"Sing!" he shouted.
Ang flinched. Any question she had regarding whether or not he'd overheard her singing was dispelled with that single-word command. Her anxious heart hammered in her chest, rivaling the pounding of hooves from a runaway horse. She felt her face becoming unnaturally hot, though whether her skin flushed or blanched, she didn't know; either could be true.
Several times, she opened her mouth to respond, her lips simply moving in silence rather than obeying her brain's order to answer him. Finally, she gave a frightened shake of her head and brushed by him, retreating on her crutches down the corridor.
Quick steps behind her had Erik catching up to her hobbled stride, and he cut in front of her, walking backwards to plead with her. "Please! You must sing for me! I have to hear it again!"
Again, Ang tossed her head, keeping her eyes trained on the stone floors as she continued her slow advance toward her room. "No. I don- I don't sing in front of people. I just... I don't." You ruined the Easter program. Crippled and tone-deaf. You sing like a goat. The hated voices bombarded her and she sniffed. "Please, don't ask me to sing. Not again." Tears were already stinging her eyes and she grit her teeth together, hoping sheer will would prevent them from falling.
"I must hear you again, mon ange," he begged, and finally forced her to stop by placing detaining hands on her upper arms, ducking down to peer into her eyes. "Please!"
You sing like a goat. He said it himself. He'll laugh at you again. Then Erik's own voice drifted back through her memories – You sing, or you starve – and Ang trembled. His eyes implored her, boring into her relentlessly. She knew how violent he could become, and part of her bristled at his manipulative nature. True, he hadn't shown it since they had reconciled, but that didn't mean he couldn't wield it again to get what he wanted.
You sing, or you starve.
Ang pulled a deep breath into her lungs, praying her voice would steady itself. It wouldn't. "M-my cage has many r-rooms, damask... and dark... no-nothing there sings-" Her voice came haltingly, weak and whispered from her fear and distress.
"No! Not like that!" he roared. "I heard you behind the door; sing like that!"
Once more, like a nervous tick, she shook her head and pushed passed him. "I can't. Leave me alone, Monsieur. I can't do it."
A long stride caught up with her again and he snagged her elbow. "But, mon ange--"
"NO! I can't!" she snapped, and her arms and leg pumped as quickly as they could, carrying her in as near a sprint down the hall as she could manage.
Erik stared at her retreating back, bewildered, one hand raking over his hair as he skulked his way back to his instruments.
He hadn't misheard, had he? Was it possible what he'd heard actually drifted down from the opera overhead?
No, it had to be her; there was no other explanation. Unless someone else was a master at throwing their voice, his angel was responsible for making the glorious music he heard. He knew it!
Erik plunked himself down upon the organ's bench, knuckles scrubbing at his jaw. He had to hear it again, needed it like he needed his next breath, like an opium addict needed their next fix. Long, tapered fingers danced across the keys, trying to mimic the melody that now haunted him, burrowing relentlessly into his mind.
It wasn't the same!
With a growl he pushed away from the keys and took to pacing. Hands were laced together and clenched tightly at his brain spun possible scenarios which would bring him in contact with that glorious sound again. The only thing he could postulate was lurking outside her bedroom door and await for her to sing again, unaware of his presence. That was the only way, he was certain. If she knew he waited for her to drop her guard, she would never–
And like a bolt of lightning, he suddenly understood what had happened. He jumped to his feet and raced to the kitchen.
The seat across from him remained noticeably, and painfully vacant. She had not come. Now cold, the meal he had so carefully prepared for her pleasure, and his gain, lay untouched. Damn her! A gloved fist thundered against the table as he snarled audibly. How could he hope to coax a song from her lips if she remained in her room? He need that song. He needed that voice. He needed her.
Standing from the table with such speed his chair toppled behind him, the masked man paced around the room, his shoulders taut with annoyance and unfettered curiosity. His angel could sing! Better still, she knew melodies he had never her the likes of in his entire existence, and he wanted more. Like the first taste of opium, the high was gone and he was left hollow and bereft. His fingers curled and clenched. How could he convince this bird—his little lark, he thought with an anguished smile of amusement—to sing?
Fine! If she refused to come to him, he would go to her. He would rewarm the supper, take it to her, and coax the sweet voice from her, force it from her, if needed.
He had not survived to this point in his life without mastering manipulation; his time with the gypsies proved as much. No, if his little songbird refused to sing, he would do what any salesman would to ensure the sale of a lark: deception. He was not so cruel as to blind the poor girl, little good it would do him too, but he had other ways of manipulating her to his will.
From her place on the bed, Ang glanced at the delicate watch on the bedside table and growled, both in her throat and in her stomach. It was far beyond dinner, and even as hungry as she was, she refused to go out and meet him for their usual evening meal. Despite the hours that had lapsed, she still raged and fumed at his arrogance and gall. How dare he. HOW DARE HE! To abuse her voice in the past—going so far as to compare her to a bleating goat!—and then expect her to roll over and do his bidding. Arrogant bastard!
She couldn't sit still any longer, and for the countless time, got up and stalked the floor like an irritated lioness. Perhaps if she walked enough she would tire herself out and simply sleep until the end of the century.
He must have finished with his dinner by now and returned to his precious music. Her upper lip curled in disdain. If his music took on bodily form, he'd marry it in a heartbeat.
Ang moaned and wrapped an arm across her stomach. She felt as if her stomach was trying to eat itself. She glanced at the pocket watch again. Surely by now he had abandoned the dining room and kitchen, and so there was little chance of seeing him while she fixed herself something to eat. Her mind was made up. Crutch-assisted steps carried her to the door, which she yanked open. Before she took half a step, she stumbled back, the very object of her annoyance and ire standing with raised fist as if to knock.
Silently, he stepped into the room with a tray between his hands, and Ang was obliged to scuffle backwards and out of the way, one hand clutching the edge of the door. She watched him with hawk-like intensity as he placed the tray on the table nearest the bed. With rigid posture, he turned to her and gave a swift bow, which she blatantly ignored by turning her head away from him. Without a word, long graceful steps returned him to the door. As soon as he was through it, she forcefully swung the door closed, effectively slamming it on his retreating figure.
Unlike before, the meal was concealed under a large dome of silver, the metal reflecting the candlelight on its polished face. What the hell? Ang stepped to the tray, her anger rising, noting the three roses placed carefully in a crystal bud vase beside the half-filled wine glass. Is this his way of kissing up?
With a sigh, she set the crutches aside and sank onto the edge of the bed. This afternoon-the last several weeks, really-warranted a long drink. Only when it was empty did she lift the dome to reveal what her jailer had brought her to eat.
The meal was small, and more resembled that of a luncheon snack than an actual dinner. Bread, cheeses and some cold meat awaited her under a neatly folded bit of stationary. Rolling her eyes as her tongue pressed against her cheek, Ang plucked up the note, crumpling it in her hands and tossing it beside her on the bed. It was much, much later, when her curiosity got the better of her, and worse yet, when sleep was not very forthcoming, that she unraveled the missive.
Mon Ange,
I must apologize for my demands earlier. I admit I was rather intrigued by your little melody about the songbirds and cages. I had no wish to upset you; your voice was not the true subject of my interest. I find that I have never before heard such a strange and appealing tune, and I find that I cannot quite replicate it. I simply wish for you to teach me the melody that I might add it to the extensive repertoire for further use. I ask for your assistance in haste, for I have been told I become rather consumed with my work.
E.
Ang snorted and flopped back onto the bed, her thoughts churning as she lobbed the paper away from her. Part of her was inwardly hurt at his apparent disregard for her voice, but then again, he'd told her just how much he disliked it, so she shouldn't be surprised. It stung, and that caused her heart to rage all over again.
Another thought came to her then, and she bit her lower lip as it solidified: What sort of catastrophe would she cause if she taught the master of music a song that would be copyrighted a hundred years from now? No one could trace it back to her, so it wasn't as if she could get in trouble for it. Plus, part of her was still convinced this was some sort of coma-induced nightmare or something. But still. Even in her dreams, she was sure she had to be careful.
But why? Why should she tread carefully when he had mistreated her again and again? Snarling, she flopped over to her other side, glaring at the wall.
All night she tossed and turned, and still sleep evaded her hour after hour.
When next she looked with bleary eyes at her watch, it was eleven in the morning, and she felt as if she hadn't slept more than a few minutes at a time.
Coffee. She needed coffee.
Hurriedly pulling on a gown and tugging the laces closed with minimal effort, she hobbled from the room toward the kitchen.
Being so far removed from the world because of the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, Erik was surprisingly adept at predicting behavior in others. Perhaps a lifetime of watching from the shadows made him an expert, or perhaps people were deplorably dull. Either way, he knew she would not emerge from her room until morning, and from the small plate he had given her, he was certain her stomach would be almost painfully empty by the time she roused from her bed.
The moment he heard the click of her door he took action, and began playing a slow, hypnotic tune, not on his piano or even the organ; rather he chose the harp, a far less imposing and suspicious instrument than any of his others. Plucking at the strings, bare fingers teased to life the haunting, nameless song he had used countless times in his past. The music swelled, filling the room and the halls beyond with his trap.
Coffee called to her, but the lure of the music was far stronger than the need for caffeine. In the back of her mind she knew she should ignore the music, ignore him and all his haughty loftiness, but it sounded so sweet, so pure, so evocative. Perhaps if she just lurked down the hall she could listen without actually alerting him to her presence. She was still plenty upset with him, and if he thought some pretty music would suffice to smooth her ruffled feathers, he was wrong. All the while as she argued with herself, her feet shuffled onward, drawing her closer the hypnotic sound.
With keen ears, Erik heard her approach, and the pace of the notes changed, subtly so she wouldn't notice, the song's rhythm meant to entice her further. From the corner of his eye, he saw the faintest movement as the copper-haired beauty lurked in the shadows, entranced by the stirring notes crafted by his hands. Restraining the smile that threatened to stretch his lips, he lifted his chin slightly, allowing the music to wrap around her slender form, pulling her, embracing her, caressing her the way he wished his own fingers could.
From the dim, heavy expression in her eyes, she was fully entranced, trapped in a world of his making, she was like a dreamer walking in the depths of sleep. His music pulled her nearer until she stood at the base of the stairs, her glassy eyes staring up at his seated form as he played.
With a deep, rumbled breath he began to hum.
The tunes did not match, but they complimented each other in such a way that he caught a glimpse of her hand rising to her chest, as though she was trying to keep her heart from leaving it. Her breathing changed, mimicking his own as though she knew the strange song as well as its masked composer.
In the recesses of her mind, a desperate warning clawed at Ang's consciousness, trying to break her free of the trance. It was just a trick, another of his tactics to manipulate her. She knew it as well as she knew her own name.
She should run. Fly to the bath and splash cold water in her face, or drown herself in a strong pot of black coffee. But the music! It felt impossible to fight against. It was soothing, enticing, haunting. Dangerous and beautiful. Every note touched something inside her, lowering her defenses until they were abandoned entirely, and she was left at the mercy of the master at the harp before her. Her lids felt so heavy, and it took such will to keep her eyes from closing.
Her walls crumbled before him, and he turned to watch her fully as his fingers continued to caress the music from the instrument leaning against his shoulder. A single note faltered as he was again struck by her beauty, and his desire to possess it. She had not noticed the misstep, and he used it as an advantage. Shifting the gentle refrain with practiced skill, he turned his alluring, deceiving tune into the strange song she had sung before. He did not rush, playing carefully as he wove each measure together. Note after note he played, recounting the melody as if he had known it all his life, adding flourishes he knew would keep her at ease, would maintain his control over her. Over and over he played, allowing her music to become his, and that wonderful, damning tune she had brought to life hummed behind his lips as he continued to possess her. With great care, he threw his voice, the softest, purest whisper caressing her ear as he sang a handful of words.
"Nothing there sings, not even my lark.
Larks never will, you know, when they're captive...
I'll teach you to be more adaptive..."
She swayed on her feet, leaning toward him at his perch. His voice called to her, pulling at her, reaching into her mind and drawing it out of her. She wanted to sing – no, had to sing, needed to sing, like nothing would fulfill her until she did. Her lips parted and the notes flew from her soul, pure as gold and clear as a bell. Perfection.
The music stopped instantly.
Erik shoved the ornate harp with a growl, sending it back with such strength that it crashed to the ground, demolished in a mess of wires and wood, and Ang shook her head as the spell he'd woven around her shattered. His eyes focused on the ruined instrument before him, then turned slowly to the woman rooted to the floor who blinked at him like a confused owl. What have I done? Erik swallowed. "No more," he whispered. "Forgive me."
Ang glanced around, fighting to remember what had drawn her here, especially since she was still angry with him. Her memory was black. Her attention shifted to the ruined harp in pieces on the ledge above her. She'd left her room for coffee this morning, then-
Music—his music—had floated down the hall. She remembered the way it had called to her, begging for her attention-
Pieces slowly clicked into place. Her eyes turned cold and she glared at him. "What did you do to me?" she hissed, horror and betrayal shining fiercely in her face, her lips trembling in barely contained fury.
He stood in silence, his head dropping in shame.
"What. Did. You. Do?!"
"I-I'm sorry." He said, his voice flat, and yet somehow broken. He had wanted her voice, but the moment that first note left her lips, he could not allow himself to steal it.
Tears shimmered in her eyes as she slowly shook her head. "I always knew what you were capable of... Shame on me for believing-" Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, swallowing the screams she so desperately wanted to hurl at him. "For believing I could trust you." Her jaw tightened and she drew herself up, throwing her shoulders back. "I'm leaving. Good-bye." Spinning on her foot, she resolutely marched away.
He felt the rebuke, and guilt curled in his gut. I'm leaving. He deserved it, deserved to be left again, forever a prisoner of darkness; she, every inch a creature of the light.
But he couldn't let her go. He refused to. He didn't deserve her—he never would—but she belong to him.
Mine.
He leaped from the uppermost platform and hit the ground running, racing after her before he lost her forever.
He caught her arm first, her grip on one crutch failing her as it clattered to the floor, the other slipping from beneath her arm as she was pulled off kilter. Though Ang maintained a solid hold on the wooden handle, it had landed oddly, making it useless in her attempt to flee. She screamed with the force of a gale wind, throwing her fist against the slender plane of his chest, not caring if he bruised.
Ang hoped he bruised.
Her hand ached, but she hit him again until the pain became too sharp and she whimpered. Though her eyes remained dry, emotion crested to bursting within her. She released the remaining crutch and clung to the front of his shirt with both hands, shaking him. "How could you? How could you?! I trusted you!"
Erik accepted each blow, physical and vocal. While her cries and hands pained him, he had suffered far worse, and never had he deserved it more. The hurt that radiated from each word broke his heart, and he instantly wished he hadn't hurt her—again.
She began to flail within his grip, and he started. Scrambling, he tried to hold her still so he could reason with her, but as he struggled, he realized he had no reason to give. He wanted to apologize, but what could he say? Instead, he used his impressive, often underestimated muscles to shift her more squarely within his arms, fending off the blows by restraint. She fought him like a wildcat. He leaned forward to hold her better, and she surged forward on her leg in another vain effort at escape. Her nose brushed against the smooth porcelain of his mask, jarring and shifting it just a little.
They both stilled instantly.
Standing stalemated, nose to nose, his golden amber eyes clashed with her stormy gray ones. Her face was so close to his he wondered if she could see beyond the shield of his mask, and he bore witness to the flecks of silver he had never noticed hidden within her eyes.
Her breath caught on parted lips, lungs seizing and refusing to work the way they were supposed to. Fisted hands and strong arms that had fought against him went slack, both resting gently against his chest rather than using it as leverage to push away. Luminous eyes stared up at him, gazed into his own, searching in bewilderment. The urgency in her flight had vanished, and she stood calmly in the circle of his arms. Gone was the monster from the book, the legend that was the Opera Ghost. He was just... Erik.
Her hands felt like warm, molten fire against his chest. Even through his shirt he could feel the heat radiating off her palms, searing his flesh. She was calm. He was terrified. Only once before had a woman been so close, but that had ended in disaster. His angel's eyes were wide with—dare he think it?—hope. And something else. Her anger was gone now, and she was waiting for something.
For him?
While his touch was cool, it didn't freeze like ice—yet another thing the stories got wrong. What would it feel like to have him touch her in kindness? The flash of thought surprised her and she flushed. He was halfway there as it was, his arms around her more like an embrace than the detaining force it had been before. One small hand left its place over his heart and crept slowly, steadily upward, until her fingers brushed beneath the edge of his mask against his naked jaw.
He twitched, his hands gripping her harder. His eyes slid closed, nostrils flaring beneath the porcelain shield. His breaths grew shallow the closer her hand came, until with impossible slowness, those delicate fingers drew a line across eternally hairless skin, rippled from the scars of long ago. Erik sucked a sharp breath through his teeth but remained still. Whatever had possessed this angel to touch a demon of Hell, he would never know, but he was helpless to stop her. She would be bruised from the force of his straining fingers on her back, but he could not release her. He would not. This was the closest taste of heaven he would know.
Those bold fingers roamed along his exposed flesh, the gentlest of touches. An errant finger whispered along the swell of his lower lip, so lightly he almost couldn't feel it at all. Almost. A tear trickled from the corner of his eye, sliding between his flesh and the mask.
Still, he did not move.
"Erik." Her whisper was the softest, loudest sound he head ever heard. He inhaled sharply, and fearing that she'd pushed too far, Ang withdrew her hand, fingers ghosting across his sensitized jawline.
His eyes flashed open. His naked hand snatched hers, and she gasped at the contact, eyes flying wide, the depths shimmering as their gazes clashed.
His breath stopped. His mind raced. Before he could stop himself, he dragged her flush against him to steal what he had been denied all his life, the thing he wanted most. His lips slanted over hers, capturing her sigh against his mouth. He kissed her with the force of a hurricane, his lips parting just enough to move against hers.
The sensation proved almost too much, and his heart hammered at breakneck speed. A ripple coursed down his spine, euphoria slicing every nerve. Music held no such power as this, he understood now-and God, he wished he didn't. How could he live without this? Once would never be enough, but he could never ask for more.
Gasping, he pulled away, eyes closed, uncertain. Ashamed at what he had done, afraid to see the hatred burning in her eyes, he released her suddenly. His hands shook feverishly, and he curled them at his sides to still their trembling. What sweet torture! What Hell he had suffered! His life would have been better off without the stolen kiss. Ignorance was bliss.
Frantic, Ang's eyes flew wide as she grappled for and clutched at his arm, fighting to regain her balance after he'd so abruptly let her go. Stability restored, she stared hard at the enigma of a man that had only moments ago enraged her. Mouth agape, her thoughts crashed against her skull.
Had that actually happened?
Had the infamous Phantom of the Opera really kissed her?
Her lips still tingled, and one hand drifted to her mouth, fingertips skating across her lips in disbelief. The kiss had been so simple, so innocent, but something had sparked to life within her, and she wanted more. The grip at his bicep tightened as her free hand found the fabric of his shirt front once more.
Erik hissed as she turned him toward her, but did not pull away, his eyes pinched tightly closed. He stood ram-rod before her, arms and hands rigid and still at his sides, save for the nervous twitching of his fingers.
With another gentle tug, she drew up as far as her leg would allow, straining her muscles with the effort. She was rewarded with his eyes opening, wide with horrified wonder, wet, and filling with salty tears. A soft blush crept up her cheeks, and the barest, sweetest smile touched her expression before she leaned forward and brushed her mouth against his.
For a shocked moment, all he could do was stare cross-eyed and transfixed at her face, directly in front of his, so close he could feel the breath from her nose waft against his jaw. He was either dead or dreaming; there was no other explanation for why this red-headed angel willing kissed his monstrous self. Yet here she was, clinging to him as if he were any other desirable man. As if he were not some malformed beast from Hell. Finally, pushing his doubts and fears away, he surrendered to her, allowing his eyes to close and his arms to fold around the woman's slight form, drawing her up off her foot and against him.
Time stood still as the pair kissed, lips and tongues tentatively exploring, until by unspoken mutual consent, they broke apart with a gasp, needing air. Erik set her down again, and Ang smiled shyly, bowing her head to rest her forehead and nose against his thundering heart. There was a long moment where neither moved, fearful that the spell would be broken and regret would overtake the bliss coursing through their veins. The softest flutter of his thumb as it stroked along her spine fueled her curiosity.
"Erik?" she whispered.
Several deep breaths later, he answered. "Oui, mon ange?"
With pounding heart, she peered up into his eyes with trepidation. "Would... would you sing for me?"