A/N: Fondest greetings once again, good readers. Just a few notes- I am still deciding on whether or not I should combine this storyline with another I had been planning…if I do, this will be a bit longer than I had originally intended. …A lot longer…

Secondly, half of my pen name will be coming into effect in Part II (but not this chapter!), so the pseudonym won't be as random as it appears.

And no, I'm not bringing vampires into the plot. Sorry. That's reserved for Erik: The Vampire Hunter (awesome phic…go read it!).

Now, no matter where I am,
No matter what I do,
I see your face appearing
Like an unexpected song…
An unexpected song
That only we are hearing…

Unexpected Song by Andrew Lloyd Webber

Part II: HELL IS AN OBSESSION

Two weeks after the first (and last) performance of Don Juan Triumphant

Paris, France

The soft, wispy billows of gentle smoke wafted lethargically towards the ceiling, gathering in mellow gray clouds around the miniature chandelier that hung rather garishly in the center of the room. As they drifted lazily across the scene, a hand sliced through the smoke, curling itself into a fist moments before it hit the desk below with bone-rattling force.

"What the hell do you mean, the inspections have been cancelled?" roared the owner of the fist, clutching a thick cigar in his free fingers, his face darkening to an angry shade of scarlet.

The uniformed man standing in the doorway cast a quick glance at his partner before taking another step forwards. "I'm sorry, monsieur le Baron, but we simply have no further leads. My men have torn the place apart…they've searched every nook and cranny of the cellars, but after the incident two days ago, quite frankly they don't have the morality to keep up a futile search." The inspector spread his gloved hands wide, watching the Baron anxiously. "There's nothing we can do about it now, sir… I am sorry."

The Baron said nothing, his arms squared tensely against his mahogany desk. After a moment, he turned his gaze to the officer, his eyes flashing dangerously. With a quick wave of his hand, the inspector sent his companion out of the room, understanding the Baron's wish for privacy by the glint in his glance. Once the two men were alone, the inspector's stance loosened just a bit, his shoulders becoming less rigid than they had been only moments before. Taking a few strides farther into the room, he removed his hat and waited.

"To which 'incident' were you referring, Gringoire?" the Baron queried thoughtfully, his face startlingly expressionless as he spoke, replacing the cigar between his lips.

Inspector Gringoire looked down at his hands, picking absently at his fingernails. "Surely you heard about the accident, Baron?" he mentioned softly, eyes cast briefly towards the imposing man before him. When the Baron remained silent, Gringoire continued. "Two days ago one of my men happened across a room in the cellars. It was located near the entrance of another route into the basements, a path that had been rendered useless recently due to…the events we were investigating." Something flickered dangerously behind the Baron's stormy gray irises, but Gringoire pretended not to notice.

"Go on," the Baron urged quietly, all the while adjusting a small picture frame on his desk.

Gringoire cleared his throat. "It was a small chamber, no bigger than the room in which we are now standing. But the walls…the walls were plated with thick glass, mirrors, to be exact." The Baron raised his eyebrows at this, his mouth remaining closed. "Blakeney—he's the man we lost—was always a bit too curious for his own good, you see…wandered in, couldn't find his way out. There was no door on the inside, so…" Gringoire paused, his fingers resting on his chin, his bright blue eyes clouded over in thought.

"He died of heat exhaustion, then?" the Baron interjected, setting the portrait back on the table and glancing up at the inspector with professional indifference. "The mirrors must have…"

"Oh no, monsieur le Baron," Gringoire said, shaking his head. "No, if it had truly been just an 'accident,' then perhaps my men would still be willing to go down into the Garnier's cellars."

The Baron sat back in his seat, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyebrows raised. "Then what, pray tell, happened to the man, Gringoire? You told me you hadn't found our man…"

Gringoire held up his hand, cutting off the Baron almost apologetically. "Of course not, sir. You would be the first one informed if we had, I can assure you. No, Blakeney hanged himself, you see." He received merely a steady, blank stare, and the inspector hurriedly continued with his explanation, eager to fill the discomfited silence. "The room…it was very peculiar…" he murmured thoughtfully, unconsciously shuddering. He turned back to the Baron. "Almost as if it had been designed with fates such as Blakeney's in mind. There was a tree in the middle of the room, a very strange tree…"

"A tree?" the Baron repeated incredulously, Gringoire now the object of his full attention.

The inspector nodded quickly in confirmation. "A twisted metal tree, with a rope noose hanging from it…" He shook his head suddenly, as if physically clearing his thoughts. "As you can imagine, it was somewhat difficult, if not damn impossible, to get the rest of my men down into those godforsaken chambers the next day. Stories circulated, and now, after two weeks of unproductive searching…" Gringoire sighed dejectedly, running his short, sausage-like fingers through the wavy blonde locks atop his head. "Well, to be perfectly honest, Monsieur le Baron, they just don't have the heart for it."

"Has the case been officially closed yet?" the Baron asked softly, his gaze faraway as he stared through the carpeting, his large hand resting gently at the base of his neck.

"The captain did it himself this afternoon…signed the paper and everything, monsieur."

A moment of contemplative silence passed in which Gringoire studied the Baron with unblinking, somber eyes. Then: "So this is it, Inspector? This is the end of all our work?"

The inspector nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so, sir. I wish the results could have been more to your liking, but…" He frowned, sighing. "Some things are just not meant to be."

Unbeknownst to Gringoire, a scowl was working its way up onto the Baron's turned face. Hands locked in his lap, he said, "I bid you a good day, Inspector Gringoire."

Understanding his cue to leave, the inspector backed up towards the door, his feathered hat clutched tightly in his gnarled fingers. Just as his hand curled around the doorknob, he paused hesitantly, glancing at the Baron's silhouette. "Monsieur le Baron," he called. The Baron remained motionless, his back facing Gringoire. "Sir, I truly am sorry for your lo-"

"I believe I just bid you good day."

Gringoire swept out the door, closing it behind himself with a faint click. Turning to proceed down the hall, he narrowly avoided a near-collision with his partner, who stood anxiously on the other side of the doorway. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…" Gringoire breathed, clutching his heaving chest in sheer alarm. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, Portarles!"

Officer Portarles grinned apologetically, sweeping off his hat and running a chubby hand across his glistening forehead. "My apologies, monsieur Inspector, my apologies."

Pursing his lips, Gringoire took him by the arm and glanced around for any unwanted servants hovering about the scene. "Eavesdropping on any aristocrat is a bad idea, especially when the said aristocrat is the Baron de Tournay," he hissed in a low voice.

Portarles waved away the inspector's concerns with a light chuckle. "It wasn't as if he said anything of notice, Claude," he replied. "The man barely spoke a word during the entire conversation… If I hadn't heard him grumble a few times, I would have thought you were talking to yourself!"

Gringoire frowned. "The Baron isn't like most of the other nobles around here, Pierre," he whispered anxiously, casting his gaze once more around the corridor. "I've known the man a great deal longer than yourself, and on more than one occasion, I've found myself worrying about his…mental state." He tugged absently at a piece of his honey-colored beard with his thumb and index finger. "The Baron has a lot on his mind…"

They were interrupted by an earsplitting crash that exploded from inside the Baron's chambers. After a moment of stunned silence, Gringoire quickly pulled Portarles by the arm down the hall and out the front door without so much as a look over his shoulder.

The Baron Armand Marquis de Tournay stared blankly at the pile of broken glass and bronze framework that lay in a heap on the floor near the wall. When did that happen? His eyes wandered over the spot on his desk that now sat, quite empty, between two other picture frames, and he nodded to himself in affirmation. With a deep sigh, the Baron pulled himself from his chair, his six-foot frame lumbering across the circular room to the mound of debris.

He knelt beside the various shards, picking up the glass piece by piece with thick yet nimble fingers and laying them delicately in his free palm. His eyes were drawn back to the small portrait that lay, face up, on the ground beside him, and the raging despair returned to his veins in a rush. It took him a few moments to notice the blood seeping through the cracks and crevices of his now-clasped fist, oblivious to the shards of glass that had been lodged into his skin. Cursing to himself, he unclenched his hand and stared down at the tiny pools of crimson, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a small white handkerchief.

His gaze flickered back to the pretty young face that smiled up at him from the ground, the gray eyes forever still and unblinking. Despite the colorless hue of the picture, the Baron could almost picture the brilliant flash of strawberry blonde hair sparkling brightly in the sunlight, her peach-colored lips drawn into a sweet, innocent smile.

Armand de Tournay wiped his hand over his face, his salt-and-pepper moustache bristling against his fingers. His deep gray eyes darkened until they were almost the shade of charcoal, mouth twisting back into a sneering grimace. If the police were incapable of finding the infamous Opera Ghost, perhaps it was time a new investigation was begun.

After all, once he was found, there were methods of death even the authorities were hesitant to use.

One week after the Vicomtesse's return to the de Chagny Estate

Lyons, France

"Sabine, will you please fetch my husband and inform him that it's twenty minutes past suppertime?" The small, mouse-faced girl nodded to the Vicomtesse, picking up her plain brown skirts and scurrying through the doorway of the vaulted-ceiling dining room.

Christine de Chagny stared down at her plate of untouched roasted duck, her fingers pressed against her temples. Truth be told, food was the last thing she wanted at the moment; her stomach felt as if it had been packed with rocks. Biting her lower lip, she picked up her wine glass, still filled to the brim, and brought it to her mouth. The deep burgundy liquid coated her throat like oil as she drank, taking very unladylike gulps of the wine.

The door to the dining room opened, and Sabine reentered, followed shortly by Raoul. Christine placed the cup gingerly back onto the table and gave her husband a small, sincere smile. "You're late for dinner again," she reminded him as he took his seat opposite her.

The corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly, echoing a reflection of a smile. "I'm sorry, Christine…work," Raoul explained, his gaze dropping to the course that sat before him.

She nodded in understanding, trailing her utensil inattentively through the food on her platter. "More paperwork, I presume?" she asked offhandedly, glancing at him from beneath her brow. Raoul simply nodded as he chewed a mouthful of duck. She gazed at him before turning her eyes back to her food. "…Will you be turning into bed late again like last night, Raoul?" she inquired softly, staring determinedly at the silver fork in her fingers.

He paused, looking up at his wife with an unreadable expression lining his face. After a moment, Christine met his gaze, her eyes unblinking. They stared at each other briefly before Raoul returned to his meal. "I suppose that depends…" he answered vaguely.

She continued to watch him vigilantly, lips parted. "Depends on what?" she questioned.

Raoul opened his mouth to answer, but after meeting his wife's stare, decided against it. Instead, he scooped up the last bit of his food with his spoon and chewed it thoughtfully, glancing at the half-empty glass of wine beside him. He wiped his lips with the cloth napkin he had folded in his lap and excused himself from the table, nodding in appreciation to Sabine.

Christine looked after her husband's retreating back, the stones settling once more in her belly.

Placing her hairbrush back down onto her dresser, Christine looked up at her reflection warily, her fingers trailing across the pasty whiteness of her cheeks. Though she had always had a naturally light complexion, lately her skin had been so pale it seemed to be translucent under the right lighting. Her fingers traveled to the corners of her eyes, and she absently rubbed her index fingers against her temples as she stared into her own irises.

Was the rhythmic flickering of the gentle candlelight beside her playing tricks with her weary, aching mind, or had her deep mahogany eyes taken on a rather golden hue?

She squeezed her eyelids shut, her hands resting on her cheeks, and sighed deeply. When she allowed herself to once again look into the mirror, the first aspect of herself to catch her glance was the darkness of the bags beneath her eyes. Black-violet skin sagged beneath her lids, the distinction painstakingly noticeable against her ethereally white cheeks.

No wonder my husband avoids me like the plague at night, Christine thought to herself. I look like a ghost…I look like Death itself… She took a deep breath, eyes drifting shut once more, and leaned her slender, elegant neck against the soft velvet backing of her dark indigo chair. Despite her appearance, she knew that it was not the reason Raoul had resolutely shied away from their bed during the past week. No, the explanation was made scrupulously clear to her each and every time their gazes crossed. Something changed subtly behind his clear cerulean eyes when he met her glance…

From the moment they were left alone in her hotel room, Christine was well aware that Raoul had not believed Erik's story of seduction. It was obvious in the minute hesitation before he had enclosed her in his arms. And once they were home, the hesitation had not vanished… Of course, he still placed his fond kisses atop her head and on her forehead, he still held her when she wordlessly expressed her need for his embrace.

Silently Christine cursed herself for her own incompetence and pitiful weakness. There was no doubt in her mind that Raoul had shouldered responsibilities no man should ever have to face, and therefore he was one of, if not the best, man in all of France; there was no doubt in her mind that he loved her and would do or give anything for the sake of her happiness.

There was also no doubt that he could never claim her whole heart, as it had been torn in two.

She jumped when the door to the master bedroom opened with a low creak. Christine turned to see the figure of her husband standing in the doorway, his eyes locked on her face. After a moment he gave her a little smile and stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him. "Hello," he said softly, taking a few short strides towards her.

"No more paperwork?" Christine asked slowly, rising to her feet with nimble grace.

Raoul shook his head, his gaze flowing gently over his wife. "No more paperwork."

A couple instants of contemplative silence passed between them before Raoul closed the space that separated them and took her petite, delicate hands in his own. "I love you," he murmured simply, his crystalline sapphire eyes sharp and clear with solemnity.

Christine nodded, her gaze falling to her bare feet. "I know," she whispered softly.

He laid her hands at her side and turned away. She watched his retreating back as he headed for his closet, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Wiping them away determinedly, she pulled back the covers of their bed and sat down on the edge of the downy feather mattress, tucking her knees up beneath her chin. After a moment she stretched out on the blanket and pulled the sheets over herself, burying her head in her pillow.

It was a few minutes before she heard the soft moan of additional weight being added to the bed. Raoul climbed in beside her and blew out the candle that sat on the table next to him. They lay side by side, each lost in their own thoughts, before Christine readjusted herself so she was facing her husband. He glanced over at her and smiled gently.

Christine did not smile back. Instead, with a stoic expression on her face, she leaned over and placed her lips on the small sliver of skin exposed by his nightshirt. Raoul blinked, his eyes following her as she edged closer, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. Her mouth moved steadily against his neck, traveling up until she reached his jaw line. Tracing his chin with her kisses, Christine settled herself on top of her husband.

Raoul watched her in mute surprise; Christine had always been the follower in bed, always going along with whatever he began, her eyes wide with innocence. As he gazed up at her tonight, however, he saw her look was of anything but innocence. She sat up abruptly, her legs straddling his torso, and she allowed her fingers to dance carefully across his collar, playing with the buttons of his shirt. Her hands moved down his body slowly, precisely, until his nightshirt was open completely. Without breaking the connection of their glances, Raoul shrugged off the white shirt, propping himself up on his elbows.

Her fingers did not stop there; grasping the curve of his abdomen, she suddenly ripped the buttons of his pants from their holes, easing his trousers down to his knees. It was only then that Raoul's hands came alive; he found the thin strings of her nightgown and fumbled with them, smiling in triumph when he felt skin against skin. Pulling the soft white lace away from her body, he pressed his lips to the smooth tautness of her stomach, his fingers wrapping tightly around her hips as she began to rotate slowly on his waist.

Christine's body tensed for only a few seconds when he found her, her nails digging viciously into his shoulders. Raoul bit his lip, frowning in concentration, not even noticing the flashing, fiery light that began to take over Christine's eyes. She gazed down upon him, her mouth drawn into a tight line, and met his glance boldly. Christine smiled to herself as his eyes melted from icy blue to smoldering amber, glowing golden from behind his mask.

They lay on their backs in the darkness, both awake but neither willing to break the stillness. Finally, Raoul turned over on his side, facing his wife. "Christine…?" he began slowly, his eyes focused piercingly on her face. She turned her head to the side, meeting his gaze.

"Hmm?"

A moment of uncertain, tentative hesitation, then: "Do you still think about him?"

She knew very well who 'he' was. Contemplating her answer thoughtfully, she replied, "Yes."

"Often?"

Her pause was longer this time, and she glanced away from his intense stare. "Yes."

Raoul settled over onto his back, hands folded neatly on his stomach. "Do you think about him while we…?"

The faltering in her response was so brief that her husband almost failed to catch it. "Of course not, Raoul. How can you even ask that?" He considered her and nodded, his countenance void of expression, before rolling over onto his other side so that his back faced her.

"Of course not…"