Chapter 10

Author's note: Okay, sorry this took so long. I've been busy. Oh, and sorry for the random bold font. I honestly don't know how that happened. P D…M computer.

Phelan fingered the severed tendril of hair in his long fingers. It was the binding force that would keep Christine with him forever. It seemed strange, he had initially left his home to search for the mysterious invention that Erik had made, and he had found an angel. She was perfect, the sort of woman that he was sure he would never tire of; well, not soon anyway. What was even more wonderful was that she was Erik's friend. Now hat she had given him, freely, a lock of her beautiful hair, she would have no choice was to become the key that would unlock the secrets of Erik. What a rewarding day.

Raoul sat alone in his parlor. Scattered about his feet like dead moths lay various editions of newspapers, all telling of the genius who had created Don Juan Triumphant. The papers had even coined a silly nickname for the opera, Don J.T. Ridiculous as it seemed, the former freak-show member was a celebratory. As soon as he decided to show up he would be hailed by one and all. His masked face would probably be seen as an attraction. His madness would be equally well accepted; after all, all artists are a little insane. A great artist has a right to be completely, stark, loony, raving mad.

Without anyone to talk to, Raoul brooded over his predicament. It had been difficult enough to keep Christine his while Erik was the Phantom. Now that he was 'the artist' she would probably be in his arms the moment he arrived. Of course, that is presuming that he hadn't committed suicide after learning of Christine's betrayal. The latter possibility was no comfort whatsoever. If it was true, Christine would never forgive him.

It was only a half an hour until Christine would return from the opera. That was, of course, assuming that she hadn't been carried off by her precious angel. Raoul frowned, wallowing in self pity. Breaking his thoughts, a knock resounded at the door.

"I'll get it monsieur," a maid called, "Never you mind monsieur, I'll get the door. You just relax and take it easy like, and I'll get the door. You just…"

"Oh for the love of heaven!" Raoul cried, "I'll get the door."

The maid smiled. That scenario worked every time. She went back to her tippling the merlot.

Raoul ambled to the great door and opened it. Standing dressed all black silk, with a long cape, was Phelan.

"Good day, sir!" he said brightly.

"Oh, yes, good day," Raoul replied grouchily.

"I said, good day, sir," Phelan repeated.

"Yes, and so did I!" Raoul answered, irritated.

"I meant that it was a good day," Phelan continued.

"Yes, I know," Raoul muttered, "Now kindly state your business or leave the premises."

"Me? Me take orders from an insignificant little bug-eyes snit? I should say not!" Phelan said, laughing.

"Are you drunk?" Raoul asked, incredulous. No one had ever poked fun of him before.

"No, I'm not, Monsieur le Fop," Phelan laughed, "I am very happy! Of course, a muff like yourself could never understand true happiness, the kind that comes with danger and trickery and law-breaking!"

Raoul had no response. The tall, laughing man in black made him feel small and unable to defend himself. He did not care for the feeling.

"Put out your chubby, white hand!" Phelan commanded.

"Absolutely not," Raoul replied, "Go home and sleep whatever it is that you are on off."

Phelan grabbed Raoul's hand and pinched it until the viscount cried out in pain. "When I give a command, I expect it to be obeyed!" he grated, twisting Raoul's arm behind his back.

"What are you going to do?" Raoul gasped, wincing.

"You'll see," Phelan cackled. He grinned to himself. "I could use another ferryman."

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