Hello again, everyone! Thanks to everyone who read the last chapter, and extra thanks and red roses with black ribbons to my lovely reviewers: AgiVega and winged-silhouette.

Disclaimer: I do not own Artemis Fowl, as Eoin Colfer owns Artemis Fowl. I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, as Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Susan Kay, etc. own Phantom of the Opera. What part of my non-ownership isn't clear here?

Chapter Five: Possession

She had heard the Voice of the Angel of Music.

At the moment that celestial Voice had greeted her by name, a change had been wrought in Holly. She knew this; she could feel the change in herself. It was as though almost seventy years of cynicism and bitterness and anger at her father had all been stripped away. She existed again in the beatific, illusionary state of innocence her father had wanted her to remain in, like a perfect doll forever in suspended animation. Although her mind had not regressed – she was still the eighty-year-old LEP officer inside – she was infinitely more trusting, more willing to accept that the Angel of Music had come to her than she had been before. Her father had not lied, and she had been chosen to sing on the stage of the Opera House, just as she had dreamed as a child.

But it was insane! She accepted this, honestly and calmly contemplating whether she had lost her mind. She had heard the Voice of an angel inside of her head as clearly as she heard the voices of the couple in the next room in the hotel. Staring up at the plain white ceiling, endeavouring to find some equilibrium of her thoughts, she lay back on her bed and tried to put her mind in order. She had studied angels as part of the 'Christian faith and how it applies to the Mud Man mentality' course in college, and they didn't just randomly appear to people! And even if angels did exist, they wouldn't appear to an elf, an unbeliever!

But his Voice… surely no mortal or even magical being had such a Voice. She could not mistake it as the mesmer, it was something far more haunting and it terrified her and thrilled her in the same breath. She would be insane to return tomorrow, Holly decided as she undressed back in the relative safety of her hotel suite. But wouldn't the Angel find her if she did not return to him? Angels knew everything, after all. And his fury would be dreadful if he had to track her down; she had already seen that he was swift to anger and frightening when he did.

Wait, she said to herself. Angels know everything, don't they? So why did he have to ask my name?

xx

She was insane, and she knew it, and she returned the next evening. At ten to eight she was waiting in the old dressing room, trying not to cough from the dust, not willing to risk angering the Angel by being late. Fervently she wondered why she was there, that it was not still too late to dash out of the dressing room and never return to that place where the insanity and the Angel were.

"Holly." His Voice sounded inside her mind, and she shuddered with pleasure and with fear. She was certain he must have heard or read her thoughts of betraying him, of fleeing from him, and so her hands trembled and her eyes darted all over the room, searching for an escape route in case his fury overwhelmed them both. "Holly. Calm yourself. I will not harm you." The Voice was soothing and gentle, but there was within it an undercurrent of power. When he spoke, he expected to be obeyed. With an effort she stilled her hands and focussed her eyes. "Well done, Holly." Something in her stirred at his praise, although she did not know what or why. "I have left you a gift. There, on the table."

She sifted through the sheet music, eyes widening. She had never seen so much music. Her father had shown her a little, back in the days when he used to get out his violin on special occasions, before the LEP took up so much of his time. "Thank you, Angel!"

She could hear the smile in the Angel's Voice. "You are welcome, Holly. I thought we might start on the first page…"

xx

And so it went on for a week, and then what was almost two. Each day Holly fell a little deeper into the thrall of the Angel of Music, and by the end of the first week she felt as though she could never live without him. The nights when he would speak to her inside her mind became what she lived for, and she often stayed with him well into the night. Indeed, she felt as though she rarely needed to respond to him out loud, that he would be able to understand her even if her answers were nonverbal. But he preferred to hear her voice, he had said, with such sweetness she had been completely won over.

He was like that, a constant quandary. Some days he would be tender and kind, not generous with his compliments but gentle in his relentless criticism, and she never wanted to leave him. And other times he would rage at her; his fury would be as dark as night. She could hear him still: She was foolish, she was a useless child, that it was obvious she did not practise because she did not improve… She would sit, with tears dripping silently down her cheeks, and because he was the Angel, she was his willing slave, and he was always right.

When she was away from him her body physically hurt, as though someone had cut away something vital from her. She would stay with him until eleven or twelve at night, head home, and fall into bed and sleep, the deep damned sleep of the truly exhausted. He coaxed the sound out of her, made her produce the music from her throat by plucking her heartstrings like just another instrument he longed to master. She was always exhausted afterwards; he sapped the life right out of her with his powerful presence and his magnificent Voice.

And she worried, because she did not think he knew she was an elf, not a human, but that wasn't right, because angels knew everything, but angels didn't appear to elves or any other faerie, there had never been a faerie, elf or otherwise, that had met an angel… Holly was fairly certain she was going insane, and the worst part of it was, as long as she was with him, she didn't care.

She had made no headway in her search for the subject, and it was nearing the time when she would be forced to beg the commander for more time. She managed a grimace; despite the fact that the Voice was taking over her piece by piece, bits of her still remained the Holly she had been.

But they were fading fast.

xx

"What do you mean, you need another two weeks?" Root demanded over the communicator. He didn't like the look of Short. Her eyes looked slightly glazed and unless he was very much mistaken she had lost weight. The young officer attempted a brave smile.

"The subject has proved far more difficult than anticipated to apprehend," she rattled off, sounding for all the world like she had prepared a speech beforehand. Root frowned. Something was wrong here. "I will be done in two more weeks, Commander."

"Well, if you're sure, Short…" Root said, uncertain.

"Yes, sir."

"Fine, then. But if you haven't got the job done in two more weeks then I'm sending in reinforcements. Kelp's itching to go above ground, I might send him." Holly made a face.

"Kelp? That flyboy?" Root couldn't resist a chuckle.

"That 'flyboy' is of a higher rank than you, Short. I'd watch yourself if I were you." She joined him in his laughter.

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Commander. See you in two weeks. Short out."

Holly closed her eyes and breathed out. The commander was so damn intuitive. She'd have to be careful, and put some real effort into finding that damn criminal before she blew her cover completely. Holly felt her eyes sliding closed. Oh, well, she decided. One more day can't hurt.

She was in a room, a darkened room, and a man was staring down at her. She recoiled in horror. He had the face of a dead man, the features of a creature that had been rotting underneath the ground for a month or two. He had no nose, his eyes were deep black pits lit only by two pinpricks of gold light, and what little lips he had were bared back, teeth visible in a snarl. But he was not snarling, she realized… he was laughing.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked fearfully, her mind ticking over at a rate she had not thought possible. His eyes were grim as he stared down at her, but that maniacal laughter was still continuing. He was laughing and yet he was so serious. This man was truly insane.

"I'm laughing at you, my dear… at your truly remarkable incompetence. You don't even know how to go about killing yourself with any efficiency, do you? What have you succeeded in doing except giving yourself a headache and ruining your dress? You're really not very practical, are you? Why didn't you consult me first? I would have been quite happy to give you the benefit of my considerable experience in death."

Holly glanced down at her knotted hands, the skin pale as snow. Pale as… she gazed down at her arms in horror. Her usual nut-brown skin was the fairest Caucasian she had ever seen, and her body was far too long… she was a Mud Woman!

Oh, gods, she prayed, let this nightmare stop…

"Don't talk like this," she whispered without being consciously aware of it. "Please, Erik. Don't talk about death and laugh like that… it frightens me." Holly hadn't realized the trembling, terrified voice she was hearing was her own until the man shrugged with indifference and responded, looking down at her like she was an interesting scientific specimen.

"Yes… I seem to remember how little it takes to frighten you, Christine." Who the hell was Christine? "But you shouldn't be frightened of Death… he's very approachable really, not at all aloof, never passes by on the other side of the road simply because he's not been introduced." Holly was conscious of a growing feeling of dread, as though some terrible climax was building and she had no way of stopping it. "He makes no distinctions of class… a flea bitten rats or a beautiful princess, it's all the same to Death!"

Holly awoke as though someone had poured cold water on her. She sat bolt upright on the bed, noticing the darkness of the room. It was night. She had slept the day through.

The day through… oh!

She turned to the alarm clock by the bed frantically. It was eight thirty. In the evening.

She moaned, a sound of pure torment, and rushed from the room.

xx

She flung herself into the dressing room at nearly nine o'clock. She heard nothing, but the air was like ice and she knew it had very little to do with the temperature.

"You're late." The Angel's Voice was like icicles dripping slowly down her spine and she shuddered, sinking to her knees before the mirror and trembling before him. Inexorably, the Angel continued. "Where have you been?" The sound she made was caught between a sob and a scream, but she could not speak. "With a lover?" The Angel's Voice was no longer angry or icy, but soft, comforting. It was a façade over the Voice's terrible wrath, she was sure, and she trembled, knowing that his calmness would not last if she displeased him.

"N-no, Master."

"LIAR!" the Voice screamed, so loudly she was certain the entire Opera House must have heard the terrifying screech of his rage. "YOU WERE WITH SOMEONE! WHO WERE YOU WITH?" Heat filled Holly's blood. Angel or not, her mother had taught her to stick up for herself when someone was being unfair to her… a lesson her father never managed to teach her while he was telling her fairytales.

"NO ONE!" she shrieked back at him, and it seemed the Angel was so shocked he did not say a word. "I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!"

The Voice did not speak. Finally, he murmured. "You are certain?" Holly heaved a sigh.

"Yes. I was with no one." The Voice was quiet for a minute.

"I apologize, Holly. My… temper sometimes gets the better of me." Too shocked to even say a word to accept his apology, Holly merely nodded. "Sometimes I worry…" the Angel confided unexpectedly. "What you are doing out there, whether you are safe, if you are with someone…" He trailed off, seemingly lost in contemplation. "But you are here with me!" the Angel announced. "And you are safe with me and you shall stay with me! Shall we start your lesson?"

Holly nodded. There was little else she could do, for amongst the niggling of doubt in her mind there was a certainty that something about the Angel's mental state was beginning to disturb her.

As she sang, eyes blank and voice almost perfect, like a living doll making the music of an angel, she remembered her nightmare. She had lied to the Angel. She hadn't been with no one. She had not been alone. The dream was too overwhelmingly real and too utterly undeniable for her to shove it into the back of her mind like she did with so many other frightening thoughts. She has not been alone in her dreams. She had been with Erik and Christine.

But who were Erik and Christine?

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