Disclaimer: I don't own POTO.

Hey, I am soooooo happy that y'all liked the last chapter. I sincerely apologize if any of you were left out. I really tried to remember to get everyone in there, I even had a list, but I guess it was inevitable.

Phantress: Brooke's "exasperated slap" is just for you!

Savvy: HA!

Sorry, about the lack of review replies. It is late. Also, if there is more than the usual number of typos it is for the same reason.

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S'MORE

That voice which calls to me and speaks my name…

Christine followed unquestioning, completely willing. She could not see the source of the voice; it seemed to hover in the air before her, bodiless and ethereal. It was not the same as her Erik's, this voice was a low, raspy; it didn't glide over her skin like silk, instead it ran up and down her spine, like a precocious lover's caress. Yet it was like Erik's voice, powerful, seductive, and elusive.

The voice beckoned her into the forest and she followed blindly, through the cool shadows, the delicate fingers of the leaves reaching out to tickle her cheeks. All at once the voice stopped and the trance was shattered. Christine froze. Bug-eyes scanned the surroundings. The shadows were foreboding now and the whispers of the wind in the trees bespoke of almost certain terrors.

"Hello?" she called, her perfect voice cracking under the strain of mounting fear. She took a tentative step forward. "Is anyone there? Voice? WHERE ARE YOU?"

Was that an answer she heard?

Well, I highly doubt it was the answer she was looking for, but it made me happy. With that tiny little tentative step forward, Christine detonated a tree trunk full of Saturn missiles.

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Erik snaked his way up the ridge, careful to avoid being seen. Christine wondered not too far ahead. She moved with the graceful rhythm of one who has been hypnotized. Tipping his head to one side like a giant bird of prey, Erik listened. The faint strains of a man's singing voice reached his ears. Erik knew, from the quiet control lying beneath its sensual tone, the voice was meant for Christine's ears alone.

Erik seethed. It could not be Raoul. The boy did have to tempt Christine with a magic song, he had only to smile and she would be his captive. Besides, Raoul could not sing. At least Erik assumed the Vicomte could not sing. In this case he was right.

That left only one alternative: Gerry. That fool, that imposter! He came here at the bidding of the cousins and he had given every indication of being completely devoted to them. Yet the imposter was seducing Erik's beloved angel. Wasn't it enough he had usurped Erik's place with the cousins?

The original Opera Ghost stalked into the woods. He was aware of the Vicomte's presence at the southern edge of the woods, but Erik did not have time to bother with that stupid boy. Bent on straggling Gerry with the Punjab lasso, Erik did not waver in his track until the voice suddenly stopped and the woods filled with a deadly silence. Erik was immediately set on edge. The singer's desperate pleas for the voice, wracked through his body in wave after wave of jealousy, though he knew she called out because of terror, not desire.

He could just see her through the boughs of the birches. What did the imposter mean by luring her up here only to abandon her? It was a cruel trick to play, but Erik sensed that there was more to it than that. Christine bestirred herself, like a wounded mouse, and Erik heard the telltale snap of a breaking wire.

Suddenly, the shrieking whistles of a hundred tiny missiles sounded from every direction. Little white darts blazed through the air, burning through foliage like fairies of sunlight. Christine screamed and bolted, a horrible mistake.

"Merde!" Erik hissed as he ducked and darted, trying desperately to avoid the miniscule rockets. Up ahead of him Christine dissolved into utter panic. The more she ran, the more white missiles shot into the air. Every few feet another tree lit up with ignited fireworks as though Christmas had come six months early. Erik frantically struggled to reach his angel before the whole forest exploded.

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Raoul felt absolutely certain that the day could not get any worse. He staggered through the trees, stumbling like a winded elk, in an effort to find Little Lotte, his body sore, wet, and spent. All at once, the world seemed on fire. The trunks of the trees glowed hotly as they disgorged army after army of demon fireflies. In truth, Raoul would have much rather run and buried himself under a bush, but Christine's screams spurred him on.

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The cousins howled and cursed in dismay as they watched their beloved Phantom caught in the crossfire of the Saturn missiles. Their first instinct to dart into the open and push him away from the ricocheting rockets was quickly stopped by a pair of strong arms. Viciously, they kicked and struggled against their captor.

"Let go!"

"Cease this foolishness! What good will you do him by acting rashly? THINK STRATIGICALLY!" Gerry's command had its desired effect. The girls sagged in his arms. Anna's head lolled around, bringing her tearful brown-eyes up to Gerry's stern countenance.

"What should we do?" she whispered. Normally, Gerry would have required them to acquire the answer on their own, but now was not the time for lessons in critical thinking.

He swiftly replied, "Go and diffuse the other fireworks before they are ignited."

"What about Christine?" Brooke asked.

"I'll take care of her. Brooke, you see to the Vicomte. Anna, look out for Erik. Have you got that?" He pinned them with a teacher's gaze. They nodded and he saw the courage and spunk returning to their eyes. "Good. Go!"

He shoved them forward before disappearing into the shadows in a swirl of black velvet. Brooke and Anna worked quickly to disarm as many fireworks as they could, nimbly darting through the trees, deftly clipping wires, all while trying to avoid the zigzagging Saturn missiles. Anna peered through the thick foliage to see the POTO trio struggling against the ever-increasing tide of pyrotechnics.

"Hey, Brooke, don't those three remind you of that part in Episode IV when Luke, Han, and Leia are trapped in the cell bay of the Death Star?"

Brooke pondered her cousin's observation for a second before replying, "Leave it to you to have a Star Wars geek moment in the middle of a firework fiasco."

Anna shrugged her shoulders with air of indifference. "In the blood I guess. Besides, I know you were thinking the same thing."

Brooke tried to hide a telltale grin of accession behind a look of dignified horror. "What makes you so sure?"

"Twisted minds think alike."

BAM!

Unfortunately or fortunately—depending on your point of view—the stumbling Vicomte chose that moment to detonate a nest of raptor eggs, thus effectively cutting of the cousins' fascinating conversation. Writing from personal experience, a couple of raptor eggs is much more interesting when firing into the ground, rather than into the sky. The result is a wonderfully violent fountain of orange and green fireballs.

Needless to say, the unexpected increase in turbulence threw Raoul into frantic, shrieking hysterics. He ran in useless circles, pausing every once in a while to dance that distinctly feminine OMG-there's-a-bug-on-the-floor jig.

Anna fell to the ground, clutching her sides as she laughed uncontrollably. Brooke stood frozen in shock. From the untouched shadows, Gerry swore under his breath. Raoul's clumsiness had distracted the cousins, leaving Christine wide open for Erik to gallantly rescue. In this phic that is not a good thing.

Luckily, Raoul corrected the situation. As may be expected, running around like a chicken with its head cut off in a dark, dense, booby-trapped forest is not the brightest idea. However, young de Changy had long since lost all capacity for rational thinking. In his panic, Raoul unleashed a squad of UFO's. The little fireworks spun into the air and, as if by instinct, took off after the screaming Vicomte. Again, writing from experience, having those fiery flying saucers buzz after you is an unnerving event, so I can't blame poor Raoul for high-tailing it to the stream.

This singular instance set off a chain of events that proved to be beneficial to all the right people.

Brooke snapped out of her paralyzed shock and ran after Raoul. Anna remained giggling on the forest floor. Even Erik could not contain his glee at seeing the Vicomte sprinting through the woods with a band of angry-looking rockets on his heels. The Phantom momentarily lost control of his senses and began laughing. This had two very important effects. One, it distracted him from Christine. The instant his sunken blue eyes left the soprano a gloved hand shot out of the shadows, snatched the collar of her gown, and dragged her into the darkness. (Que freaky Psycho shower scene music).

Two, Erik's beautiful laughter (because everything he does is beautiful) alerted the cavorting cameo fireworks of his presence. Being that they were spawned from crazy phangirls, the pyrotechnics immediately zeroed in on the elegant black figure below. Forgetting that they were no longer rabid phanatics, they plummeted straight at the Phantom, intent upon glomping their favorite fictional maestro. Curiously enough, the sound of falling firecrackers sounded suspiciously similar to SQUEEEEEEEEEEE!

Anna's brown eyes snapped up, widening with horror as the gleaming, glittering mass of sulfur and nitrate sped towards her beloved angel. Forsaking all concern for her personal safety, she leapt to her feet and raced to Erik's rescue. Erik himself was acutely aware of the incoming fireball.

It rocketed closer and closer. No matter where he ran, it still burned over him. The heat and the light seared his senses. The roar of the crackling flames shook the trees and nearly deafened the poor Phantom. As it bore down on him Erik buckled, sinking to his knees, and burying his head beneath his arms.

Anna's legs pumped harder and faster. She crashed through nets of branches and snares of thorns, heedless of the brambles tearing her clothes and skin. Her heart pounded against her aching ribs and the blood roared in her ears as she thought she might not make it in time. With one last burst of strength, the little redhead flung herself at Erik's huddled form, just as the forest erupted into flames.

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Raoul rushed for the promising gurgle of running water. The devilish firecrackers whirled like mini buzz saws, spinning ever closer to his head. Squealing in dismay, the Vicomte ran harder and dove for the river.

Brooke was not far behind him. As she vaulted over the last bush, she stumbled into a moonlit clearing, through which a babbling, tinkling stream flowed (yes, 'tis the very same stream Erik and Anna found on their walk).

She was just in time to witness the frazzled Vicomte resurface. His deathly white face glowed like a specter's in the moonlight. His eyes darted around the area, evidently in search of any incoming fireworks, but there were none to be seen. Brooke surmised that the UFO's had met their untimely end in the stream's icy waters. Hovering in the shadows, she watched in agony as Raoul dragged his wet, shaking body onto the riverbanks and collapsed into a shivering heap. The brunette noted with a roguish grin that his white dress shirt was soaked through, clinging to his well-formed body like the thin membrane of a cocoon.

Suddenly he heaved and shook under a barrage of hoarse coughs. Brooke's heart thudded. She wanted to go to him, but if he saw her like this, dressed like a university coed on her way to Starbucks, it would mean trouble for more than just her. Still, she couldn't leave him like that…all at once, an idea struck her brain, taking a page from Erik's book, she pulled her sweatshirt hood over her head and glided out on to the sand.

Raoul started and squeaked when he saw the blurry form of a woman bending over him. Was it Christine? No, Christine didn't smell line forest and spice…and she certainly didn't wear men's trousers. He frowned and scooted away from the stranger.

"Who are you?" he rasped, his throat raw from screaming.

Brooke chuckled, "Why M. le Vicomte, don't you remember me? L'esprit?"

Raoul's bright blue eyes widened in stunned recognition of the mysterious masquerader who had kissed him on the catwalks of the Paris Opera House. He often thought of that strange apparition and her odd companions: Red Death, of course, who was Christine's phantom, and the Raven, who had stayed Death's hand. The Spirit he recalled most vividly, her shapely figure, the sparkling emerald eyes, and soft, warm mouth. Raoul blushed at the thought…but this person looked nothing like that ethereal ghost. He glared at the woman standing near him.

"You don't look like her."

"Tsk, tsk, Vicomte, surely you know that we specters can change appearances as suits our needs," she purred in reply. He blinked. That made sense. Besides, there was something familiar about her voice, if only he could place it.

The Spirit continued, "You look like you have seen some trouble. Perhaps I can help you."

"How so?"

"I could use my magic. Conjure up a warm shirt, for instance, and maybe…a little company."

Raoul snorted at the mention of magic, but he quickly sobered when the Spirit pulled an odd-looking satchel out from behind her back. After showing him that it was empty, she murmured something to it, paused for a half-second, and then dipped her hand into the Bag's mouth to draw forth a new linen shirt and a wool cloak. De Changy's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He accepted her gifts in silence. If she could produce clothes from an empty Bag, maybe she could conjure up some company as well.

Christine, perhaps, he thought. No, he didn't want to see Christine right now. She would whine and fuss…he didn't need that now. (Apparently, he has forgotten that fireworks had chased her, too. Why? Because it's more convenient this way.)

"Well, now, M. le Vicomte, since I have proved my sincerity to you, shall I summon Mlle. Daaé to tend to you?"

Raoul shook his dripping head. "No, there's someone else who would be more helpful, I imagine. Mlle. Brooke…do you know her?"

The Spirit smiled broadly, "Of course! I will fetch her for you." With that she spun on her heel and marched into the woods. Once she was well concealed within the trees, Brooke did a silent squee and victory dance and hugged the magical Poppins Bag to her chest.

Can't breathe, darling.

"Thank you, Bag!"

Welcome.

"Can I have some of my Victorian clothes, please?"

Sure. Is that all?

"Yes," Brooke whispered happily as she snatched up her blouse and skirt. "No! I need graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows, skewers, and matches."

Geez! Gonna have a regular camp-out, huh? Well, there you are. NOW are you finished with me?

"Yup!"

Good, I must be getting back to HQ. When Brooke next cast her eyes on the Poppins Bag, she saw that it was gone. Without giving it a second thought, the brunette gathered the requested supplies in her arms and went back to the riverbank.

"Hello?" she called out, pretending to be surprised, stumbling out of the forest like a waking sleepwalker. Raoul, dressed in the new shirt and cloak, turned at the sound of her voice. He approached her timidly.

"Good evening, Mlle! Don't be afraid. It is I, the Vicomte de Changy."

Brooke halted and stared at him for a moment. "How did I get here?"

Raoul feigned innocence; evidently he did not want Brooke to know that he had specifically asked for her to be summoned there by 'magic.' "I don't know. I was chased here by some of those strange fireworks. Did you see them?"

"Yes! They were terrifying! You didn't get hurt did you?"

"I don't think so, just a little frazzled. Nothing to worry about. What are you carrying?"

"When I found myself in the woods just now these things were in my arms."

Raoul reached out to relieve Brooke of her burden, their arms and hands brushing in the process. She relished the contact, however brief.

"These are odd things," Raoul remarked as he arranged the supplies on dry ground. "Ah, matches! Shall I build a fire?"

"Yes, please!" Together, they set about gathering wood. Raoul insisted that she stay put, but Brooke would not hear of it. The Vicomte found that he rather enjoyed working side by side with her; there was a warm sense of camaraderie about the shared task, however small, that made his heart pound out a different rhythm. Soon, a pleasant blaze threw its light around the clearing like a jewel caught in sunlight. Brooke settled down to the business of roasting marshmallows.

"Would you like a s'more?" she asked Raoul. He quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Some more of what?"

"A s'more!" She grinned as she replied, knowing what would come next.

"My dear, mameselle, how can I have some more of something when I have yet to have anything at all?"

Brooke's face met her palm with an exasperated slap. "You're killing me, Smalls!"

"I beg you pardon!" Raoul cried, but the bizarre young woman ignored his indignation.

"This is how you make a s'more. First, you take a graham. Then you put the chocolate on the graham." Brooke demonstrated these instructions. "Then you roast a mallow."

She held a skewered marshmallow over the tips of the flames until it was a soft, golden brown. "Then you stick the mallow on the chocolate and cover it with another graham."

Brooke handed the s'more to the shocked Vicomte. He eyed the little sandwich with suspicion for a moment before cautiously biting into it. To his surprise, it was a heavenly confection. Munching happily, he scooted a little closer to his companion, all worries about fireworks gone from his mind as he let himself sink into the peaceful moment. He wiped his sticky fingers on the wool cloak.

"Might I try, Mlle. Brooke?" he asked.

"Certainly!" She handed him the skewer. Raoul jabbed the marshmallow into the fire. Yelping in panic, he whipped it back out as it burst into flames. Brooke quickly extinguished the burning mallow. Raoul looked so disappointed that she almost gave him a hug for comfort.

"It's okay. You can try another."

"It is still edible, isn't it?"

Brooke screwed up her face in disgust, "Yes, but burnt marshmallows are gross!"

Raoul decided to try it anyway. He liked it.

"That's sick," Brooke grumbled as she handed him another marshmallow.

"Brooke?" The Vicomte's voice was low and husky. She met his eyes, startled at his use of name without the prefix.

"Yes?"

"May I apologize for my rude behavior to you earlier this evening?"

Brooke gaped at him. She must have hit the jackpot. A man who apologized!

"Yes, you may, M. le Vicomte."

"Please, call me Raoul."

"Thank you…Raoul."

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When the smoke cleared, the once-beautiful forest resembled an ashtray, smoldering stubs of trees poking out here and there. Not a cricket dared to chirp as all the surviving woods waited for a sign of life. Suddenly, something stirred from the ground, sending a cloud of cinders billowing into the air. Erik raised his head above the ground, and coughing and choking, he yanked off his mask. Something pinned his torso to the floor. Perhaps it was a tree. He shifted his body and felt the something slide along it. No, too limp and light for a tree. A dead animal, then. Erik grimaced at the thought. Shoving himself into a sitting position, he caused the limp something to roll off of him. It flopped to the ground like a carelessly thrown rag doll. Funny, it even had red hair like a rag doll.

Erik's heart nearly stopped.

"Anna!" he cried. Panic rising in his throat, the Phantom gently picked up the unconscious girl. As he carried her away from the ruined glade and into the unsullied recesses of the forest, he suddenly remembered his last thought before the eruption.

He was crouching low in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the unavoidable fireball. He glanced up when he heard someone calling his name. He saw a streak of navy blue and red and felt a small body slam into his willowy frame, knocking him out of the fireball's direct trajectory. Everything lit up, bright as day and then all was silent and dark.

"Oh, God!" Erik breathed a quiet prayer. Anna had shoved him out of the way. He slumped to his knees, unable to support both the girl and his grief. He cradled her in his arms, hugging her tightly to his chest. Silently, he wept for his precious friend. No one had ever done so much for him. It did occur to Erik that the explosion was Anna's own fault, but that didn't matter to him now. Where was Brooke? If she was still alive, it would crush her spirit to see her cousin dead. For a moment, Erik hoped he'd find the other girl's body somewhere nearby, therefore, sparing the brunette the pain of the loss.

Releasing a ragged sigh, Erik took Anna's left hand in his own gloved one and brought the palm to his lips. As he kissed her, he felt the faint flutter of a heart beat.

Anna's mind struggled to break through the stupor. She recalled feeling the same way after that lightning bolt had sent her and her cousin to Erik's doorstep. Erik. Yes, she had been trying to save Erik. Did she succeed? Where was she? Was she dead? She drew breath, slow and labored. The scent of Oriental lilies filled her nostrils. Death.
The strong aroma of the flower that stood for death fogged her senses; it was the smell she had always associated with death, ever since the first funeral she attended as a child.

She became aware of something warm and moist pressed to her left palm. Lips. Gradually, a body, separate from her own began to take shape: strong arms wrapped around her torso, a long hand gripping her own, and a face swimming above her. She blinked. An angel's voice called her name. It came from the face. ERIK!

"Erik!" Anna cried. She was wide-awake. Without thinking, she hoisted herself up and threw her arms around his neck. His body stiffened for a moment before he returned her embrace.

"I thought you were dead!" she whimpered.

"I thought the same of you."

The young woman pulled back to look at him. She blushed when she found his face only inches from hers. It would be so easy just to lean in and kiss him. However sorely tempted, Anna restrained herself, content to be sitting in his lap, with his arms still draped around her waist.

If Erik was thinking thoughts at all similar to Anna's, he did not show it. All at once, he remembered his suspicions that the girl in his lap and her absent cousin were most likely the culprits behind that outrageous firework display. He launched her to her feet and stood beside her, his burning eyes boring into her.

"What the hell were you two thinking? Wiring the forest like that? And creating those insane fireworks?" he snapped. Anna tried to look innocent.

"It was just a bit of fun. In honor of the holiday!" she offered hopefully.

"What holiday?"

"The Fourth of July! Independence Day!...I'm an American, remember?"

"You idiotic, Yankee!" Erik roared. "You might have killed someone!"

"But I didn't."

"Oh, no? Then where is your cousin?"

"With the Vicomte."

Erik blinked. "Then where is Christine?"

"Who cares? Come on!" Anna grabbed his hand and hauled him deeper into the woods. Tired and somewhat shell-shocked, Erik followed. Did he say something about Christine? In all seriousness, who does care? the little voice in the back of his mind whispered to him. He didn't protest.

"Where are we going?" he asked aloud.

"To HQ!" Anna led through the labyrinth of tree much like she had just that afternoon. At last they reached a clearing in the trees. Two snoring stable hands lay curled up by a good fire. A cart of wizard's fireworks stood at a safe distance. Anna rushed forward and shook the hobbits out of their slumber.

"Hm! Oh, 'ello, Anna. 'Tis all over?" said Pip.

"Yes, except for that cartload. You and Que are welcome to it, if you'd like."

"'OY! Did ye 'ear tha', Que?" Pip elbowed his comrade.

"Ay, I 'eard. Let's get to it!" They leapt to their feet and scampered off to set off the remaining pyrotechnics.

Erik plopped to the ground, beside the fire. "More fireworks?"

Anna dug through a picnic basket as she answered, "Don't worry. These are well-behaved fireworks. Do you want to learn how to make s'mores?"

"Some more of what?"

Anna giggled as she sat down next him, both resting their backs against a sturdy pine tree. Anna yawned and her head nodded. On second thought, she didn't feel up to making s'mores. It had been a looooooong day, about eight chapters' worth of activity. Letting the skewer fall from her grasp, Anna struggled to focus on Gandalf's fireworks bursting overhead. Her head tilted to the left, but there was nothing to support it there. It swung to the right and found a shoulder to rest on. Overcome with weariness, Anna turned into Erik, entwining her arms around his left one and burying her face into the hollow of his neck. Before the Phantom could realize what had happened, she was sound asleep.

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In a small cave along the seashore…

"Stop that! Christine…DON'T TOUCH MY PANTS! Noooooo…these are my Don Juan pants! That's right. Go sit in the corner and sing and leave Gerry alone. Very good…good soprano."