To all those who are submitting reviews, thank you, thank you, thank you!
This story is just flying from my fingertips, and it's thanks to your kind words of encouragement. And it seems that Rose is edging out Christine in the voting...but it's a pity he doesn't realize that yet...evil laugh
-Kate
Rage! Insult! Anger! Hate! Murder!
He was dizzy with the thick, viscous red rage that engulfed him, pulsing before his eyes and choking his very breath. She had followed him! She had touched him! He hated her! Hated her! He would kill her!
He had reminded her of them! He hated them! He would gladly kill every last one of them! They were the ones who hurt him! They beat him!
The delirious rant in his mind spiraled out of control as he fled into the innermost recesses of the catacombs. He tore into the sanctuary of his dark lair, desperately looking around him as if the familiarity of the objects in his "home" could anchor him back in reality.
He hated her!
But the passion was ebbing somewhat now. He stood before his organ, his shoulders rising and falling as he panted and tried to regain control of himself.
Suddenly, he felt weak and hollow, and so very, very alone. Bon Dieu! He was so lonely that his heart would break, were it not already crushed to a thousand pieces beneath the heels of the world. Oh Christine! If only she would scoop the fragments up on her slender, white hands, the very warmth of her eyes would bring him back to life.
He sank onto the stool before his beloved pipe organ, the only mistress he had ever dared caress. He felt his body trembling, but for once, he did not try to check it. He wanted to be alive to all his emotions tonight. He would call forth everything in his heart and soul and lay it all before Christine's tiny, perfect feet.
His thoughts grew calmer at the soothing balm that his angel always brought to him. At last, he considered himself sufficiently under control to turn his mind to what had just happened.
There was a stab of anger, but it was not the all-consuming mad rage of a few moments ago. No, there was simply planning that had to be done.
Madame Giry would have to be reminded that even her protégée was not exempt from his rules. The girl had already crossed the line once –
His fingers spasmodically clutched at the ivory keys, sending a dissonant shout echoing into the cavern as he remembered that she had touched him.
Even now, his heart raced at the memory. He had been utterly surprised at the sheer strength of the girl's grip. It was not the lazy, laconic grasp of a ballerina. It was something else…
She had touched him.
Her fingers had curled around his wrist. He thanked whatever small mercy God chose to show him that the cuff of his fine linen shirt had remained between her skin and his. He winced at the thought of how close he had come to flinching when she had touched him.
A flinch was not a mysterious movement. It was a movement of weakness, a clue, a bread crumb on a deadly trail to his identity, the truth of his existence.
Damn!
He jumped up from the stool and paced back and forth before the organ, growling like a caged animal.
She had spoken of them. The gypsies…or, the godless bastards as he preferred to call them. He remembered what he had suffered at their hands. It was all there in her voice – the slight hesitation, as if to actually speak of them was to risk returning them to her reality. That hated hush in her voice was too painfully familiar to him. He knew what she had endured.
He stopped in his steps. Into his mind flashed the line of her jaw, the delicacy of her shoulders, the seriousness of her deep grey eyes. He swallowed hard. She had been a defenseless young woman among the gypsies, a tantalizing new blossom unfurling before them.
No wonder she had fought him and pushed him away when he had pinned her to the wall.
No, he realized in a moment of both anger and shame. He knew only the smallest part of what she had endured at their hands.
But it didn't make him hate her any less.
She had better stay out of his way. Giry would have to be told. And God help any of the fools if they interfered with tonight!
Tonight was not for godless bastards, ill-used dancers, nosey stagehands, feckless managers, or even tightly-wound ballet teachers.
Tonight was for his angel.
And tonight, his angel would come for him.
