AUTHOR'S NOTE: At last… IT is there…
PhantomKiss: The Lost Ones are all made up. For example, I came up with Créon in the summer of 2004 on a passenger ship at Venice. The world is of my own devising, too, though I won't deny it is Tolkien-influenced in style. (Erik: Hmmm… you want to be patted? Why not? Come here, sit on my lap. I'm afraid I can't go to Spain since I'm already mumblemumblehavinganaffairwithanicegirlcalledmithrilmumblemumble (cough, cough)… but that's the spirit, sweetheart. I'm open to any suggestions that can take place here…)
Pertie: Nicely analyzed. But no, Aeternus is not after Meg, that's Sándor. Apparently he wouldn't say no to her mother, though… (Erik: Tsk, tsk…)
Beregond'S Girl: Yay, Wagner hardcore! I'm afraid there won't be any Siegfried until later on because that was not written at that point (pity, it's my favourite of the tetralogy, and Erik would make a good Siegfried). (Erik: Definitely! Oh, and don't get me started on slash… Loathe, loathe, LOATHE!)
jtbwriter: There may be some ear-boxing still, who knows? (Erik: Beware…)
The Hair: Hello new reviewer! Never mind about being overly constructive, that was certainly good enough for me! As I said above, yes, I made it up myself. Things just keep popping into my head. Yes, I actually had the Erik/Lara thing once, it's a "deleted scene" from The Phantom Holiday Special. Funny you should mention it. And yes, I like Terry; I already liked the guy who played his role in the comic version that was a few years before the movie. They adapted the role a bit, but what the Hell. (Erik: It's a yes, definitely. Hot shower, then chocolate? Dark chocolate, yum… though I'll readily nibble some marzipan, too. I'm not choosy. I can even be found lazing around stuffing myself with jelly beans. Care to feed me?)
Faye: Thanks for a lot of reviews. You'll soon catch up, I suppose. (Erik: I think a bet would be in place… but then again, I'd rather tackle your MP3 player now since you're not using it, kid. Ask me some other time.)
Bea: Yes, this began as a joke between us, remember? It's the reason why I included it. (Erik: There were some rather horrible pairings, I remember it only to well…)
The Musician of the Night: Not very many character, actually, and rather easy for my taste, but then again, I was raised on it, so my opinion probably doesn't count. (Erik: No, not Hugh Jackman. It's bloody Hugh Panaro all over again. The kid's sister fancies him, it's quite pathetic. And the show you're talking about might just be Lestat, where Hugh looks like an oddly dressed version of Legolas.)
Busanda: Quite right, you never know about Aeternus. (Erik: I'd like to takea peek at your eyes, then…)
Morleigh: Hmm, I seem to have disturbed your inner calm slightly… (Erik: Don't mind the bugger.)

-.-.-

IV. Raging Fire

It was as if time had stopped and turned back to happier days. It was as if Fate had at last had mercy on him and had given him another chance with Christine.

Only that this was not Christine. He was well aware of it, but he tried to push it away for now as he poled his boat through the flooded corridor, towards the closed portcullis ahead. He always kept it lowered now; caution made him do it. Delannay's men had not come as far as this yet, but they would, undoubtedly they would, however hard Maurice tried to keep them from it. But they had come to an agreement, Maurice and him: before Maurice endangered himself, he would tell what he had to of the Phantom's secrets. To keep Maurice in a place close to Delannay was more important than the Phantom's hideout.

Times had changed very much since back then.

Valencienne turned to look at him, her eyes wide with wonder, his enchantment claiming her thoughts and feelings completely. No, not completely, there was the tiniest flicker of doubt, of suspicion, but he did not smother it, though it would have been easy. He wanted a woman tonight, not a puppet. Smiling down at her, which caused her to smile in return, he found the hidden mechanism under the water with the pole and shifted the lever with just a little flick, and the portcullis rose from the dark water, the drops falling from it like small pearls glittering briefly in the light of the little lanterns at the boat's bow. Then they passed below it already, into his home.

He steered his sleek little gondola towards the shore safely, then, as it met the rock below with a soft, grinding sound, leapt out lightly and leaned the pole against the wall, in its usual place. Then he threw his cloak to the ground carelessly, with just the slightest touch of a bad conscience – that was what came from living with a pair of women for so long! –, but he did not forget to shift the main lever to lower the portcullis again before he returned to his pretty guest.

Yes, she was pretty indeed. She was truly lovely. In the candlelight her face was pale, and her dark hair, somewhat mussed after this journey, seemed almost black. Those eyes, those gentle eyes, were following his every movement, filled with awe and wonder, and she was smiling to herself, just the tiniest of smiles, a smile that filled him with warmth when he looked at her. Himself, he was filled with heat, with wild, burning heat, half excitement, half insatiable hunger that coursed through his veins. But the way she looked at him calmed him, tamed him for a moment, so that he wanted to become a purring kitten in her lap. And then again, he wanted to be a tiger, and he wanted to carry her away as his prey, away to his lair…

And now he had brought her there. Now he had her where he wanted her.

As he came towards her, she slowly rose to her feet, and as he held out his hand for her with a little mock bow, she took it immediately and allowed him to help her out of the boat. All she saw was him; he was the centre of her world.

The thought made his spirits soar, yet at the same time there was a taste of bitterness on his tongue: It was only because he held her in his spell. Otherwise she would reject him, just like every other woman.

No. Not exactly. Not every woman simply rejected him. There were Geneviève and Victorine Poussepain, sweet little things, who never said no to a little cuddle and a few kisses. Marie had hung at his arm for some time, after she had broken up with Xavier, though that had been due to her intention to make the silly ballet boy jealous – soon enough she had been dating the lad again, anyway. Little Meg Giry was a rather cuddly thing, too, as was Claire when she was in the mood – though she had claws when she wasn't, that wildcat of a woman. And that colleague of Meg's, little Cécile Jammes, showed interest, too; the way she always blushed and giggled in his presence and eyed him sideways told him all he needed to know, mind-reading wasn't even necessary. Oh, and Lucie, his little Lucie. He inwardly grinned at the thought. His very own Lucie, indeed. His very useful little secret. He had not even mentioned it to the Girys yet. Yes, Lucie appreciated the sight of him as well, as it seemed, especially in black, but in combination with some touch of colour preferably. During those two years she had known him, he had come to know her just as well, though he had not gone to see her that frequently. It had been a necessary relationship, a business partnership he might call it, but still, knowing something about her had been essential in his position.

Just as he meant to find out more about his Valencienne now, but out of pure curiosity this time. As he wrapped his right arm around her slender shoulders, taking her hand in his left, he called back to mind what he knew already, apart from her name. She had been born in some village near Arras and had come to the city three years ago to find her luck there, and now she lived all on her own in a tiny room some ten minutes' walk from the Maxim, with a stern landlady who usually looked upon her with suspicion. She dreamed of a career as a chorus girl – a modest wish, and easily enough granted – and maybe of a nice young man in the same chorus she would marry, or a musician or dancer, or maybe just a young gentleman, she had not quite decided on that. But she was convinced that until then she would manage to stand on her own, even if it meant the Maxim, which she did not like.

Maybe she could leave that nightclub sooner than she expected… He might keep her with him, he really might. He liked the way she leaned against his shoulder. Tenderly brushing a mental finger over her awareness – the kind of caress he and Christine exchanged most frequently, if they exchanged any at all –, he carefully, very carefully began to withdraw his control, bit by bit…

Slowly Valencienne raised her head, blinking as if waking from a dream. Still she was under his seductive spell, but a new emotion had bloomed up in her mind: curiosity. Turning her head this way and that, she took in her surroundings with a sense of wonder, always returning to the organ before her, its pipes gleaming silvery in the light of all the candles, the pair of braziers at each side adding a reddish flicker of fire. The flames were burning low now, but still their warmth filled the cavern. A spoil he had taken from Créon and his men after his victory.

Yet his past triumph did not interest him right now. His sole focus of attention was this young woman he had brought with him.

At last her gaze returned to him, and she looked up at him, regarding his mask, then, before he could interfere, reached up and stroked it with a finger curiously. "You live in the cellars of an opera house?"

Caught by surprise that she would speak, he merely shrugged. He had not expected her to. He had assumed that she wouldn't, entranced as she was. Christine had not spoken back then.

"Why?"

"Why not?" he managed, at once feeling foolish. Should he subdue her a bit more, so she would not speak? It would be easier without discussing everything. Hell swallow him up whole, else he might end up asking for permission before he kissed her!

"It's romantic, in a way." How she innocently smiled up at him made him want to tangle his fingers in her hair and place a kiss on the tip of her sweet little nose. "I think I know who you are."

Biting his lips, he merely pulled her closer, and obediently she cuddled into his embrace, without the necessity of another increase of manipulation. This would work out the way he wanted it, even if she asked questions at times.

"Are you?" she murmured against his shoulder.

"Am I what?" What did it matter if she really knew who he was? It would not change anything. His fingers wandered up along her spine, caressing the back of her neck. Next he would pull those stupid needles out of her hair, he decided; he preferred a woman with her hair down. Picturing what she would look like, his fingers began to almost physically itch to do it. Hell, she would be so gorgeous!

"The Opera Ghost." Her arm shyly sneaked around his waist, which made him pull her as close as he could in turn. "Suzette – one of the other girls – told me about you. Before that, I used to believe you were some kind of flying bedsheet." Giggling softly, she huddled against him.

"Flying bedsheet?" He grinned. What an amusing girl. That he knew Suzette he rather did not tell her. Even though that one was Maurice's chief agent at the Maxim, she still was a courtesan, and girls did not take too well to finding out the man they fancied was acquainted with a courtesan, no matter how vaguely.

"Don't worry, you feel pretty solid." Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight as she smiled up at him. With delight, he thought to detect a tiny spark of mischief. This girl would be entertaining company, certainly.

"For you, I'll rather be solid." Yes indeed, pretty little thing. "Or would you prefer me to turn into a sheet to keep you warm? Or better a woolly blanket?"

"A woolly blanket would be a pleasant thing," she said brightly, still leaning against him and seemingly quite comfortable. He felt that his joke had reduced her doubts, an effect he had not expected. If he kept talking to her in a light manner, could he maybe withdraw his influence further?

But, curse it, he did not want to talk! There was something else he wanted, a deeper, more primal desire…

No. No, he could not do it. He could not simply use this pretty, innocent thing to quench his wild thirst for a woman's touch.

Why not?, a rough, feral voice demanded inside him. Why not?

No. Ye gods, no.

But the beast inside him was screaming for it, roaring with a dire lust that almost scared his conscious self. He felt heat surging through him, like a fever, a haze of flames enshrouding him. His shirt was moist with sweat, he felt it – oh, curse it, curse this fire inside him! –, it already stuck to his back. Hell, it was driving him mad!

"Just a moment," he told the girl, struggling out of his jacket and throwing it to the floor carelessly, then fumbling with the knot of his cravat. Hell consume him, he was making a fool of himself! But he had to get this stuff off, or else he would surely suffocate.

Valencienne was watching him, still in a haze, but with an expression of mild amusement as well. "I'd rather call it chilly in here," she stated.

"I find it hot," he said sheepishly, then could have banged his head against a wall for saying something so idiotic. "You see, I'm used to it."

Maybe no talking really was a better idea…

She smiled and shook her head. "I don't quite get it. It's really chilly."

"So let's move to the bedroom, it's usually warmer in there." Wasn't that a bit lame? But he would give it a try. Throwing his cravat in the general direction of the organ bench and missing it just barely, he took her hand and guided her up the steps to his bedchamber, and she followed without the slightest thought of resistance. He had not been lying, it really was warmer there usually, since he had placed another four of Créon's braziers in there, and Valencienne probably already felt their warmth as they entered the chamber crudely hewn from stone. The braziers here were burning low, too, like those outside, but they were still showing effect. And he would yet improve it. Letting go of Valencienne's hand, he fetched a handful of coals from the bucket in a corner and threw it onto the nearest brazier. Immediately flames sprang up merrily. Catching Valencienne's eyes, he gave her a little grin before he did the same with the others. "Happy now? Or do you still want a blanket?"

But she was too busy with taking in all of the room around her to truly hear what he was saying. "It's cosy in here," she decided at last, coming towards him, and he hastily wiped his hands on his trousers so he could hold her again without making her dress dirty. Black fingerprints on green wool wouldn't look too good, and she might not be too pleased with him despite the power he had over her. A little shyly, she nuzzled her head against his shoulder. She was fond of him, he felt, and his presence seemed to fill her with warmth – though this might be the fault of his manipulations, he could not really tell. And she wanted him to hold her, he could distinguish that wish easily from her other hopes and desires. She had had a rough, bad day, and she wanted to be held, just to be held. There was still a bit of suspicion, and a tiny touch of fear, but she was beginning to trust him now.

Determinedly pulling her into his embrace, he felt how her arms snaked around his waist immediately. Hell, how he wanted her! Why did others get their girls, why did Raoul get Christine, and not he? This was his turn at last. Fate would not grant him to lie in his beloved's arms and share with her all he could share, but there still was this one, pretty and with intelligent eyes, and if not with Christine's angelic voice, then at least with a pleasant one still. And Valencienne was a couple of years older than Christine. He would not feel he was taking advantage of a child all the time.

Plucking out the needles he could find and stroking her wavy brown hair that now fell down her back, he carefully lifted his enchantment a little more. It should be her own choice. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her.

As much as he wanted her… Of course. There was another trick he had not thought of until now, a trick that would help her overcome her shyness. Imagining to link his mind with hers, he poured his own desire into her, filled her with the liquid fire that was burning inside him. She could not answer his mental embrace, of course, she was not Christine, but this was as close as he could get to what he wanted.

And now they both were sharing the same passion… Gently lifting her chin, he leaned down to kiss her once again, and her immediate response stoked the fire even more.

As they at last broke apart, their breathing fast as if they had run over a long distance, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes alight with warmth. "God," she murmured. "I'm really not supposed to do that."

He laughed, using the moment to unbutton his waistcoat. Hell, he was soaring so high, flying on a stormcloud… "God can't see you now. We're too deep underground."

"You silly Ghost." She slapped him on the arm playfully, then they already were kissing again. Oh, such intense pleasure… He broke their contact, but only to place a line of kisses down along the soft skin of her neck, while she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling out the ribbon that had kept at least part of it still together and tousling it gently, occasionally giving a little sigh of pleasure. At the same time he was struggling out of his waistcoat, dropping it on the floor, and then his fingers already found the small buttons at the back of her dress…

There was no need to increase his influence; she did not resist. He felt the brief flicker of suspicion and very slight annoyance, and for a moment her grip in his hair grew painful, but then she was melting into his embrace again, her mind filled with his presence.

She was his, his alone.

How he wished it could have been Christine.

He briefly nuzzled his cheek against hers, then took her hand and guided it to the collar of his shirt, to the topmost button. Now it was her turn. Come on, you want me, you want me just as much as I want you…

Instead she began toying with his collar absent-mindedly, her other arm around his waist, cuddling closely against him. He felt that she was content, filled with desire but content for now.

Hell, she could not just be so shy! She was on fire as much as he was, he knew it. Would he have to take stronger measures?

Taking hold of her mind, he told her what to do. Get it open. Or tear it open, whatever you want. Just rip it off me. At the same time he hated himself for his uncontrolled need, but the sensation was drowned in that great flood of desire that was sweeping him away. Come on, just do it!

Her fingers trembled as she began unbuttoning his shirt, down to his upper stomach. Then, very suddenly, she stopped, and at once she wrapped her arms around him convulsively, hiding her face against him shivering. Surprised, he could feel that she was frightened. Immediately he began stroking her back soothingly while caressing her awareness with his mental touch. Had he hurt her? Had she somehow realized that he had just made her do something? Kissing the top of her head repeatedly, he inwardly shivered. Had he become such a blunderer? Why was he unable to completely interpret the stream of feelings inside her head? He could not focus; there was only one purpose on his mind now, while hers was filled with swirling thoughts and feelings, all different, all wanting something else. And suddenly it appeared to him that she tried to take shelter with him from the storm that was raging inside her.

I'm here with you, little one. Don't be afraid. I won't let you go.

Slowly he felt the storm ease inside her.

Maybe he would understand in the morning. But now, he did not truly care.

She reached up and briefly touched his mask with her forefinger, stroking it as if she were stroking his cheek. "There are many stories about you. But who are you really?"

Yes, who am I? Who the Hell am I?

He raked his fingers through her dark tresses, pulling her head to his shoulder, enjoying the sensation of her breath against his chest, just where his sweat-soaked shirt did not cover it. In his mind, the trumpets sang. "I may be the lowliest creature on Earth," he murmured to her, drawing in the intoxicating fragrance of her hair as he spoke, "the most accursed, the most abhorred… I have no name except those the others gave me. I have no home, no fatherland. I'm nothing like you, nothing but a beast vainly trying to mingle with humanity. I'm a stranger to this world, an outcast for all of eternity." He felt her fingers gently slide under the wet fabric, coming to rest over his heart. Did she feel the passion raging inside him now, the fire? "But in my own world, in my realm of shadows, I'm a god."

She did not speak again, just rested her head against him and played with the silver skull pendant she had found beneath his shirt. But he could read her answer in her mind: Take me to your world, then.

Wrapping his arms around her tightly, savouring how the waves of desire carried him, he enshrouded her entire awareness with his own. There was one wish, one purpose they now shared. If you don't love me, then lie to me. For tonight I do not care.

And deep within her consciousness, so deep that conscious thought would never delve there to analyze, she answered, I love you, stranger.

As he pulled her towards the bed, he felt that he could not restrain himself any longer.