Michel Dupoix had only left his office for a short meeting with one of the owners of the Metropolitan opera house and returned to find a note lying on his mahogany desk addressed to him. There was no posted address to indicate where it came from or who the sender might be. The paper was bright white with black edging, and of obvious high quality. It was fixed with a simple red wax seal. If there had been more pressing correspondence to attend to, he might have tossed the letter aside, but since the meeting had gone well, he was in a jovial mood and opened the seal.
Rapidly the color drained from his pale face as he read:
Greetings Monsieur Dupoix,
I am pleased to see the rehearsals of The Magic Flute proceeding so well. You made an excellent decision in hiring both Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer who performed most admirably at the Opera Populaire. I shall continue to observe rehearsals regularly, and as long I am pleased, there will be no need for interference or further notes such as this one. I do, however require that you begin paying my salary immediately. It shall cost you $25,000 francs a month to avoid any unfortunate accidents.
You may remit my salary and any notes you wish me to receive to Mademoiselle Gianna Burnside.
I remain, your obedient servant,
O.G.
He set the letter down and was transported back to the night he had gone to see the premiere of Don Juan Triumphant at the Opera Populaire. He had planned to take Gianna with him, but she had stayed at the opera house because her mother had been feeling poorly all day. He had been fortunate to make it out of the Populaire alive, and he thanked God Gianna had not been with him. If she had been hurt, he shuddered to think of what it would have done to her mother.
The performance had begun like any other, although the music had been most unusually passionate. A ripple of confusion had passed through the audience at the sudden substitution of one Don Juan for another, but they had settled back, and savored the fiery performance of the two leads. However, it quickly became clear that the duet was more than simply a sequence in the opera, but something far more personal. When the comely soprano had lifted the mask of the man who had begged her to save him, he had gasped along with everyone else. The next thing he knew, the chandelier was crashing to earth and he was fleeing for his life.
The headlines of Le Monde had screamed the next morning with the news of the destruction of one of the premiere opera houses in Paris at the hands of the so-called Phantom of the Opera. His lair had been discovered abandoned, and it was presumed by most that he was dead or dying, languishing in the fetid sewers. Now, after nearly two years of peace, he had returned to his opera house. Dupoix was not willing to risk this place. There was always the possibility that this was a joke, a lame attempt at extortion by one of the more ambitious and greedy cast members, but the fact that the Phantom had mentioned Gianna made him think otherwise. If he had to entrust his secrets to anyone, she was the one person he would have chosen, no matter her sex.
The woman was a cipher to him, and he had known her since she had been born. Gianna was a person who kept to herself and shared counsel with no one, despite the fact she was generally well liked. He knew that she often went without so that every Christmas she could present a small trinket to each member of the staff, a tradition started by her mother when there had been more than enough money for the both of them. Although now that he thought on it, her withdrawal had truly only precipitated with the Buquet incident ten years ago. Even then, Gianna had refused to discuss the particulars of what had happened in that hallway. It had been her mother who had barged into his office wailing that her precious child had been ruined and that the stagehand was the man responsible.
He had quickly assented to her request that Buquet be fired, but was taken aback when Maria had insisted that he be given a good reference. The man had been quickly rehired at the Opera Populaire and later met a sad end, if memory served.
Twenty-five thousand francs was relatively a small price to pay to ensure the safety of this place and all those who worked and lived here. The theater was as prosperous as ever, despite the very public negative critiques of the ballet; in part, due to the fact the Populaire no longer existed to compete with them. In the morning he would contact the bank to procure the necessary notes. Only one question niggled at his thoughts, how had Gianna become involved with the man who called himself Opera Ghost?
Erik observed Dupoix's resignation to his demands from behind a bookcase by peering through a row of tomes on Greek history. Satisfied that his salary would be paid in full by the end of the week, he decided to seek out his spinster.
Now where had that thought come from?
How had one kiss and few fantasies caused him to label her 'his' so soon? That woman belonged to no one, least of all him, and did not seem to desire being wanted by anyone. He adjusted his cloak for maximum concealment and carefully made his way to the secret entrance to her room. He set the panel aside rather noisily so that she could prepare herself for his arrival, but when he confidently strode into the room, she was nowhere to be found.
A quick perusal of the wardrobe told him where she was. Her mangled ballet slippers and toe shoes had gone missing, and her worn practice outfit was absent. Furious that she had disobeyed his specific orders to be waiting for him, Erik replaced the panel and headed down the staircase that would take him to the practice rooms. This time he would not merely observe her from outside the room. He would make her pay for her insolence. She would dance for him whether she liked it or not, he thought, making a fist with his right hand. But there would be no need of violence to persuade her, her reactions to him last night made him confident of that. Physical intimidation would be easy, and a pleasure to carry out. A few stray touches, the murmur of hot words in her ear would be enough to bend her to his will.
When he arrived at the room, the surrounding halls were dark, the only light coming from a lantern that she must have placed in the center of the large mirrored room. Her back was to him, and she was stretching with her left leg on the bar. Her bare right arm was raised in a perfect arch, her fingers splayed artfully as she leaned into the leg. She repeated this move six more times, then straightened up, put both hands on the bar, and raised her leg off of it, holding it aloft for several moments, then lowering it noiselessly to the floor. Only once it made contact she grunted loudly in a most unladylike fashion. Still unaware of his presence, he watched her turn to one side, her left hand grasping the bar tightly as she bent backward. He would not have guessed that a woman of her size could make an arch that deep. Sudden thoughts of his hands on her nude back while she strained in that position beneath him surged through him.
Erik retreated from his position at the entrance, and he turned his back as she moved into the center of the room, moved the lantern to the back of the room so she would be able to move freely. He heard her footfalls and more than a few well chosen curses as she plucked off her slippers, prepared her feet, and laced up her toe shoes. This was what he wanted to see. He was frankly intrigued by the thought of this woman, past the prime of most ballet dancers still determined not forget all she had learned. Giry had told him of the agonies that dancers went through to maintain a high level of excellence knowing that one day they would have to stop because their bodies would simply no longer be capable of doing what was asked of it. Yet this woman subjected herself to it voluntarily, despite her fear of discovery, because she enjoyed it. Perhaps like him, she had masochistic tendencies, determined to punish herself for some perceived sin.
He watched the shadows play against the walls of out-stretched and whirling limbs, and he no longer restrain himself from looking directly at her. Her eyes were closed in intense concentration, and she was humming a tune that he recognized, but could not immediately place. His eyes became drawn to her chest, which without the restraint of a corset revealed an ample bosom. No wonder her corset creaked. To hide the bounty she had been bestowed with could only mean she was wearing one of those wretched English ones designed to rein a woman in, rather than enhance. Tearing his eyes away from that part of her anatomy, he drank in her long shapely legs. The ballet skirt should have fallen to mid-calf but at her height, it fell to just below the knee and flew about her as she turned.
She made use of the entire space, bobbing and weaving, her arms wrapped around her body at times, and at others outstretched to an unseen partner. Suddenly she grasped at some invisible prop and hurled herself to the ground, falling onto her back, her head turned toward him. Now he recognized the tune she had been humming. She had been recreating Giselle's death scene at the end of Act I. And not badly either. He had certainly seen worse. Technically she was not as proficient as some ladies he had seen, but she danced with a fire and passion most lacked. There was only one thing he could do, applaud her efforts.
The sound of clapping, and the words, "Brava! Brava, my dear!" spoken in that voice of his filled her senses, and she pushed herself up, more than slightly embarrassed at what he had seen. Every young dancer dreamed of playing Giselle on the stage, and she had been no different. The tragic tale of a peasant girl destroyed by her love of a man she could never hope to have was the most coveted part currently in ballet for a prima ballerina. And now he stood there, clapping, mocking her dream.
"Strange that you would favor Giselle, what would you know of suffering and dying for the one you love? What would you know of betrayal? Besides, aren't you a bit long in the tooth to be portraying a naïve young girl?" he spat at her.
"That is not your business, sir. And yes, I am all too aware of my advancing age." Unwilling to let him get the best of her, she shot back at him, "Perhaps you do not appreciate the story of a woman whose love survives even her death."
"Giselle was a fool. She could have had Hilarion and lived a happy life. Instead she killed herself because Albrecht deceived her. She threw away a chance at true love because of a fleeting infatuation with a duke. Even if he could have married her, he would have set her aside for a mistress once she gave him children. Perhaps then, she would have had reason to despair," he countered skillfully. "And do not forget, she betrayed Hilarion and then danced him to his death. That certainly makes her a paragon of virtue!" he continued, the sarcasm stinging her.
"You would have her be with a man she did not love! You sir, are the fool. You well know she did not want to kill Hilarion, she was forced to participate. Or did that part of Act II escape you? It would also seem you forget that despite his lies to her, Giselle saves Albrecht. The truth is monsieur, you hate Giselle because it reminds you all too well of that girl, Christine Daaé. Except of course, she did not kill herself or sacrifice herself to save you. Do not think I am unaware of the events of two years past."
The very mention of her name stirred Erik's blood, and he advanced on Gia, his hand raised, itching to slap her. She shrank back at his approach, but did not shield herself, instead seemingly resigned for the blow. "You know nothing, you bitch! I could have taken Christine and made her mine that night, but I let her go. I gave up everything for her, and let her leave with that boy. I rejected her!" he lied, trying to will himself to believe it.
Gia was not taken in for a moment, and continued to press him, she would not let him get the better of her in this argument. "If you rejected her, than why are there drawings of her everywhere in that cave you call home? If you hated her, her visage would be abhorrent to you. Even I can see you still love her."
This time Erik let his hand fly, backhanding her with his right hand. It landed squarely against her right cheek, and raised a red welt. Gia only closed her eyes to blink away the pain, and raised her voice to him, "You dare strike me for telling you the truth, you monster!" She raised her left hand, fully intending to rip his mask off, wanting to bring him similar pain and humiliation, but he deduced her thoughts and prevented her from doing so. With his hand on her wrist, he wrenched it back, forcing her to her knees, but still she would not cry. Instead she used her free hand to grab one of his legs, attempting to pull him to the ground. She was not quick enough, and so Erik gathered her in his arms, and hauled her to one side of the room, pinning her against the bar.
"Once again you dare show me your temper! Did I not teach you a lesson the last time? It would seem your memory is just as faulty as mine." This time instead of meeting her lips in a fierce kiss, he buried his warm lips against her neck, licking and biting his way toward her ear. He gently bit her earlobe, then laved the pain away with his tongue. Gia shuddered as pleasure ripped through her body, and she felt his breath on her ear, "You like that don't you? A little pleasure to temper the pain." His mouth wandered back down her neck, and this time he sucked forcefully on her pulse point, knowing it would mark her, brand her as his own.
Lost in a sea of sensation, Gia knew she had to do something. He would have her in this very room, and she knew she could not call it rape. She wanted this man as she had wanted none other, and that knowledge was painful and frightening. Everything about him called to her, from his mercurial eyes to his sudden flashes of violent displeasure. He made her want to give herself to him, body and soul even though she knew she was not what he really desired. She found herself able to free her right hand, and so she placed it lightly on his burgundy brocade waistcoat, pushing him away.
As his lips left her neck, and she spoke softly and clearly, "She is coming here."
At this he backed away, and Gia felt his weight lift from her. "How do you know? I was told she no longer comes to Paris."
"Meg Giry told me. She received a letter just yesterday. It will be their first trip away from the baby since his birth. They are planning to attend the opening night gala."
"You lie. I spoke to Madame Giry, and she told me nothing of this. I have known her for years, and she would not hide something like this from me."
"I do not know why she deceived you sir, but nonetheless she did. But in her defense, I did tell her I would inform you if she did not."
"Really. You must forgive my skepticism, but why should I believe you? Our association has not been long or particularly cordial." Erik looked directly at her, searching her eyes for lies, but could find none. There was only an odd serenity, as she told him, "I do not want any harm to come to this place. I was certain the sooner you knew of her arrival, the less chance there would be of a repeat of past wrongs."
"For once, you are correct my dear. But that does not explain why you disobeyed my orders to be waiting for me in your room. I do not brook insubordination well," he stated firmly.
"I would have been waiting for you, but for my conversation with Madame Giry. She told me that you were likely to sulk for several days following my previous outburst. I took the opportunity to come here for a little while. If I had thought you would come to me here, I would have remained in my room with a good book for company," she responded evenly.
By God, the woman employed logic like a lawyer! "Fine then, however, until further notice, unless you receive word from me personally, you will await me each evening." Recalling his note to Dupoix, he added, "Dupoix will probably be in contact with you soon about my salary. Try not to be too shocked. Tell him nothing about me. You will relay any messages he has to me at our meetings."
Mutely, she nodded in assent, understanding that she had become the official go between the two men. Before he left her, he moved in close once again, his hand brushing against her neck, "You will most likely need to do something about that," indicating the bruise already forming. Erik and Gianna met each other's gaze, and she could see the guilt in his eyes, asking for her forgiveness.
For the life of her, Gia could not be sure why she replied, "Mama always told me my emotions would get me in trouble. It's a good thing my dresses will cover this," she finished with a small smile. Gathering her things, she walked away, her heart hammering so loudly against her chest she was sure he would hear it.
Erik turned his head to watch her leave the room. Once again, he had forgotten to inquire about the day's rehearsals. Frankly, he no longer cared. Christine was coming, and he had to preparations to make.