A/N: Thank you so much to my five beautiful reviewers...I can't stress how much I appreciate it. Here is another small installment. I will update more soon. I have decided, however, to drift away from the ALW version a little, as much as I adore the plot he created, I want to have a little fun and create one of my own. insert evil laugh here
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Phantom of the Opera is regretably not mine and I stake no claims. Nubbin is and always will be mine, however. moo ha ha
Chapter Four. Through the Looking Glass.
He gently picked up the torch from where it had angrily fallen. It did not ignite; he kept it black and smoldering, making sure not to reveal his hiding place as he approached the mirror once more. His muscles tightened when he stared to find the room empty.
There is no way she could have gotten out. He started to panic. Giry wouldn't have betrayed me. Where is she? Where is my angel!
A slight rustling shook him out of his growing fury and he relaxed, his entire body sighing in relief. She was still there, only obscured by a changing screen.
Oh…I forgot, he thought sarcastically. She must get ready for supper.
His lips curled into a smirk at the thought of the Vicomte struggling to figure out why his 'Little Lotte' stood him up.
Hehehe…
She emerged from behind the screen and the laugh was immediately wiped from his thoughts. His body stiffened again, although for entirely different reasons. Every curve of her womanly figure was enhanced with the skimpy bits of fabric that she thought she could conceal herself behind. White lacy stockings crept their way up her legs, stopping to reveal the pale skin of her upper thighs. Her breasts were pressed tight against her lacy corset, each breath forced against them causing them to swell. He couldn't look away; she was enrapturing.
His hand tightened around the torch. Never in his life had he ever wanted something so badly. He had to take her. He had to at least have the chance to make her his. As she slowly moved towards the door he slid the mirror open a crack, the cool draft from the catacombs blowing through the room and extinguishing the small cluster of candles. She jumped, suddenly consumed by mild darkness. It was at that very moment that he released the most powerful weapon he had ever known.
His voice.
Christine stopped as she heard the tremendous sound surround her. The voice caressed her and sent her shivering in places only known to a woman. She responded. There would never be a time when she could refuse her Angel. All thoughts of dinner and the Vicomte were swept from her mind as the Angel's voice flooded her being. There was only here and now.
And…him…Christine thought curiously as a form began to appear through her mirror. My Angel…is a man.
She followed the trail of his voice until they were face to face. Awed, Christine could not stop staring up into his eyes. Even in the shadows, they were filled with such passion and there was nothing that could stop her from taking his extended hand.
…A man…
His breath caught in his throat the moment she placed her tiny hand in his large leather glove.
Is this real? Is that really her flesh in my own? Is that really her touch? Can God be so kind as to grant me my dream? Or is this just another misery in the joke that is my life?
Her fingers tightened around his and the back of his eyes began to sting. She was really there. That was really her. He found a sudden hatred for the gloves, as they restrained against his own skin, longing to feel her touch. Carefully, he began to lead her down the hall, the torch, now ignited, casting a golden sheen to the dank walls.