Author's Note: Thanks to steelelf, treblmaker7, KyrieofAccender, jtbwriter, Spectralprincess, Lothiel, Sqweakie the Wonder Mouse (thanks for some very impressive catch-up reading), Melodic Rose, grannydaisytoo, mikabronxgirl, Lady Winifred, Busanda, Timeflies, mildetryth, Earelwen, Lair Lover, Ohpoorerik, saphireangelcutie, Fluorescente, Talitha J, Rose of Night (double thanks), Passed Over, montaquecat, TouchingTrusting and snowflake17 for their latest reviews. And thanks to scorpionorchid. Even though it doesn't show up on the review counter, that PM definitely gets a 'thank you'.

Well, at 25 reviews (plus the PM), that is officially the most I've ever got for one chapter. Guess I need to throw out questions like that more often. Kidding! I appreciate each review, no matter how many or few I get. And the results of the question: due to an overwhelming i.e. total majority from those who answered my question, I will be writing a sequel to this story. It is actually quite a relief, because otherwise I'd have had too many issues to clear up in a relatively short space of time. Thank you sooo much to everyone for such incredible support of the story and my writing. It is a wonderful compliment and I will do my utmost not to disappoint.

Oh, and speaking of that: sorry about the shortness of this chapter, but based on what happens next, I kind of needed the heftier transition that a chapter change gives, rather than just shoving a line in there. Rest assured, the next chapter will be offering a few interesting bits and pieces. And apologies if anyone objects to me using the ALW dialogue again. I did try and change it a bit, but it just WORKS, so I'm afraid it's not quite me all the way.

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline 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. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 71

There was no doubt she had recognised him. He didn't know what had possessed him to reveal himself to her then.

He did know.

It was the same spell her name wove, her scent, her image. When combined into one glorious whole . . . it seemed he was destined ever to be weak where she was concerned.

His original plan had been to appear before them all and deliver his instructions. But one glimpse of her and he had been overcome. Never, not even at the Christmas concert, not even when she had woken in his arms and smiled; never had he seen her so captivating. She looked like a creature of the night – no, its angel, for she still retained that wonderful innocence, even though she moved as a seductress, effortlessly tempting all who saw her.

Even though she was masked, he fell under the heady enchantment. Or perhaps because of that; knowing what was beneath the domino made the disguise all the more alluring. Seeing her in the arms of so many others though, it built up his fury anew. She was HIS rose. He felt a certain gratification when it appeared as though she didn't enjoy the dance, and in that moment, he had cast all caution and intent to the wind, moving swiftly to her side and taking her away from the crushing extravaganza.

And she had willingly followed.

When she met his eyes, he knew that it was not for the dance that she had come, it was not because of the spell of that 'music' that she had rested against him. It was because she was his. Even now, even after . . . still she came to him. The feel of her pressed against him was almost his undoing. All those weeks spent thinking the worst, believing she found him a monster and now she rested against him as easily and willingly as though . . .

Angel

Angel.

Ghost.

Angel.

Ghost.

The titles warred within his mind.

She was trembling. Was he wrong? Had she followed solely to escape the deranged gyrations of the dance? Did she still fear him? Of course she did! Still she refused to accept all that he was. Did she think he would be content with simply fulfilling a childish illusion because she couldn't – no – refused to appreciate all that he had done for her? Though every instinct and desire within him rebelled against it, he pushed her away, bowing to her in farewell: farewell to her delusions about him. It was time to reclaim all that was his: and to ensure he kept it.

So it was he allowed the shadows to envelop him one last time.

One last time before they learnt whose opera house this truly was.

He made his way slowly down the stairs, each step sending a jolt of fear or dread through all assembled. All but one. Every step was a heartbeat for Christine, as she counted each movement that brought him closer to her. She trembled anew at her realisation, at having it dawn upon her so dramatically, and now having to face it so publicly.

A vision of Red Death; the images of how fitting the costume was flitted across her mind, but they were forced aside as she remembered all that she had told Gustave, all that she now knew. He truly was the Phantom of the Opera, effortlessly commanding all that saw him. Did he not realise how dangerous this could be for him? Of course not. What danger could there be for him in this place?

"Why so silent?"

That voice! She had forgotten how it truly sounded; though she had heard it so much, she had still forgotten how wonderful it was. Just as when he had held her, she drank in that sound as though it were the air she breathed. Though he spoke quietly, his voice still managed to fill the entire room, and none were left untouched by it.

"Ah, my dear managers, did you think that I had left you for good?" The feeling of unease finally returned to Christine. She knew that tone: it was the Ghost speaking, and in a way which meant there would be no crossing him this time.

"I too have been busy, Messieurs. I have written you an opera." why did his eyes rest on her as he said that? "Here I have the finished score: Don Juan Triumphant!" So saying, he threw the manuscript to the floor, punctuating the action by drawing his sword.

Now she was worried.

Whatever she felt about him, he was still the man capable of terrorising the Ravelle; he was still the man willing to go so far as murder to protect what was his; and no matter how calm he sounded, how steadily he delivered his address, he was furious – for he valued his music too highly the throw it on the floor merely for effect.

"Just one note or two; I suggest they are obeyed:" he went on, continuing to punctuate his speech with that grotesque blade, "Carlotta should be taught how to act, my stage is for music, not a barnyard for squawking peacocks to strut around. Ubaldo needs to lose some weight; his girth lends him too much to the ridiculous. And you, my dear managers, need to learn that your place is in the office, not the arts."

Having made his point, and silenced those most liable to an outburst, he put the sword away, thankfully hiding the glinting skull once more.

Few heard the difference – being too worried about what the all-too-real Opera Ghost would do next – but as he turned and spoke next, his voice did soften a little.

"And as for our star, Miss Christine Daaë: no doubt she will shine. True, her voice has improved, but there is still much left for her to learn, if she will return to her teacher."

You could have heard a pin drop. There was no one in the room who did not realise what was meant by that. All eyes turned to Christine, some in astonishment, some in accusation, and some – one pair above all – in expectation.

Dazed by what he was saying and what it could mean, Christine barely registered the fact that Raoul had stopped holding her some time ago. Instead, she was focussed on the man before her: Red Death, the Phantom of the Opera. Her Angel. And now he had revealed to all those gathered the claim that he held over her: a claim she could neither deny, nor ignore.

Slowly, she approached him; tentatively, unknowing of how he would respond; wondering if she would be greeted by the Angel or the Phantom. With each step, her heart beat more rapidly, with each movement that brought her nearer, their breaths seemed to be held a little more.

As she climbed the stairs, the world melted away and they were locked in that oldest of enchantments once more. She wasn't even a foot away from him as she stared up into his eyes; hers filled with questions and hope, his filled with a fire that she could not fathom. An eternity passed in that moment. An eternity of shared loneliness and longing finally answered.

Of its own accord, his hand reached up to caress her face, as it had done only moments ago. Her breath hitched as it lowered; though she dared not look away for fear that the spell would be broken.

But when his fingers found the delicate silver chain, it was shattered.

Did she think to mock him with this? Or by flaunting the pendant before him, did she hope to calm him, sparing them all from the machinations he had decreed? Taking her trembling for fear once more, he ripped it from her throat, hissing:

"Your chains are mine. You belong to me!"

Her face turned into a mask of horror as he marched back up the stairs, disappearing through a trapdoor in a cloud of smoke before anyone could stop him.

Before it became invisible once more, Christine saw Raoul follow after Red Death; though it only vaguely registered, and so no cry of protest escaped her lips. Though what she would have protested was anyone's guess.

She turned around mechanically and made her way down the stairs. Her Angel had left her again. He had claimed her, and left her. Again. How long was he set on punishing her? Was this what she was to endure for the rest of her time at the Ravelle? What about afterwards? Would there be an afterwards? He had left her, but he had claimed her. And she had no doubt that that would not be changing any time soon.

As she made her way across the hall – uninterrupted though she remained the subject of both watch and whispers – she was stopped by a furious and extremely sarcastic Firmin.

"Congratulations, Miss Daaë. It looks like you've secured us a new opera, and yourself another lead. I hope you're happy with this. After everything we've done for you, everything we've put up with . . . and now we find out you're in league with that . . . that-"

He stopped his spluttering as Christine fixed him with a glacially cold, but empty stare.

"What would you know?" She said quietly before quietly walking out and away, unable to remain any longer under those curious, accusing eyes.