Chapter 9

Author's note: I am soooo sorry about the use of the word gremlin in the last chapter! I forgot that gremlins were invented by British air-force pilots much later in time than POTO! Gasp! Ok, forgive me. And, as a side note, Phelan has NOTHING to do with that horrible Mary Monk book. The names are a coincidence, nothing more. I certainly would not base one of my characters off a madwoman's book of propaganda (particularly if the madwoman in question had somehow managed to drive a slate pencil into her head). So, if you were wondering, Mary Monk has nothing to do with this fic. Thank you for your cooperation and go green!

Christine bowed at the applause, but felt nothing. Her mind was not in her work as she pondered over the story Phelan had told her. Even as the curtain closed and she was in the backstage world, she did not return to reality.

"Christine?" Meg asked, "What is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, Meg," Christine replied, "I was just… thinking."

"About what?" Meg pressed.

"About… about the opera ghost, actually," Christine admitted.

"I told you he was real," Meg stated bluntly.

Christine smiled. "Yes, he is."

"I need to go now. Mama wants to talk with me about the Don Juan choreography."

"Yes, we can speak later," Christine agreed. She secretly was glad to be left alone.

After Meg had gone, Christine strolled amidst the unused sets and props that were stored away. She was looking for some sign, some trace that the Phantom still prowled these halls. However, there was none. Could it be possible that he might have died? Christine did not allow herself to consider this, however.

Suddenly, a perfectly gloved finger tapped her bare shoulder. She whirled around and saw Phelan, still drenched in stage blood, standing behind her. He smiled.

"Sorry to frighten you," he said cockily.

"What makes you think you frightened me?" Christine asked.

"By the way you jumped just now," Phelan replied, "Rather bemusing, that."

"What do you want?" Christine asked, "Why haven't you cleaned yourself up?"

"Oh, mummy, I'm sorry I'm dirty," Phelan mocked in a falsetto voice, faking a lisp.

"What do you want?" Christine restated firmly.

Phelan smiled. "Must I have a reason for speaking to a lovely, young woman? The Fop and Phantom duo do not seem bound my such restrictions."

"What are you talking about?" Christine asked uneasily.

"My dear diva," Phelan said, taking her hand, "you sang like Titanna tonight!"

"Thank you, monsieur," Christine answered coolly.

"Christine," Phelan said, "really, must you be so cruel? Can't we be… friends?"

"If friendship is all you desire, then I suppose," Christine said warily.

"You are such a Rusalka!" the tenor exclaimed, "Crafty Christine!"

"What do you want!" Christine repeated the statement flatly.

"Do you treat your other friends this way?" Phelan asked. He took her other hand and held it firmly. His gloves were sticky with fake blood. "My dear, surely you must know that you have the voice of a siren! Your music calls all earth to you, Orpheus of the opera! Will you not give me one gift?"

"That would depend on the nature of the gift," Christine stated, pulling her hands away.

"Perhaps, you would grace me with the universal sign of wordless affection? That is, a kiss?"

Christine stepped away from Phelan. "Absolutely not! Are you drunk?"

"Only on your voice! Oh, I have heard the Seelie Court sing less beautifully! Why is it you waste your affection upon the likes of that lace-and-ribbons boy and my own freakish brother?"

"First, whatever I do with my affections can hardly be called a waste. Second, whatever my feelings are towards Erik and Raoul are none of your concern. Last, I care nothing for presumptuous men!" Christine spat her words in order to make her point clear.

"Heartless," Phelan muttered. He turned away and said in a morbidly bemused tone, "So, I may now guess why I cannot find my brother?"

"How dare you!" Christine snapped, "I can assure you, monsieur, Erik is much more of a gentleman than you obviously imagine, and my friend. Yes, he is my friend, and I will not take well to you defaming our relationship, which is an honorable one, I assure you!"

Phelan turned back to face Christine. He looked her straight in her eyes. "If you must behave with honor, might I ask for another gift?" There was an evil gleam in eyes.

"Again, that depends on what you want," Christine said.

"Oh, it isn't anything that will compromise your honor, I assure you."

"What is it?"

"A lock."

"A what?"

"Of your hair," Phelan touched one of her curls.

"Whatever do you want that for?"

"Simply so that when I move on I might always remember the woman who sang like the gods!" Phelan stated his request theatrically, tossing back his head.

"You're leaving?" Christine asked, trying to hide the relief in her voice.

"You haveno idea," Phelan chuckled, "But I feel that my quest is nearing its end. Please, just one lock!" Phelan produced a small pair of shears from his pocket.

Taking them, Christine cagily snipped a small, snaky curl from her abundant tresses.

Phelan snatched it greedily. He smiled, showing all of his very white teeth. "I will treasure this, mademoiselle. It will be the bonding link that will keep you near me forever."

Christine did not like the way her singing partner spoke. She involuntarily shuddered and excused herself as quickly as she could.

Phelan chuckled as he twisted the limp, severed curl. He had obtained exactly what he had wanted.

Ah, isn't that a grand way to end a chapter? Sorry about the slow update. sigh But, the good news is, while I was busy not writing on this fic, I wrote a bunch on my latest novel, making it now a grand total of 49 pages (and I didn't start it that long ago)! sqee with joy. Ok, so please, PLEASE review! I'll try and respond to everyone who does. Lastly, I hope this comes out after FF formats it, but this is how you write Trapdoor Lover in Persian:

دریچه عاشق، دوستدار، فاسق، خاطرخواه

If you can pronouns this, please PM me and tell me how to say it.