Let Me Go Too
"There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear... "
-1 John 4:18
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The silver radiance of Christine's voice soothed a nameless pain in him. All of his restless thoughts, his worry for his father's ailing health, his brother's reputation, his own loneliness . . . all of it melted away when the first incandescent note left her lips.
So beautiful.
She glittered in diamonds and silver and yards and yards of gauzy fabric, an ethereal goddess of song. In his mind, he still called her by the childish appellation of 'Little Lotte,' but in truth she could not have looked less like a child. Raoul squinted through the opera glasses from the box near the rear of the theater. He would have vastly preferred Box Five, but it had already been rented, by a man named Erik Rousseau.
The pleasure of Christine's performance was tarnished by the thought of the Populaire's masked composer—coincidentally Christine's teacher. Rumors traveled fast, the whole Opera knew about his 'visit' to the managers' office. Raoul frowned. This was the same Erik that Christine seemed frightened of the night of Hannibal's premiere, he was sure of it. So frightened that she was scurrying back to the Populaire as fast as his carriage would allow. If this arrogant composer had laid one finger on her . . . his hands fisted around the program.
Riding in on a white horse and sweeping Christine away from danger would suit his hero-complex as Philippe called it. The frown marring Raoul's handsome face deepened at the thought of his lascivious brother who had accompanied him to the Opera this evening. Not even a quarter hour into the first act and Philippe was leaving the box, claiming boredom. As of now, he was probably in some seedy alcove with La Sorelli.
The last chord of Elissa's aria soared up to the highest rafters, dancing like the crystal droplets of the chandelier. Applause thundered from every corner of the theater and Raoul clapped enthusiastically as she took her bow. But as the rest of the cast filed onstage, Raoul left the box. He had to catch her before she made it to her dressing room!
XXX
A dazed exaltation and breathless excitement mingled indivisibly within her until she felt as if she was floating. She cowered behind the protection of Madame and Meg as they made their way through hordes of well-wishers and admirers, she stood passively as they helped remove the heavy dress and wipe away the stage cosmetics.
Judging from Madame's brittle smile and the overbright edge to Meg's laugh, they knew of her arrangement with Erik over the furlough and didn't approve. The bruises on Meg's face were sickly purple crescents, skillfully hidden under cosmetics. But her bubbly young friend had been irrevocably changed by Buquet. Nightmares kept her from sleep and her wild bravery—to the point of recklessness—had been crushed and strangled by a taut vigilance. Christine bit her lip. Maybe she needed to stay with Meg. Her best friend needed her . . . Meg saw the evidence of her thoughts and embraced her.
"Don't you worry about me, Christine. I'll be fine. I promise."
"I love you, Meg. You're more important to me than any silly old opera," Christine vowed against the golden fall of Meg's hair. A watery sheen of tears obscured the stunning hazel of Meg's eyes as she pulled away and Christine bit back tears of her own.
"I know. I love you too, Christine. But I'll be fine." Meg bade them both goodbye, and left to attend the crowd outside. Madame Giry bent and kissed Christine's forehead. Her hazel eyes were sharp and knowing. She cupped Christine's chin, holding her gaze.
"I trust you both, my dear." Underneath this statement of faith, Christine heard something of a demand, as if the giving of her trust was in itself an obstacle to any transgression that may occur to her. Beneath 'I trust you' lay 'Don't disappoint me.'
"Thank you, Madame. Everything will be all right," Christine assured her.
Madame Giry departed, leaving Christine to fret and pace by the mirror. Onstage, as the applause and shouted compliments of her adoring public fell over her, she heard his voice—soft and sweet.
Brava . . . Brava . . . Bravissima . . . a single red rose fluttered to her feet and she caught it up to drink in its heady scent, clutching the proof of his presence. Outside her door, she heard Meg and Madame shoo the surging crowd of sycophants, no doubt waving her cane for emphasis.
A polite knock on the door sent Christine flying across the worn pink carpet, the flimsy door groaned as she tore it open, expecting Erik's dark form and stormy eyes. Instead it was Raoul's fair winsome figure, hand poised mid-knock and blue eyes wide. They shared a tense laugh.
"Good evening, Christine," he said with a gallant bow, "may I come in?" Christine mustered a thin smile. She had better let him speak his piece and hurry him out before Erik arrived. Keeping the two of them separate was of utmost importance. Christine waved him into her dressing room, eyes restlessly scanning the deserted flies for him. She gripped the doorjamb, permitting a moment of fierce concentration as she searched for her Angel's presence.
Nothing.
A clawing, desperate emotion roared in her belly. Holy Virgin, what if he had gone?
XXX
Nothing on this earth was going to keep her from him this time. Not the managers, not the idiot Vicomte, and not . . .
"Daroga?" Erik said aloud. He peered from his hiding place within the hollow pillar of Box Five as the Daroga's slight, dark form tiptoed into the Ghost's Box.
"Erik?" he hissed, "Erik, are you here? I must speak with you."
Of all the damnable timing Daroga! Erik thought viciously. Erik projected his voice in a menacing murmur into the Persian's ear.
"What do you want? I have pressing matters to attend."
Nadir's dark eyes scanned the room, seeking places where his quarry might be hiding. Despite the urgency of his errand and his friend's irritating interruption, Erik could not help a surge of amusement as the Daroga began looking behind velvet curtains and feeling along the walls for a hidden seam. As if Erik was a bumbling amateur! Surely the Daroga had greater faith in Erik's skills!
"As do I. What is this I hear about a scene shifter named Josef Buquet?"
"What about him? The gendarmes concluded that he committed suicide. He was quite the drunkard, if I recall correctly."
"It's a bloody fine coincidence that he decides to take his own life the very day after the little Daae has an evening with the Vicomte de Chagny!" Erik blinked at this, then laughed at his acumen.
"It is a coincidence, isn't it? But I assure you, Daroga, that is all it is. The man may spend a merry eternity in Hell for all I care." Despite himself, there was a scathing satisfaction in his tone and unfortunately for Erik, Nadir Kahn was no slouch in reading tones.
"Erik, what did you do?" Erik opened his mouth to reply when a cascade of shouted compliments and bleats of 'Miss Daae!'
"It has been a pleasure conversing with you, Daroga, but I must go."
"You must tell me if you have broken your promise!" Nadir demanded.
Erik heaved a sigh. All those years ago, when the shah's chief of police was ordered to take the errant magician in chains to his comeuppance, virtuous Nadir had forced a promise from Erik: Do not kill, save in self-defense. That cross had not been hard to bear; until Raoul de Chagny waltzed into the Populaire, that particular addiction had slept dormant. If Erik was the guardian of Nadir's fragile health, then the Persian was still his conscience. Some things never changed.
"Damn it, Daroga! Your infernal pestering! Yes! I killed that man, but not as a substitute for the wretched boy, or to feed some appetite for murder. Persia burned away any joy I felt killing. If my word is not enough, speak with the ballet mistress Madame Giry, an old friend of mine. Now I must go."
Erik yanked on the rope in a swift hand over hand motion that brought him to the base of the pillar within moments. He didn't want to see the stricken expression in Nadir's eyes when he discovered that he had lost his life and fortune to aid a monster with half a face. A small voice inside him whispered that when Christine finally realized it, she would run screaming.
It took him a few moments to circle the rear of the theater and reach the tunnel behind the mirror. And he very nearly broke his promise again upon seeing that miserable boy with his hands on Christine. The world contracted to one shining point, the periphery of his vision pulsed a deadly red. The effort of containing the clawing demon of rage left his will scarred and battered, but he was well rewarded when Christine selected the perfect words both to dismiss the boy and soothe Erik's rabid anger.
"I appreciate your concern, Raoul—" Erik rankled under the casual use of his name, "—but I want you to leave. I have a previous engagement."
"With Erik?" Raoul pressed. Grim amusement flickered to life in Erik. Apparently, seething jealousy and murderous rage was mutual between them. Christine's chin lifted.
"Yes. He is my tutor, after all." Possessive pride throbbed in Erik's heart.
Hear that, boy? She's mine. Mine! Raoul made a derisive sound in his throat, but he obeyed Christine's wishes. He shrugged on his coat and smoothed his golden locks.
"Very well. Good evening to you, Miss Daae."
Christine closed the door after him and leaned against it, eyes closed. Did she regret sending him away? What had the boy said? Erik opened the mirror and stepped inside, uncertain of his welcome. Christine was either unaware or did not acknowledge his presence, for she simply stood there, leaning against the door with her head tilted back and eyes closed, one pale hand splayed at her throat. The privacy of her closed eyes gave him leave to look at her, to absorb her beauty and study its angles and planes. The snowy column of her throat, so delicate and vulnerable, invited kisses, the glossy fall of her hair beckoned the touch of his fingers. He yearned to set his lips at that hollow at the base of her neck and breathe in her scent. The gown she wore displayed the glory of her figure. He vastly preferred its lush green lines to the drab greys and blacks she usually wore in his presence. His eyes wandered over her form and desire unfurled, hot and heady.
This coming week would be the truest test of his will and sanity.
I must endure it, he thought, for Minette's sake. For hers . . . and mine. Any honor I have left would be forfeit if I take her.
The throbbing silence shifted and Erik realized she had opened her eyes. Christine had seen him looking at her. Erik prayed that her innocence would distort the hunger she saw in his eyes.
"Erik."
XXX
The door was cool and solid against her back and she let her eyes slip closed. She hadn't been able to sleep the night before, not with the performance and Erik cavorting in her thoughts. Hannibal and the confrontation with Raoul had deepened her fatigue. And despite how much she hated to admit it, Raoul brought up several good points, one in particular being the most profound. Christine knew very little about Erik, and what she did know sent dozens of little red flags waving. He was a violent man. Not only had he threatened the managers in the interest of her career, but he had admitted to killing a man only two nights ago. From what Meg had told her, he did so with terrifying ease and skill. He had done it before. Many times. What made this revelation even more confusing was how little she cared.
Erik . . .
A sudden stillness settled over her like a warm blanket. Christine felt knots of tension dissolve and enjoyed the red patterns dancing behind her eyelids. The formless stillness morphed into warm, caressing hands that tangled in her hair and stroked the curves of her body. Warm lips kissed her throat. A dull ache of yearning settled in her belly. Heart and blood, breath and body wakened and with that waking, hungered for a completion too deep to name. Christine quivered with desperate hope as she opened her eyes and found the haven of his. Doubt and worry seemed so pointless now. They were connected so deeply that his emotions and hers tangled into one complicated knot.
"Erik," she said aloud, her voice breathless. Was her breathlessness from this yearning, or from petty mortal annoyances like tight stays, no sleep and little food? Christine would much rather focus on this delightful heat. So immense and beautiful . . . she couldn't wait to plumb its depths, explore its borders. The air crackled around them, a roaring fire flared between their locked eyes. She took in his dark magnificence with a tingling feeling of awe, as well as something hot and possessive. Kiss me, she pleaded silently. Kiss me and don't stop there!
"G—Good evening, child." her hands balled into fists. Child! Did he truly think her a child? Did he not feel that tension between them?
"Elissa has won more adoring hearts this evening. You did very well, my dear," he purred in his unearthly voice.
"Thank you," she quavered, swallowing the tears by force of will. They stuck in a hot lump in her throat.
"Are you . . . are you ready to go?" Christine shook herself, eyes alighting on her small bundle of clothes.
"Yes. I'm ready." She bent to pick up the bundle when his long black gloved fingers covered hers. A hot stream of sensation shot up her arm and educed a gasp.
"Allow me."
"Thank you," she repeated woodenly.
Neither one of them spoke again until it came time for Christine to dismount from César's wide back. He held up his hands to help her dismount. This time there was no sinuous caress of body as he set her on the ground. She could have been a sack of grain for all the attention he paid her!
"Erik . . ." she said, grasping his sleeve. The visible side of his face matched the blank, stern expression of the mask.
"What is it, Christine?" even the beauty of his voice had dimmed, clipped and distant, as if she was an onerous burden. One tear defied her will and leaked out of the corner of her eye. She glanced away to hide it.
"I . . . I'm cold." The flat line of his full lips softened.
"I apologize, my dear. It will be better once we reach my home. In the meantime-" a graceful draping of cloth swathed her in his cloak, still warm from the heat of his body, emanating his rich, masculine scent. If it was possible to be jealous of a piece of cloth, then Christine was violent jealous of the cape.
Once safely ensconced in the cushioned seat of the gondola with the soft music of the water lapping against its shining black hull and the faint scrape of Erik poling them along, Christine plucked up the thread of thought Raoul had woven so skillfully into her mind. He believed that Christine was afraid of Erik, because she was so desperate to return to the Populaire on the night of Hannibal's premiere.
The insidious germ of an idea nagged at her. Erik was dangerous. This was fact. A genius, a talented killer and magician, who could enslave her simply by exercising his vocal cords . . . yes, Christine would be a fool not to fear such a man. But it wasn't any man, it was Erik! The man who sang to comfort an orphaned child, who had tutored and nurtured and protected her. This was a man she lo—
A drop from the portcullis' teeth plopped squarely on her head and fell in an icy trickle down behind her ear. She uttered a squeak of discomfort and glared at the moss-covered rungs of iron, covered with a faint coat of rust. A deep chuckle reached her ears. She swiveled to glare at him.
"One of the perils of boats, my dear. You risk getting wet," Erik pointed out.
On impulse, Christine swept her hand across the frigid surface of the lake, casting a thick sheet of droplets across Erik's face and chest. Christine clapped both hands over her mouth, shocked by her own conduct. Erik blinked, looking down at the soaked front of his shirt. A small piece of scum clung to the pristine surface of his mask. A half-strangled snort of laughter emerged from the prison of Christine's woven fingers.
"Amusing is it?" he said mock-stern, eyes creased in mirth.
"One of the perils of boats, Erik!" Christine teased.
His eyes glinted and as he bent to splash her, Christine stood suddenly to escape. The gondola lurched under her feet and she felt a sudden breathless sensation as she was airborne. The lake gathered beneath the Populaire was cold in any weather, but in late autumn, it was knives scoring her skin, shocking her brain with the immense, biting cold. Christine struggled with soaked layers of petticoat and velvet and cape, but finally found her feet and stood waist deep in the water. She shoved her thick pelt of soaked hair back with a breathless laugh, expecting to find Erik watching her progress with a superior smile. The gondola had completely capsized, its pole floating idly in the faint current tugging at her legs. Her eyes at last alighted on Erik, as soaked and bedraggled as she, hand slapped against the right side of his face. Christine waded toward him, thinking he had struck his head on some unforgiving edge. She dragged the sodden cape up over her shoulders, attempting to salvage any bit of body heat.
"Stay back!" he shouted, thrusting out an arm to bar her progress. It was only then that Christine deduced the reason for his agitation. The mask. Had it sunk? The water was a thick, murky green; even the mask's sharp white would be difficult to find. Erik seemed rooted in place, paralyzed by humiliation and uncertainty. Her heart broke for him and the blank, glazed look on his face, a defense against insults he knew would come. Not tonight! She vowed, not ever! Christine, who could no longer feel her feet, sank clumsily to her knees, nearly kissing the surface of the water, shivering hands groping along the slimy, moss-covered bottom for the mask.
"Leave it, Christine," he commanded shakily. She ignored him. A strong, hot hand clasped around her upper arm, hauling her to her feet.
"I said leave it!"
Christine blinked at this fierce outrush of bluff anger, and fiercely longed for the carefree playfulness of moments before. Strands of black hair were plastered to his face, the visible half contorted with anguish. A deep well of compassion opened in Christine and she longed to reassure him, tell him that whatever deformity the mask hid, it didn't matter. But she bit her tongue. He was not in any mood to believe any proclamations from her, and a small, secret thought, a nagging curiosity wondered if it did matter. Could their relationship bear the strain of such a thorny problem? They stood staring at each other and shivering for a long moment.
"You must be freezing. Come." He motioned for her to go ashore.
"M—m-my c—c—clothes," Christine stuttered, teeth chattering. Erik uttered a string of foul words under his breath in a lilting language she couldn't understand.
"I'll get them. Go to my chamber, there should be a robe across the foot of the bed. Strip off your wet clothes and put that on. It will take some time to draw a hot bath."
Numb and shivering, Christine could find no will to fight him. As she crossed the threshold to his room, she sighed as dry, warm air enveloped her. She wandered about the cluttered room and found the source, a vent blowing hot air. A thick Persian rug was spread on the floor and felt heavenly on numb toes as she pried off shoes and peeled off soaked socks. Luckily, Madame Giry had had the presence of mind to fit her with a front-lacing corset in the Gypsy style. A hot blush stole over her cheeks at the thought of Erik's deft fingers undoing the laces of her corset.
When her clothes were a sodden pile on the floor, she picked up a long white shirt of Erik's and dried herself with it in lieu of a towel. The robe was beautiful, very fine black silk with designs stitched along the shoulders and cuffs. She swathed herself in it, embraced once more by a soft cloud of his scent. She sucked deep lungfuls of its rich scent. To her, it seemed like the notes of leather, smoke, ink and spice had been specifically designed to intoxicate and soothe her. Christine raked her fingers through her hair in an effort to tame the riotous tumble. She surrendered that particular battle and twisted her hair into a makeshift bun.
She waited in the safety of Erik's room, eyes wandering over the swan bed, the elegant dresser covered with an odd assortment of objects, a piece of coral, a few coins with square holes in the middle, and an ivory letter opener with a black pearl fixed at the hilt. With a few steadying breaths, she stepped out, seeking Erik. The main room was empty. The gondola was moored—upright this time—with its pole leaning against one of the covered mirrors, but Erik was nowhere to be found.
"Erik?" the word echoed back to her, mocking the thin, frightened tone.
Christine peered into the deep shadows, as if his tall, lean frame was hidden behind a curtain. The stone was achingly cold under her bare feet and she considered retreating to the warmth of his room and letting him gather his composure. She heard the thunder of flowing water and she followed the sound down a narrow hall. To her right, she found a small kitchen, complete with a stove, sink and cupboards. A tendril of heavenly scent reached her nose. Some sort of stew? She swallowed hard. When had he had time to make a meal? She had sensed his presence during the performance . . .
She walked farther and peered into the last room. A bathroom, she saw, a huge copper tub dominating the room. The tub was filling from a small faucet, tendrils of steam rising in the air. Every other detail flew from her mind at the sight of Erik who stood bare to the waist with his back to her. He stood wringing out her soaked clothes and she admired the subtle twist and flex of ropy muscles under his pale skin. Pale, but with a golden sheen, she noted, a flush of heat surging through her. The combed black silk of his hair was bisected by a mask's tie.
The graceful splendor of his movements, even when tired and cold and irritated, stole her breath.
So beautiful . . .
He bent and the light caught the graceful slopes of his back. Christine clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her dismayed cry. Thin, faint marks crisscrossed across his back. Scars! Someone had beaten him, repeatedly and unmercifully. Tears flooded and fell from unblinking eyes. How many more past indignities were written in stark detail on his skin? Now she did flee back to Erik's room, grateful for the roar of the water that hid her presence. Had he seen her tears, Christine was sure he would not have taken it gracefully. Erik interpreted sympathy as pity and despised both. Such a proud, complex man. She gathered her wet clothes into a bundle in Erik's cape, swiping tears from her cheeks and sniffling.
Reluctantly, she returned to the bathroom. The tub was full and Erik was bent over, testing the temperature. He heard the tread of her step and straightened, eyes fixed on hers. Such intense, direct scrutiny unnerved her. Had she done something wrong? The black bandit's mask he wore obscured any clue to his expression. Her eyes skittered across his bare torso and the long muscles of thigh and calf visible through his sodden trousers. Then her gaze moved restlessly over a paneled changing screen and rested on the safety of a large iron furnace, upon whose screen her clothes hung.
"How does this work?" she asked. Still staring, Erik shrugged and replied, "It's really very simple. The furnace heats a tank of water and piping leads to the tub and also the sink the kitchen." Christine made a noncommittal sound. Erik gestured to a stool beside the tub that held an assortment of soap and oils, combs and brushes. Christine was touched by his efforts to accommodate her comfort, made on such short notice. Fresh tears threatened, but she bit them back.
"Here are some, ah . . . essentials. There are towels behind the screen. Your clothes should be dry soon, but if you are uncomfortable there is an old shirt and a pair of trousers for you-"
"This is wonderful, Erik. Thank you." His smile was brittle. Still brooding, emotions sharp and thorny—closed to her.
"Well. I'll leave you to it." She nodded as he left, closing the door behind him.
Silently she wondered where he would do his own ablutions. She quite liked the view without his shirt. Well, perhaps when she learned the trick of not crying every time she saw his scars. Cold crept up from frigid toes and the steaming bath beckoned. Shivering, Christine shed Erik's robe, draping it over the changing screen. She plucked up two snowy white towels, each plush enough to be a blanket and lay them at the foot of the tub.
She stepped in, uttering a sharp gasp. The heat of the water screamed along her chilled flesh, bringing it to throbbing awareness. She squeezed her eyes shut, breath coming in quick pants as she adjusted to the scalding temperature. She sank down in the bath. Accustomed as she was to the narrow tub she shared with Madame and Meg, Erik's tub was like a small swimming pool. The delicious heat sank into her bones and dissolved hidden knots of tension. She reached for the soap and started the onerous task of washing her hair. The musical sloshing of the water and the rhythmic hissing of water dripping from her sodden clothes were the only sounds. Such utter silence was foreign to her. When her Papa was alive, on long lonely winter nights his violin would sing . . . and she would sing with it, filling the yawning silence with music. The whisper of a song surfaced in her memories and she hummed the lilting melody as she washed.
XXX
Erik bent over the sink in his small kitchen, scrubbing his lathered hair with the tips of his fingers. Naked, with the door securely locked, he scrubbed every inch of skin with stinging soap. He couldn't wait for Christine to finish her bath to take his own. He needed distance and time to gather the frayed ends of his composure and control. God in Heaven, had he been dreaming, or had her eyes really burned with desire, a challenge echoing through their bond . . . No! Of course not! A fabrication of his hope, a manipulation of his fantasies.
Erik was trying very hard not to think of Christine naked in the other room. The sight of her clad in naught but his robe would be fodder for his fantasies for a very long time. It was a close thing. Had she surfaced even a second sooner, she would have been privy the horror of his bare face. That thought chilled the thundering arousal in his veins and the evidence of his lust mercifully descended. He upended his washing bucket over his head, shaking and sputtering like a dog. He covered his face with his hand. It would be a miracle if he survived this week with his sanity intact.
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A/N: Read and review!