listening and playing. Toward the end, as her chest rose with her voice in a long-held note, the music stopped all together. Christine whispered the last phrase, "We've past the point of no return…" and then stumbled back on an oath when she realized Erik now stood in front of her.

Neither of them spoke. Erik stared down at her, his eyes blazing bright in the dim candlelight of the room. His hands clenched and unclenched as the urge to draw her to him became almost unbearable. Christine stared up at him, her own eyes half-lidded, the music still drumming through her veins like morphine.

It was Christine who took a step forward. Her body was no more than an inch from his now; Erik could feel the heat radiating from her small frame. She raised one hand and let it trail up his arm. When it reached the bare skin of his neck, his muscles tightened as he tried to control himself. This was no longer a need of comfort from the girl… it was pure need, pure want. Her skin, so warm and soothing, against his own chilled flesh was like being burned with a hot poker.

"Christine," he was able to rasp.

"Shhh," she murmured, her voice almost inaudible despite the thick silence that had settled across the room. Her fingers moved to dance across the ceramic white mask that shielded his face from degrading eyes.

When her hand slid to the back of his head where nearly invisible strings held the mask upon his head, Erik felt his stomach muscles tighten in fear. With one quick tug of the strings, the mask tumbled away from his face and to their feet. Erik closed his eyes. He did not want to see the renewed disgust play on her beautiful face… he did not want to see the regret in her eyes. How could I have even thought I loved this monster? she would ask herself before stepping away from him.

Erik felt soft flutters across his skin, as if butterflies were letting their wings stroke his face to calm him. His chest heaved as they flicked over his malformed lips, his closed eyelids, and his sunken cheeks. But he soon realized that butterflies were not touching him. No… it was not butterflies that soothed his soul.

It was Christine.

He slowly opened his eyes. Christine still stood there, her body practically pressed against the length of his. Her hand was still raised, hovering over his right cheek. When his gaze caught hers, her hand moved to press against the chilled skin. She looked upon him without regret, without disgust. Only with mild curiosity mixed with burning passion and emotions that swam in her eyes like sirens.

"Oh, Christine…"

"I made the mistake of leaving you once, Erik," she said quietly. "I did not want to… I was finally ready to stay. But you told me to go, and Raoul was pulling me toward the boat that would take me away from you…" Her voice cracked and she looked away as she continued speaking. "I won't make that mistake again. The Persian has taken the boat, and Raoul is not here to pull me along…"

Silence set forth once again until Christine broke it. She looked up at him, her blue eyes suspiciously bright and determined. "You will not tell me to go this time, Erik. I won't let you."

"Christine," he said, voice pained. His eyes were clouded. Her soft skin touching his was driving him mad! "There is nothing for you here."

"Oh, Erik," she said with a soft laugh. "You are here."

"I am nothing." The words slashed through him like a well-sharpened knife. The truth in them rang clear, like breaking crystal.

"I went mad without you," she whispered, as if afraid someone would hear. "I went absolutely mad knowing that it was my fault you were dead. I was distant from Raoul, who only tried to love me. I kept away from my maids' prying ears and gossip of my condition. I sat alone in that God blessed house, willing myself to do something to keep my promise to you. But I was held there with stone, and I could not move. I could not move, Erik. I was a prisoner in my own home!" She stopped suddenly, her breathing labored.

When she continued, Erik could feel his heart breaking at the anguish that poisoned her beautiful voice. "I dreamt of your every night… I saw you here, in my dreams, playing that infernal music that beat my senses bloody and made my blood course like a stream. And I went mad with guilt, with pain, with love that I did not understand! Oh, God, Erik!"

She moved to turn away, but his touch stopped her. His hand, graceful and long, came to rest over hers. She looked up at him with tearful eyes, his heart starting to pound in painful need and pleasure as his long fingers slid in between her own.

Erik brought his other hand slowly to her face. He did not touch at first. He let his hand linger in the thick air, scared that if he touched her, she would come to her senses and flee. The fact that his mask still laid untouched on the floor amazed him. After seeing her still standing before him without that ugly disgust in her eyes, all thoughts of returning the mask to his face as quickly as possible vanished. Swallowing the fear, he touched her face. His fingers caressed skin and intertwined with the tangled locks of her hair. His thumb brushed against her trembling lips.

He felt heat wash through him as Christine turned her face against his hand. Her lips pressed against his palm. Her hand had dropped from his face and now hung at her side, though she had refused to let Erik's other hand go. Her fingers were laced tightly with his, as if she were scared he would attempt to free himself if her grip became too lax.

"Christine…" He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. The closeness of their faces had them gazing into each other's eyes. "Oh, Christine…"

When her head tilted back and she brushed her lips against his pale forehead, all was lost. Pulling her to him so that their bodies seemed to mold together into one, he no longer was afraid of her rejection. He did not see rejection in her eyes or her movements. He did not think of the times before when she had lied to him and tried to trick him using his own love against him. But now, such things could not blind him.

Erik's experience with woman was limited. However, his feral instincts caused his to slide his hand into the mass of dark curls. Taking a handful, he pulled Christine's head back farther. His mouth came down on hers softly, but behind the gentle show of affection, passion throbbed, and neither could deny it any longer.


The Persian didn't expect to come face to face with a man when he slipped out from one of the secret passages. However, things were never as they seemed they would be in his cursed place. He knew that now.

He hadn't been cautious of his entrance… no one cared about the basement of the Opera House. He'd heard the workers talking amongst themselves. The basement was dirty and frightening, and they didn't want to have to do more work than was needed. And anyway, the fire had never reached below to the cellars, so there was no need. However, the Daroga's carelessness brought him to a tense moment. He stood there, frozen in mid-step from coming out of a passageway, staring into the cold eyes of a nicely dressed man. Neither spoke. Both stood rigidly, debating what their next move was to be.

The corridor he'd chosen to take was a small one that was right off of the Entrance Hall. As the floor was so crowded, the Daroga hadn't thought that anyone would notice him. However, he'd frozen in fright as he stepped from the doorway. A man already occupied the corridor, and when the secret doorway creaked as the stone shifted, he turned around with narrowed eyes.

That left them in their current predicament.

The thought to swiftly press the small button and return down the passageway, it disappeared just as fast. This man did not look like the stupid type. Cold intelligence lingered in his dark eyes. The Persian man was not one to go by first impressions; he'd met many people, Erik included, that had tossed his first impression out the window. But at this point, he had no choice. He couldn't chance the man somehow finding the small nail-sized button that would allow him down into Erik's lair.

"Well friend," the man said, putting his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "We are indeed in a dilemma."

"We are," the Persian replied. He smirked when the man raised a brow, most likely at his accented French. "The question is, what on earth should we do about it?"

The man tilted his head, quite amused. The Daroga recognized the look: it was one he'd seen on Erik's face many a time, though the one on this aristocrat's face was much less severe. It was the look a cat had right before it pounced a mouse.

"Well… I can politely ask why on earth you are coming out of a dook that is meant to be hidden," he offered with a shrug.

"And I can politely decline to answer."

Dark eyes flashed with a hint of impatience, but the irritated look was gone in seconds. "Then we are indeed in a dilemma," the man said with a nod. "And so, the stories are true, I must imagine. That somehow, a man did live below the Opera House, sneaking about through secret passageways to torture the managers and the staff alike. Tell me," he said with mock laughter, "are you the Phantom of the Opera?"

"No," the Persian said with a dangerous smirk. "Though I am no one to be reckoned with. My business here is none of yours."

"Oh, but it is, I assure you." He took out a pocket watch and glanced casually at the face of the expensive accessory. "Who are you?" The pocket watch was snapped shut.

"That is none of your concern."

"But my dear friend, it is." He shifted his weight, swinging the pocket watch by the chain. His fluid actions put the dark-skinned man on guard. "You see, I own half of this place. And therefore, what goes on inside its walls is indeed my concern. Especially as I've been privileged to see certain things this morning that I did not know. Tell me, does every room have a hidden door that leads to the cellars?"

"It's your concern to know," the Persian said, raising a dark eyebrow. "It is not my concern to tell you."

"My patience wears thin with you, sir," he said hotly, his eyes narrowing.

"That is a pity. I shall stop wasting your time, then." The Daroga stepped back behind the doorway before the man before him could react. The rock shifted, and again closed to reveal nothing but a seemingly plain stonewall.

Gritting his teeth, the dark eyed man immediately moved toward the wall. His hand came out, but he felt nothing but ridges. He continued to drag his hands over the rough, cold stone, narrowing his eyes as his search proved unsuccessful. How on earth did you open a slab of rock without having it beaten down!

The idea hit him as Raoul stumbled upon him. The blue-eyed boy looked at him with confused, troubled eyes. "Have you seen Christine? And what in heaven's name are you doing to the wall, Corin?" Raoul's face paled at Corin's icy stare. Memories of a dark man he did not know leading him through a secret hole in a wall, and then into a room of torture that was located in Erik's home, slammed into his mind. The remembrance made him feel sick, and bile threatened to burn his throat. "Oh my God..."