Author's Note: Sorry! I am trying to stick to weekly postings, but life will insist on getting in the way. To those who were with me at the start of A Father's Promise, it's weekly instead of daily because I'm no longer a student and therefore now have a 'normal' (read 'horrible') schedule. Which means less time to write.

Hopefully, this will serve as an apology. It's long because . . . it just wouldn't stop. Hope you don't mind. And it's something I believe you've been waiting for.

Thanks to KyrieofAccender, TalithaJ, laal ratty, jtbwriter, Lady Winifred, Nyasia A. Maire, Timeflies, mildetryth, OperaLover, montaquecat and Passed Over for their latest reviews.

For all those who are merely tolerating the brogue at best: this chapter is entirely brogue free. Congratulations to Nyasia A. Maire, Timeflies and mildetryth (you half got it) for guessing the identity of the song. Apparently I didn't quite manage to delete all gievaways when I decided to make it a surprise, but seeing as some of you remained baffled, it kinda worked.

NOTE TO ALL READERS: In case any of you are confused/wondering as you read: I was inspired by a very specific version of this song which is pretty different to the operatic one - not completely, but enough of a difference all the same. If you're wondering, then look up Opera Babes. It's on their first album.

As mentioned earlier, this chapter is also dedicated to montaquecat. Hope it cheers you up. Thanks again, everyone and enjoy! Nedjmet.

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of The Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission.

Chapter 9

She was determined to drive him mad.

It was the only thing he could think of. She was the only thing he could think of. She had come alive again before his eyes. He had made his rose flourish and bloom once more; had heard her voice ascend into the heavens and he had dared to fly with her. When she had finally realised the truth about his being there, he had hoped she would acknowledge the fullness of it. Instead she had brought him crashing back down to earth. But not to its depths; no, she had allowed him to retain his hope.

When he had asked her to be Carmen, it had been because of the life, the fire he had seen within her as she'd sung, as she'd spoken of Music, of Katie . . . of anything. The reasons he had given her were true enough, but most of all, he wanted her to live, to sing. Why, he didn't know, but somehow she had failed to keep the promise he had asked of her – though not for want of trying if her education was anything to judge by.

And she had agreed to his request. Had she ever agreed!

He had been astounded by the way she had spoken to him, especially in front of the others. His Christine of old had rarely talked back to him, and yet he should not have been surprised for the few times she had, that same passion of conviction had been within her. A smirk creased his lips as he remembered the way she had handled the toad after her insults to his rose's father. No, he shouldn't have been surprised. After all, he did keep forgetting that he was supposed to 'humanise' his manners now. But when she had spoken of Carmen! He had thought he had her mesmerised when he had made his request. Either he had missed something those years ago or he was a rank amateur in comparison. Her voice, usually exquisite, had become completely enthralling: binding all within its spell, in spite of the resistance he saw in more than one. But the way she had moved, at first subtle and beguiling; then bolder, her curves flowing in graceful movements with every step until finally she had been all but tangoing with half the men in the room – men who had been all too willing to comply with her every whim from the looks on their faces and the way their bodies had responded. They had responded much the way as he, though he had remained in his place, seeing as she had steered clear of him from the start. It was wise: if those dogs had acted like that towards his Christine for one moment more he would have reverted back to his old ways in an instant.

When she had spoken of Music though! When she had entered his realm once more with her words, she had turned her focus back towards him . . . he had been burning by the power of her speech, but with her presence . . . he didn't know whether to explode or melt. With her in his hold, he had known it had to be the latter. As she had touched him . . . did she have any idea the torture she was putting through? The agonisingly sweet seduction?

She knew.

That look in her eyes as she broke the spell she had so carefully woven; that look that had made him want to devour her until she had surrendered to him: that look had said that she knew all too well the power she held. The remainder of the conversation had proven that she was willing to use it. He didn't know whether to scream in frustration or savour the delight. Given the fact that he was sure the clock was going backwards, he was veering towards the former. But the thought of what his rose would do . . . frantically he tried to calm himself down.

Three years.

Three years he had spent disciplining himself to keep his mind from such thoughts; to keep his memories of Christine within boundaries he could endure. Yet one word, one look . . . one touch and she had made him abandon thought and let the dream descend. Effortlessly it seemed, she had encapsulated all that he had offered her in his opera and delivered it back masterfully in a way that would have any man who wasn't deaf or blind beg for her.

His opera.

Don Juan Triumphant . . .

The words she had used . . . what message had she been trying to send? For Carmen and Don Juan, seduction was their art. For he and his rose: their art was music. Was she saying that she had never stopped, that her dedication was still as strong even though he had left? Were that the case, could it be possible she had meant more than just her dedication to music?

Grasping his hair in frustration, he allowed the carpet some small reprieve and stopped his pacing. The woman was determined to drive him mad. And she was enjoying it! So many possibilities, so many promises begun yet left half done.

. . . Carmen is seduction. No matter who ye are, no matter whether you want it or not, she will entice you, she will captivate you, and she will make you crave her.

He smiled. Oh yes, so many possibilities. He was right in asking this of his rose: she was Carmen.

Looking back at the clock, 'relieved' didn't begin to cut it when he saw that his wait was over. All but running back to the practice room, he scanned the suddenly descended darkness, searching for that head of red hair. His frustrations reached a level he had never before even anticipated when he realised she wasn't there.

Resuming the seat he had taken for the last 'performance', his one quiet order reverberated around the room, and none dared disobey.

"Begin."

The darkness closed in.

The sound of a heartbeat was all that could be heard.

She didn't even dare breathe.

Running to and from her mother's dressing room was probably not the wisest course, given that she needed to, and had every intention of singing. But there was no way she could make this dance work whilst wearing trousers. From the second she'd heard the music, she'd begun to picture the look of it in her head. Watching the dancers – once the initial reflexive grimace of distaste had been quelled – she had seen it come to life in her mind. Thankfully, they had worked hard and were every bit as good as she'd thought. Coupled with their desire to stay on the right side of Erik's – that still felt so strange – temper, it had not taken long at all to 'tweak' it into shape. Once she'd mentioned the two words behind her thinking, they had all fallen into place, as though they had been held back by the original version and were finally allowed to surrender to the music and their art.

Their efficiency was a welcome relief, as it had allowed her time to change whilst going through a somewhat hurried warm-up. She only hoped his music would still work its magic. She knew that it could, but equally she knew how particular Music was about whose shoulders it lighted upon. And now was not the time to lose that load.

When she heard his voice through the darkness, she forgot everything save the fact that this was for him. He had asked her to be Carmen. Her Angel had asked her to sing. Stepping through the wall and into the comfort of the shadows she knew cloaked him also, she settled back into the corner, allowing the opening lazy phrase of the guitar to calm her into a similar frame of mind and stance, her eyes closed to all but Music.

Her head was tipped to the left, and as flutes began their first measure, her hand undulated at her thigh. When they began again, she allowed her head to lift and fall to the right, her lips parting as her hand once more echoed the music, more prominent as it trailed over her body. One more strum to open her eyes, and slowly, ever so slowly; she began.

"Les tringles des sistres tintaient/avec un éclat métallique,/et sur cette étrange musique/les zingarellas se levaient."

The rods of the sistrums jangled/with a metallic twang,/and at the sound of this strange music/the gypsy girls stood up.

The guitar picked up pace, as did she. An oboe took up the melody, the deeper sound giving the music a richer body, as Christine allowed hers to be led by it. Remaining in the corner, she let her hips move as the music commanded, allowing her right hand to further paint the picture the words offered.

"Tambours de basque allaient leur train,/et les guitares forcenées/grinçaient sous des mains obstinées,/même chanson, même refrain,/même chanson, même refrain."

Tambourines tinkled, tinkled,/and the frenzied guitars/ground out, under persistent fingers, the same song, the same refrain,/the same song the same refrain.

As she repeated the last line, she once again made her movements more pronounced; drawing her hand up towards her fairly low neckline, before drawing it slowly down the centre of her body. The 'tra la la's of the refrain found her eyes closed, both her hands circling expressively, as though part of a flamenco number; however, her left remained on her thigh shifting her skirts about until the point at which the song would have otherwise become a trio. Then it rose to move in harmony with its counterpart. Sending the final note of the lyrically simple chorus out into the room, she finally allowed opened her eyes, their sight immediately latching onto her prey. With the first part of the next verse, she moved towards him in keeping with the original choreography, but her movements were slow, deliberate, steady and above all: predatory.

"Les anneaux de cuivre et d'argent/reluisaient sur les peaux bistrées;/d'orange ou de rouge zébrées/les étoffes flottaient au vent."

Copper and silver rings/glittered on tawny skins;/striped in orange and red/scarves and skirts fluttered in the wind.

Singing of the luscious fabrics moving in the wind, her fingers trailed lightly across the back of the dancer's shoulders as she stepped to the left and into his line of sight, her hand moving over her body until it rested on her hip.

"La danse au chant se mariait,/la danse au chant se mariait;/d'abord indécise et timide,/plus vive ensuite et plus rapide.../cela montait, montait, montait, montait!"

Dance wed with song,/Dance wed with song,/uncertain and timid at first,/then livelier and faster,/it grew wilder, wilder, wilder, wilder!

As the dance wed with song, dancer joined with singer, drawing her swiftly into step with him, turning her again so they both faced the 'audience' side-on. Uncertainly, he moved back, drawing her with him. His timidity had her step away from him, though not his hold. The music grew livelier and he pulled her to him, her hand landing on his chest. The words became wilder as she traced her fingers slowly up his body to his chin, her lips drawing ever closer to his – but her fingers got there first and she flirtatiously stepped away.

The chorus began again as she moved across the stage, her feet reminiscent of a tango, her hips swaying more exotically and her hands speaking once more of flamenco. The women, who had previously been doing battle with their men over who was to lead the tango – the men technically winning, though they were held captive by their partners – came between Carmen and the man she had been luring, making the enticement all the stronger. Completing one final turn and drawing a hand from head to waist again, she began the second half of the chorus. This time she remained in one place, her whole body undulating as her hands circled at her waist causing her skirt to rise and fall with the music.

The chorus stopped.

She ceased her movements.

Looking her audience straight in the eye, she began the final verse.

"Les Bohémiens, à tour de bras,/de leurs instruments faisaient rage,/et cet éblouissant tapage/ensorcelait les zingaras."

Lustily the gypsy men/drove their instruments to fury,/and this dazzling din/held their women spellbound.

Each line was punctuated by guitar and tambourine. After the first, she was spun around by her partner who had finally returned to her side. At the second, he pulled her back behind him. The third line had him leading her by the waist into another dance though she didn't concede any other contact. And by the fourth, she had pulled away and stormed over to the other side of the room, where she waited hand on hip, knowing smirk in place for what was coming.

"Sous le rhythme de la chanson,/sous le rhythme de la chanson,/ardentes, folles, enfiévrées,/elles se laissaient, enivrées,/emporter par le tourbillon!"

Under the rhythm of the song,/under the rhythm of the song,/ardent, wild, feverish/all but drunk, they let themselves/be carried away by the giddy ground.

Under the rhythm of the song, she was pulled back around to face her partner. The movement was repeated with the words so that her back was against his front, her head tilted to the right. Giving in to the meaning of the lyrics, he attempted to 'ardently' caress her but she refused to let him handle her in a manner that was 'all but drunk' and pulled away in indignation, circling him as she raised her hand first in accusation, then in offer, she finally allowed him to carry her away.

Standing in his arms as before, this time her head was tilted to the left as his hands – on top of hers – moved over the top half of her body, sensually caressing every curve before returning to her hips where she left them, freeing her own. Her hands circled and snaked upwards in the second half of the refrain, her hips moving in a more pronounced fashion, all in perfect harmony with the music. Higher and higher her hands flowed as her voice became even more animated, the music driving to its pinnacle until with the final note she let out a cry and whirled around to be carried off into the dance.

The tango was fast, energetic and strong. It seemed as though step for step the pair matched every note. Her partner dipped her, spun her, wrapped her leg around him, and yet a look remained in her eyes that declared for all to see who exactly was in control of both dance and man. Finally, the music reached its dizzying conclusion – in more ways than one – as Christine was spun around several times before stopping with a final shout, one arm raised above her head to meet her partner's, the other joining his on her waist. He stared at the fiery redhead whose back was once more pressed against his front and like every other man in the room, wanted to ravish that triumphant smirk from off her face.

Carmen, the ultimate seductress had won.

But not conquered.

The darkness cloaked all, and though his frustrations were rife, given that he couldn't see his rose, he found some solace in the familiar mantle, and as his music began, he was able to calm himself a little.

A flash.

The glimmer of her ring – his ring – allowed him to make out a familiar shape, though there wasn't enough light to see much more. He saw her hand moving in harmony with the flute. As her hand moved, he saw a few of the women step slowly out onto the floor, their bodies alluring and enticing the men who followed. But his eyes soon returned to the woman who stood in the far corner of the room as the lights began to rise and he saw her eyes were closed, mouth open in pleasure as though his music was her lover's caress. Her hand slid down her leg, teasing all who saw with the possibility of what lay beneath her touch. Her eyes opened with the last phrase of the guitar and the lights finally revealed her to his hungry gaze. Wearing a scarlet corset and a full black lace skirt; with her red hair and bare feet, she looked the very image of Carmen.

Mercifully, the music went on, and he was at last granted some release when her lips parted further and the familiar yet now exquisite song poured forth. Her eyes moved, searching for the gypsy girls who had stood, though her mind was clearly more on the music than the extremely sensual tango they had begun. Yes, the gypsy girls stood; drew their men into the dance and allowed them only the faintest illusion that they were leading. The dance belonged to the women. And the song belonged to Carmen, whose hips began to sway all too noticeably as 'les zingarellas se levaient'.

The music was gentle, as was her dance and yet it still captivated. He followed every sway of her hip, every movement of her hand that drew his eyes over her body until finally her fingers moved oh so subtly upward and back down; then oh so deliberately repeated the movement, winding up her bodice and drawing back down so that every set of eyes including his own were fixed on the rise and fall of her chest.

She closed her eyes in a pleasure that was evident on her face, her hands and hips moving in one glorious whole, her left shifting her skirt so that it simultaneously tantalised and tormented with the barest glimpses of her porcelain legs. In the second half of the refrain, he could only think back to her words in description of this spectacle:

Carmen doesnae have to be brazen: Music does the work for her

Her actions were bordering on brazen, but coupled with the music . . . how was he going to sit through another three minutes of this?

The words stopped and her eyes opened. And he saw what she did: one lone figure who had moved to the centre of the room and who had clearly just been marked as her prey. Seeing the curious and hungry look in her eyes, he looked back at the man she had set her sights on and found his fingers itching for a rope for the first time in a very long while.

The tempo increased, and she pushed herself from off the wall and began moving towards her prey. Every step matched the music, and every movement seemed to show off her already enhanced figure. He saw Piers' surprise when she remained behind her partner as she captured his attention – quite the reverse of what had happened previously. Good girl, he thought, understanding how much more suitable her choice of behaviour was. As she stood waiting, he fought the urge to go to her side. Big mistake. The arms of his chair suffered under his grip when he saw that other – a mere boy – draw his Christine into his hold. He felt somewhat relieved when said boy clearly didn't have a clue what he was doing and she stepped away. It was all he could do not to jump up in outrage as the young dancer pulled her to him and she actually caressed him in return. Her partner's face was not the only one to be tortured.

Through a sea of whirling fabrics and swirling bodies, Christine moved effortlessly, her dance never once losing any of its seductive power. Turning and drawing her hand down the front of her body as she looked back at her partner one last time, she finally stopped in front of him. Erik barely noticed his jaw dropping as her entire body undulated and swayed, her skirt rising and falling in a heightened repetition of the first stanza's torment.

The chorus stopped.

She ceased her movements.

Looking him straight in the eye, she began the final verse.

And it was all he could not to pull her to him. Or at the very least, away from the fool who was yanking her about like an animal in some attempt at a dance. When the final refrain began, he could barely contain himself. There, not ten feet away, was his Christine in the arms of another, their movements an exact replica of their duet from Don Juan Triumphant! The same caresses, the same power, the same l . . .

No.

It wasn't the same. Leaning forward, he saw: there was fire in her eyes and passion in her body, but it was buried. The only response elicited in her came from the music. Had that boy known what he was doing, she would never have been able to relinquish his hold so easily; so unaffectedly return to her own spell. Their tango at the end merely confirmed his suspicions. Yes, the movements were wild and in keeping with the music, but their complete lack of spark together inclined their choice of speed more towards 'drunk' than 'feverish'. When it finally ended, he saw the glazed look in the eyes of the one who held her, the look of desire that was understandable albeit infuriating. But in her eyes, he saw only triumph.

Carmen, the ultimate seductress had won.

But not conquered.

After a few moments of breathless silence, all eyes turned to him. And his rested solely on the temptress in scarlet. Lowering her arm to give it a rest, she quirked an eyebrow to him in question.

Silently he rose and moved towards her, every inch the predator she had been. The one who held her let go and stepped away slightly, seeing the wildness in his boss' eyes. Christine held her ground, though she knew that look and wasn't sure she felt fear or exhilaration as a result. Barely inches from her, he finally pronounced:

"Better," circling her, he whispered, "but still not good enough."

Turning only her head to see him, she remained silent, arms folded, awaiting his critique. Stepping between the pair – making it clear with a simple look that the dancer was done – he stood in front of her again and simply looked. He saw the query in her eyes; energy from the dance she had just finished . . . yes, there it was. The more he looked at her, the more the fire within rose to the surface and matched his own.

Not bothering to turn to whoever had been controlling the recording of his music, he simply called out:

"Again. From the first refrain."

Quietly, the dancers all returned to their places. Still the staring contest went on. At length, having understood the look in his eyes from the first, she finally felt as though she had enough strength inside of her to withstand whatever he was up to; shifting her expression to indicate she had accepted whatever challenge he was issuing, she turned and resumed her provocative stance in the far corner, closing her eyes in readiness for the music that soon flooded the room once more.

Whoever was playing the music obviously had an interesting sense of humour, seeing as the music began from the final line of the first verse, rather than the refrain. She didn't sing the words – still trying to catch her breath from the last rendition – rather, she let her hands do the talking. When she did start singing the refrain, she could hear the difference in her voice. It wasn't suffering from poor breathing – she'd seen to that. It was richer, more vivid. Indeed, she felt more alive and her actions became even more provocative as a result.

Opening her eyes as the 'tra la la's finished; she had to hide her shock when she saw who was waiting in the centre for her. Aside from being noticeably taller, the all black attire was something of a giveaway that a switch had taken place. She took him in as she sang, the words taking on a slightly breathless quality – though thankfully that did fit with the imagery. Ever so lightly, she trailed her fingers across his shoulders, trying to ignore both that her fingers burned with the sensation and that he tensed with the first contact, before moving off to the side.

Impatiently, she waited for the music to hurry. The music itself was subtle here, appropriate, given the sparks that were flying between the two as he pulled her to him. She fought not to gasp at the look in his eyes. With each note, it seemed that the wildness she had first seen became more prominent, more potent. Though a small distance remained between their bodies, it was evident to all assembled that there might as well not have been. He drew her back, but this time, it was her timidity that had her stepping away. When he pulled her forward, she came flush against his body, her eyes not rising to his until her fingers were at a similar height.

Her touch had burned him from the first, and it was a fire he would gladly be consumed in. He had thought her movements couldn't have been more provocative, more captivating, but she had proved him oh so deliciously wrong as he watched her until her eyes opened. By the time she touched him, he was so wound up with anticipation that the only thing stopping him from pouncing on her was his firm conviction that he was not, nor would ever again be called an animal. Drawing her to him was the sweetest magic. Having her hand trail over him with that sultry look on her face, he lost all concentration and so she easily moved away. The dancers came between them and he realised the depths of frustration she had been intending to provoke.

It worked.

When she began dancing again though, every part of her moving to allure, he stopped still. Was this Christine? Was this his Christine? What had happened to the shy, sweet innocent he had once taught? The spell was working. He had asked her to be Carmen and that was what she had become. But in so doing, he had lost sight of his rose even though she was mere feet away. Finally, the dancers moved out of the way and he spun Christine around. Still under the spell of music, his actions fell in time as he tried to pull her away, but she refused and stormed away once more.

She waited for him. She had seen the anger in his eyes and knew that something was wrong, though for the life of her she couldn't work out what. He had approved – somewhat – of the routine the first time. Now that he was a part of it, it was perfect. So why this anger? It wasn't simply frustration – that was something she could read easily enough – it was far more cryptic. But until the music ended, all she could do was follow the old black magic and hope she could restore him.

Once more he pulled her around before spinning her so she was pressed against him. She felt him trying to draw her away yet again, and so she pulled herself with some difficulty out of his iron grip. Circling him, her song filled with indignation, but of the righteous kind. She had done as he asked – both with words and without – and yet this was his answer? For one brief instant as she held her hand out to him, she let both her façades slip and pleaded with him as she had done so many times before: student to mentor, Christine to Angel. Whatever the problem was, her action seemed to work. This time when he pulled her to him, though the action was forceful, it was accomplished with all the gentleness she knew in him. This time when the two pairs of hands roamed over her body as one, it was all she could do to get the words out. This time: it was right! His breath was hot on her neck; his hands on hers were both commanding and pleading; it was just like . . .

Thoughts of that night broke the spell and she was able to free her hands – except now she was almost reluctant to face him. But face him she did and for the first few measures of the final dance, all she could do was drown in the volcanoes of his eyes as he held her flush against his body and drew them both across the floor. The first time he spun her though, she awoke and realised how much slower their steps were. When he brought her back, the cymbals crashed again and he dipped her down so low her hair skimmed the floor. Yet he brought her back up so slowly, and this time it was his hand that made its way over her front and up her side – which only served to tease one and frustrate both. Once she was facing him again, he spun her, the force of it sending her down to the ground, their eyes locked in a silent, heated challenge as he pulled her along by one arm. When next the cymbals crashed, he yanked her up and she promptly wrapped a leg around his waist, the sheer momentum of their manoeuvres raising her completely off the ground as he effortlessly spun around with her in his arms, their eyes never wavering from one another. Finally, he lowered her slowly, stepping away though never releasing her hand before pulling her back in and spinning her madly several times before the music finally ended and they finished with the same stance as last time.

The music had been wild and frantic. The song was full of fire and passion. The dance that accompanied the song had been sensual and provocative with 'Carmen' becoming more seductive with every move she made. The final refrain where she had been swaying her hips so slowly yet prominently against her partner had driven that man almost over the brink of sweet madness. The culmination of it all – the tango – had been the true challenge: the power of Carmen against the will of a man determined to win her. It had resulted in the pair still locked together with an iron hold; their eyes never having parted save for when she had been spun. Fire did battle with fire, desire mounting in an ever more fervent blaze until there remained only the volcano in the centre of the room that was a mere word or movement away from erupting.

Utterly spellbound, totally captured by the power of the couple in the centre of the room, the other dancers who had given them the floor from the third refrain slowly began to applaud. Hesitantly at first, it grew until it was as loud and enthusiastic as they could muster. Still they remained unmoved. They had given themselves up to Music completely and still remained caught in its magic.

His expression altered slightly.

Deliberately, he allowed his finger to move over the ring he had accidentally grazed. As he did so, the triumph in her eyes slipped away until only longing remained.

Christine

He breathed the word almost as a prayer that she alone could hear.

Her raised arm lowered, as did his. Now both her hands rested on his which was wrapped around her waist.

Carmen, the ultimate seductress had won.

And she had conquered them both.