A/N: Again, I am so sorry about the wait. Spring Break came and went… and I got absolutely no writing done. Then this weekend, I was hit sufficiently over the head with a bad head cold. Everyday I look at this site, seeing the hit counter go up, and know you're antsy for a new one.

However, remember, I still like comments if you want to leave one.

A reminder to everyone: I am taking from Leroux, ALW, and the movie. This chapter in some instances combines all of the above.

I promise another chapter soon!

Thank you for waiting! I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 16- Darkness

He knew it was wrong of him to go snooping and read the journal she kept, but it was just sitting there, upon the desk, as though she were trying to test him to see if he would actually read it or not on his movements about the Opera. Well, he was tempted, and it was for the sole purpose of getting better into that vile woman's mind so that he could eventually control her like he controlled everyone else. Some the things he read, tough… some of those dark things… he could have sworn it was himself who had written them. He never thought a woman could think such dark thoughts, but it was apparent that she was suffering through something much like he was. She had lost the person she loved dearly, and she expressed that unquenchable pain in loneliness through her words. Her macabre words. But it was apparent she was slowly, but surely, learning to live with that loneliness and the thought that she would never share her life with anyone she truly loved again.

Still, though, he still could not totally get past the fact that she was completely capable of going out and at least finding happiness with someone else. She was still youthful, even if she said she was not. She was quite pleasing to one's eyes, though not as beautiful as Christine. She was quite intriguing in so many ways… dare he say even an intellectual match to someone like himself? Her writing showcased that much if no one even spoke a word to the quick-witted woman. He did have to realize, nonetheless, that men like the Chagnys did not want that kind of woman. They wanted a wife who was content to do nothing but take tea with other society women, gossip endlessly about this trivial thing or that trivial thing, and be pretty on their arms at social engagements.

He was quite certain that Constance would rather die than be placed in that situation. And if she was in that situation, she would die if she could open her mouth to express her views freely enough. And she most definitely would not marry anyone out of her station. So perhaps she would be lonely forever.

What surprised him the most, though, was what she had written about him. Every time he was around her, she acted as though she were disgusted with him or, at least, displeased about having to deal with. Her words led him to believe something quite different. Reading past the part where she retold Christine's story, he came across more current entries about himself and the meetings she had had with him. And what was there was completely different than he would have expected. She wrote the things he expected- that she pitied him and that she wondered just where his home was. But she also wrote that she saw him not as an adversary, but as a business partner-like person. Someone who understood her. As a possible ally and friend.

A friend!

It was so absurd, he had almost laughed out loud at it. How could she think that with the way she acted toward him? How could he ever believe her intentions were that good? Was she intending to lure him out of his darkness so that she could at last have the final blow at what was left of his already shredded dignity and empty life? What would that final blow be? Would she go back on her word and tell someone that he still resided in the Opera?

Was she that deceitful?

He could honestly say he did not know if she would or could ever be that deceitful or not, not being able to pin down her personality exactly, though he usually considered himself a good judge of character right from the start. Oh how she vexed him! The uninvolved look she often wore, he felt, veiled her face and real intentions, and was something that could potentially be a great deal of trouble for him. He could never quite get a good idea about what she was thinking. And now, with her saying one thing, and thinking another, he did not know what to believe. So for now, he would remain his guarded self, being ever wary of the woman.

He could not trust anyone… not yet, and he was sure he almost never would be able to trust. Not after Christine.

Coming back out into his box, he sat down in the shadowed seat, finding that the auditions had already progressed to the mezzo-sopranos. He had not realized he had spent so much time walking around the dark passageways thinking to himself about the vexing creature that was his manager. Lefevre was an easy one to understand; Firmin and André were slightly more difficult, but still quite easy. So why was this woman a complete riddle to him? Was it just because she was a woman? The minds of men were always particularly one-track, he had to admit. Perhaps that was why they were so easy to manipulate. The minds of women, however, in his very limited experience of women, were always deceiving and plotting and well guarded.

This woman was beyond regular women, however, and for a quick moment, he felt slight desperation that he would never actually have the upper hand in anything again having to do with this Opera, despite the argument that had occurred already this day, and with what he knew from reading her journal.

He shifted in his seat, uneasiness filling his senses. Looking down at the proceedings, though, told him exactly why he was feeling ill at ease. Constance was sitting in the spot she had been earlier in the day, but instead of watching the performers, or looking through paperwork, her murky green eyes were focused on his box with her face contorted into a pinched look of resentment. He knew she could not see him from where the seat was, further back into the box, and without a lighted chandelier hanging overhead to illuminate the building. Did she know he was there? Had she sensed him there? She certainly had not been gazing up at the box when he had reemerged.

Reyer thanked the vocalist on stage, and Constance turned her attention in that direction. He saw her shoulders heave in an exaggerated, disgruntled sigh as she gave a quick disgusted shake of her head. She smiled at the woman on stage and glanced at Reyer again, then down at her papers as silence filled the auditorium and no others appeared for auditions. He supposed that the mezzo auditions were now complete, and they were waiting for the sopranos to arrive. These women trickled into the room slowly, seemingly thinking that they were a shoo-in for Prima Donna with their heads held high, noses snootily placed in the air. That was just what the Opera Populaire needed, another one like Carlotta. But he was safe in the thought that once Christine arrived, there would no doubt as to who would be Prima Donna.

The doors opened again, and in strode the elder Chagny brother, as though he owned the place. Constance turned in her seat, toward the commotion, standing up quickly to go to him. She smoothed her crinkled dress out as she walked, stopping in front of him. Philippe smiled brightly and made to lean down over her, to kiss her not on the cheek like was appropriate, but squarely on her lips in front of everyone there as though it were his right and that Constance was already his wife. Constance, though, realized that, and quickly moved her head, so that his lips did land on her cheek and at an awkward position. Philippe stepped back from her, a look of dejection clearly written on his face.

Erik laughed to himself. Was it so horrible that he got a sick sort of pleasure from watching that play out? Really, seeing that even the elder of the Chagny brothers, and the more debonair of the two, could not have the same yielding affect on all women was quite refreshing. He had seen many a time that Philippe had made acquaintances within the Opera, during the time that he was Patron, but nearly every woman he came into contact with was more than willing to disrobe and lay on a bed so that Philippe could have his way with them. Even the affluent daughters of dignitaries and society men, held to a higher standard than everyone else, would literally bend over backwards for him. After all, he had seen bits of that through the mirror-blocked passageways.

And Philippe's sniveling rat of a brother was no different either.

Constance said something to Philippe in a snippy manner, and the look on Philippe's face grew even more dejected. Erik had to congratulate her on being able to put the man in his place… just like she had done a good number of times with him. So he was not the only one.

From the doorway, he saw Raoul enter with the beautiful Christine on his arm. She wore a particularly splendid dress for the occasion, though it was not quite that of what she would wear for a performance or a ball, but she had dressed the part. Oh what joys money could buy! Confidence exuded from her, something that he had rarely seen from her in all the time he was giving her lessons. That was why she had been so easy to manipulate. He had been her confidence. She had the voice… she just needed the confidence to sing… the confidence that her father gave her before he passed away. But she was different now. Stronger. Not as a resigned to the world.

What he had preyed on was her need for companionship; her need for someone to run her life for her. He was content to use his powers to trick her, so that she would love him unconditionally. And since her mind had never matured until the likes of the Vicomte came around, he had had a very good shot at succeeding in having her. He had never wanted a woman who could think for herself and one day realize what wool he had been pulling over her eyes or, at least, see the hideousness that was his face and run away from him. But Christine had realized it, the instant she saw what mature, proper love was.

Perhaps he had only liked the idea of Christine. Perhaps he had only loved the idea of Christine.

The thought sent a chill through his already cold body, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Had he really gotten so obsessed with that thought that he had made himself believe he was in love with her? No, he had been in love with her. That was the only explanation to why he felt as he did every time he thought of her- like his heart, that had only ever been alive with her around and singing for him, was being ripped from his body.

Constance cleared her throat, and called out, "Messieurs, I am afraid this is a closed audition for the performers only."

Raoul stopped and looked at his wife. Christine smiled brightly, turning to Raoul, and saying something to him in a whisper. He nodded, kissing her deeply before uttering what sounded like a 'good luck' from Erik's vantage, Philippe joining his brother as they went out of the theatre and closed the doors. Christine let out a long sigh, slipping into a seat, waiting patiently to be called to her audition. The singers dwindled down slowly, and none of them were very good. There was one or two that would probably be signed on for lesser positions in the Opera, and probably as an understudy for Christine.

When it finally came time for Christine, she mounted the wooden stage, gliding across it effortlessly to come to stand still facing out into the audience. She cleared her throat and smiled, her dark eyes lighting up with glee, her cheeks flushing with excitement. Oh how he had loved to watch her prepare to sing. Reyer smiled back at her, "It is good to see you back again, Madame. I do not believe we will need you to do the two pieces as required by the others."

"Please, Monsieur, do not treat me with any great favor," she said. "I wish to earn this spot as fairly as possible."

Reyer nodded his head, "Very well, Madame. What is your prepared piece?"

"I will sing 'O Patria Mia' from Aïda," Christine said, and wasted no time in her rendition of the song. The instant she opened her mouth, Erik found that he was utterly beside himself… like it once was between them a few years ago before that fateful night. She sang with such beauty, her voice complete perfection, even after being without his teachings. Her confidence allowed her this perfection without him. And that hurt him greatly. She most certainly no longer needed him.

Tears crept to his eyes, and he willed them away as best it could, but it was useless. Useless to try and not cry over her. He had stopped for the past few years, finding some peace in his loneliness, but now with her back, the salty tears stinging his eyes were more prevalent. Pulling his mask away from his face, he brought his gloved hands up and quickly brushed the tears away, trying to get control of his emotions before he did something infinitely senseless.

She held her last note, as clear as a bell, and released expertly, her chest heaving for air. Reyer nodded, a large smile on his features, "And let us hear 'Think Of Me' for your sight reading."

"But Monsieur," she began.

He held his hand up to silence her, "I know Madame, but you must know by now that you are to be the Prima Donna. Sing it for us."

"Yes, Monsieur," she beamed, and cleared her throat as the pianist played the entrance to the music. Memories of that night, seemingly now so long ago, flooded his head. That night he had listened to her from below the stage. The night he led her down the cellars of the Opera to his home. It was that night and the following morning he had laid bare all of his intentions to her. It was the last night he felt her completely pliable to his will… as he ran his hands along her lithe body as a regular man would have. The night he had laid her in his bed...

Before he knew it, the music was over and Christine bowed her head slightly as she made her way off of the stage. He watched her closely, closing his eyes for a moment in another hope for some kind of emotional control, opening them back up only to find her now glancing up at the box. Was she looking for him? Remembering him? The look on her face was now one of great regret and sadness. Could she really be remembering him and regretting the choice she had made?

If so, then it served her right. She had her chance, and it was now gone. He could never allow her to nearly incapacitate him again.

Her eyes drifted away, down to the floor as she continued along the aisle toward the doors to exit the auditorium. He let out a long, heavy breath. This was going to be more than very difficult having her back in the Opera… he was sure of that now. Trying to keep his mind away from her would be useless, and then, slowly, wanting to touch her and be with her would begin to take precedent over everything in his life… he could already feel it. There was a very real possibility he could repeat his terrorization of the Opera again, because of her.

But he did not want to do it. He would fight it away as long as he could. Hopefully by then, he would find someway to deal with it… perhaps by pouring it into another piece of music.

Or could he go and speak about it to Constance? After all, she seemed so willing to give advice when it was not wanted. The one thing, though, that she could do very easily that no other could, was anger him to no end so that all he could think about was her. That was a good thing. Maybe he would have to visit her more often if it meant his mind was taken away from Christine, whether they were friendly conversations or not.

He shook his head angrily, at the thought that he was again having to depend on the manager for his livelihood. Standing from his seat, he replaced the mask on his face, and made for the side panel and left to pace about the secret passageways for a bit until everyone left. How was he to live with this?