XVI
My favorite chappie so far.
Christine did not think there could be anything worse than Madame's display of apoplectic rage this morning. She had been wrong. The anxious tenderness of her careful grooming earlier was far worse. Christine knew the older woman's sanity had gone as she crooned and ran a soft brush through Christine's mane of curls.
"We'll just keep this our little secret, hmm darling? Just between us? See," she dabbed cosmetics on Christine's bruised eye, "all better. It never happened. He never needs to know. You won't tell him, will you sweetheart?" When Madame uttered the last sentence, the soft hand in her hair curled into a vicious talon.
Terror warred with confusion and it took everything in her to prance sedately on Madame's arm, to give him that brittle smile when all she wanted in the world was his arms around her. Madame didn't know about Erik's habit of having her remove her cosmetics. Oh God, what horrors awaited her when he found out? The familiar walls of the sedately striped Green Room soothed her. Even in this, Madame was a step ahead; the tapers on the nightstands were gone, leaving only the faint orange pulse of the fire.
"Christine." The syllables of her name spoken from his golden throat was a pleasure within itself and some of her stress ebbed away. Her body whispered to simply relax, melt against him and . . . Madame's mad eyes intruded upon that fantasy. His warm hands caressed her shoulders and exerted the gentlest pressure, trying to turn her to face him. Christine threaded her fingers through his and wrapped them around her belly, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
"I missed you," she said softly, and meant 'I love you.' The subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the gentle tickle of that breath in her hair was music to her.
"As I have missed you, darling." He kissed her hair, her temple, creeping down to taste her cheek . . . Christine danced away.
"I'm starved," she said, which was true.
She heard his light tread behind her and sat in her usual place, the shadows concealing her face. Erik peeled off his outer garments down to his shirtsleeves and draped them over the back of his chair with a heavy thunk. She glimpsed the sheathed knife and the faint pearly glow of his revolver butt. A deadly truth weighed on her. Madame would not let her go easily. Bruno's long, brutish shadow loomed over her thoughts. Erik would have to fight, even kill to see her free. Her romantic fantasies evaporated. What if he was hurt? The squeaking little creature in her soul wailed at the thought.
"You needn't wait for me, my dear. If you are hungry, feel free to eat at your leisure," Erik's rich voice interrupted Christine's frightening musings and, eager for distraction, she devoured the food set before her, scarcely noticing taste or texture. They shared repast in relative silence, but the quality of this silence settled heavily on her. Tension, danger lurked there as it had not since their first night together. A furtive glance found Erik taking a long draw from his wine, expression as blank and forbidding as his masked side.
"Is . . . is there something wrong, Erik?" she asked, the food settling in a hard, unpalatable lump in her stomach. Immediately, his green eyes softened and his hand covered hers, the rough pad of his thumb gently caressing her pulse point.
"No. My father's health is worsening." A bone-deep prick of sympathy struck her and it was pure compassion that leaned her toward him and tightened her grip on his hand.
"I'm sorry," she said. His full lips curved.
"It is all right. He's a right bastard, but he's still my father." The almost wistful tone underpinning the casual words touched her. Silence reigned for a handful of moments, a silence of comfort and contentment. Those beautiful eyes were soft.
"Is there something you need to tell me, Christine? We promised openness between each other, yes?" the timbre of his voice dropped to a silken purr. Christine stiffened and tried to pull her hand free, but he held it in a gentle, effortless grip. His other hand reached up unerringly, cupping her bruised cheek. Did he have the eyes of a cat?
"Nothing happened." The words rushed out around the fist clenched in her throat, fear slippery and cold. The corners of his mouth turned down.
"That's a lie." Oh God, it would be better if he was sharp, suspicious and demanding. This gentle, implacable patience was unraveling her like a spool of thread. Erik's warm, callused thumb grazed the tender flesh along her cheekbone and eye socket. Even wreathed in shadow, even painted with cosmetics, he knew. Of course he knew! He knew the color of her soul, of course he could see through her thin, clumsy deception.
"My poor lamb, my poor baby," he crooned. Quivering, nameless emotion rose like a surging wave, pressing against the cold fist around her vocal cords. Christine grasped his thick wrist, turning her head to drop a trembling kiss on his warm, salty palm.
"I . . . I . . . I ran into the doorjamb. It was an accident. It's nothing," she stuttered, addressing the empty plates and soiled tablecloth.
"Try again. You have nothing to fear from me," he pressed, his voice cloud-soft.
Oh, how sweetly he interrogated her! How dare he! How dare he come here, how dare he give her hope, make her love him, fill her head with these stupid dreams when all there was left for her was misery and degradation? Madame would lock her away in a closet, letting her out only to be fucked by the unending line of ravenous monsters and Bruno . . . Bruno would k—kill her Erik and then what would be left of her? A salty taste coated her mouth, of tears and regret. She dropped his hand and it hung hesitant in the air near her cheek, radiating the elusive promise of warmth and comfort.
"Do I? Do I have nothing to fear from you, Erik de Chagny? You could hurt me more than Madame or Bruno ever could. I have so very much to fear from you. You are more dangerous than any rapist."
A flinch shuddered through him. At the naked grief on his face, she wanted to gather him close and kiss him and make him better, but the salty taste and the clawing, nameless thing inside her was not appeased. His hands sagged to his sides and she felt bereft at their loss.
"I . . . I suppose that is true. I could hurt you . . . but you could hurt me too. You could have shattered me last night when you removed my mask. You could have utterly annihilated me with just a look." He rose and circled his chair, strong hands curling on the curved back, knuckles bony white. His face contradicted this tense posture, his eyes . . . oh God, she saw the love in his eyes and her heart fluttered in answer to it.
"My poor little songbird. The world has used you harshly. But do you not realize what it is I feel for you? What I believe you feel for me? It is so beautiful, Christine."
And it was. It was beautiful; it pierced her with something like agony. Or ecstasy. She wished she could release some of this pain with tears. Their cleansing flow hadn't touched her since Papa's death. Erik moved to kneel before her chair and she was reminded of their first night together when he had taken the same attitude. Green eyes moved over her face, lingering at the bruised eye, as warm and intimate as a caress.
"Tell me," he pleaded. Christine bowed her head.
"It's really nothing, Erik. A . . . a customer just got a little rough, that's all. You should see what poor Jeanne looks like after Monsieur Dupont is finished with her."
"A . . . a customer?" the words emerged in a strangled whisper. Christine's head snapped up at his odd tone. The orange, wavering shadows made it hard to tell, but his face matched the pallor of his white mask. A sharp needle of trepidation stabbed her.
"Erik?" Christine slid to her knees in front of him, "Are you all right?" Erik shook himself like a wet dog. A low groan emerged from his throat. He cradled his head in his hands, fingers digging into the scalp.
"Oh Christine . . . oh Christine!" he moaned, the anguish in his voice chilling her.
"Erik! What's wrong?" she demanded, shaking his shoulder. He snapped out of it, bleary eyes focusing on her, dragging in a deep breath. A horrible, mirthless smile twisted his mouth.
"I am a fool, Christine. A bloody, fucking fool to believe that whore could be trusted. Of course she'd skim a little extra off of one of her girls . . . it takes a perverse sort of brazen courage to face me night after night knowing that I . . . that you were . . ."
"You're not making any sense!" Christine snapped. Again, that ugly smile. It twisted his dear features into a stranger's. His eyes were glowing strangely. A banked rage that smoldered low, a hissing fuse to a stick of dynamite.
"I struck a deal with the Madame. To make you exclusively mine; no one else was to touch you. I've paid her a fortune and . . . and the bitch double-crossed me!" Erik calmed, cupped her cheek. Anguished tenderness animated his beloved features.
"And you suffered for it. I am so very sorry, my darling." For her part, Christine felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her.
"W—When did you make this deal?"
"After our first night together." Her throat closed. Even then? Even then he was willing to buy her protection? Hesitant hands grasped her shoulders, drawing her against his solid chest and strong, beating heart. Christine pressed a palm against his chest, feeling the warm shape of his locket beneath his shirt.
"Can you forgive me?" he whispered.
"For what?"
"For being a blind fool. I should have known the Madame would-" She peeled back, pressing a finger to his lips.
"Hush. You did what you thought was right. And I think it is very, very sweet." She replaced her finger with her lips. After a moment's tender clinch, Erik pulled away and gave her a measured look, petting her cheek with heartbreaking tenderness.
"How?"
Christine nuzzled against his hand.
"It doesn't matter."
"I'd like to hurt him for you," he said, his mouth twisted in black humor.
"He's not worth it."
Erik exhaled a breath through his nose and lurched to his feet, his knees popping. Christine accepted his proffered hand, and stood. Erik led her to the foot of the bed and sat. He stared at their joined hands, kneading her knuckles. Christine happily rested her head against his shoulder, content to simply be with him, this man she loved. Erik's voice pierced the tranquil silence: "There . . . there is something I must tell you."
A chill stippled her skin with gooseflesh. Something in his tone made Christine gnaw on her lower lip, trying to contain the sudden surge of jagged anxiety ricocheting in her chest.
"Very well. What is that?" she asked in measured tones. Erik's long, musician's hands continued their patient kneading, restlessly caressing her hands. He sat ramrod straight, tension emanating from him. Christine peered at his face, glimpsing something dark.
"It's . . . it's about me. It's the reason why Claire and my father despise me. It . . . It might change how you feel about me." The words emerged in sharp, pained bursts. He finally met her gaze and she was startled to see his green eyes hungry and darting, searching her face for the slightest hint of a negative reaction. When Christine remained in uncomprehending silence, Erik flew to his feet and began to pace the length of the room in restless turns. Christine bestirred herself to answer.
"Change how I feel about you? That isn't possible," she said, trying to soothe the jittery tension riding him like a demented jockey. A harsh bark of laughter emerged from his throat.
"Wait until you have heard what I have to tell before you make any rash pronouncements," he said with a curt, stalling gesture. Christine exhaled a shaky breath, marshaling her courage.
"Tell me." A deep, fragile yearning filled his face, and Christine longed to press him to her heart, shelter him from the demons hounding him. Instead, he straightened like a soldier, staring sightlessly into misty memory, and began to talk.
The bay stallion snorted and tossed its elegant head, eager to be gone. As eager as Erik was himself. It had been weeks since he had traded the self-important bustle of Parisian society for the quiet haven of the Château. His young wife preferred the activity of the city and he bowed to her wishes. Fine fissures spread in the freshly laid cornerstone of their marriage, fissures that widened every time she rebuffed his affection or every time his sharp tongue got the better of him. Erik took the rein from the groom and swung into the saddle in one smooth motion. His feet slid into the stirrups and he gathered the reins with practiced ease, adjusting the heavy coat and cape against the driving January chill.
'Papa! Papa!' a high, boyish voice shouted shrill from the doorway. Erik watched his three-year old son fly down the steps toward him, the sun glinting off his blond hair. He favored his mother's pale, narrow features, but held the promise of de Chagny height in the breadth of shoulder.
'Thomas, watch Phantom's hooves!' Erik commanded, dismounting and scooping up his boy in a tight embrace. Green eyes matching Erik's own blinked innocently. The boy was bloody fearless, Erik thought with a hint of masculine pride.
'I want to go with you Papa!' Thomas demanded, small chubby hands clutching his stubbled cheeks. Erik grinned, pressing a hard kiss on the boy's brow. The force of his love was almost violent in its scope and intensity. This cherished child had his father wrapped around his little finger, a vessel for all of Erik's fierce devotion. Thomas was mortar filling the rifts between Erik and Claire, fresh and clean and anchoring.
'You must stay with your mother,' he said, though it was a token protest. Solitude paled to having Thomas all to himself. Thomas pouted.
'Please, Papa? I'll be good! You promised you'd show me the fishy pond and teach me to swim and-'
'It's much too cold to swim, Thomas. It is a long ride-' Erik knew that pugnacious thrust of chin and the hard glint in his eye as a gesture of his own.
'I don't care. I want to go with you!' A flutter of movement at the entryway told Erik that Thomas' nurse was coming after her wayward charge. Upon impish impulse, Erik settled Thomas onto Phantom's saddle and swung up behind him, swathing him in the weight of his cape.
'Never fear, Madame! Thomas is coming with me!' the two of them crowed in delight as Erik touched his heels to Phantom's flanks and they flew off down the cobbled lane. Thomas' giddy laughter filled Erik's heart with joy.
The Château in winter is grand and austere, with an air of bleak sadness in the weak, watery sunlight. Even Thomas' laughter had to fight against the oppressive weight of generations of de Chagnys staring down from their gloomy portraits. Its grounds were quite the opposite. Scarcely an hour after their arrival—the boy had fallen asleep in his arms along the way and Erik hadn't had the heart to wake him—the two of them were heading out, swathed in coats, gloves and scarves into the glittering cold.
In his solitude, Erik sought the wind-swept fields, the quiet lap of water against the old, creaking dock, the sighing trees for peace and inspiration. They reminded him of Monsieur Eklund before Erik's father had sent him away for filling his son's head with worthless daydreams. Dreams of building something beautiful, dreams of writing an opera that would make the angels weep. Like a puppy, Thomas charged and floundered in the snow drifts, yipping happily.
Erik watched his antics fondly, absurdly jealous of his carefree exuberance. Together, father and son meandered toward the fishing pond, now frozen. His son's high voice peppered him with questions ranging from about the fish to why water freezes to why shoe laces were invented. Their legs dangling in the empty air and Thomas' blond head leaning against his arm, Erik considered himself well content with the world.
'Sir? Might I have a word?' Erik turned and found Monsieur Greene, his father's long-time steward loitering at the edge of the dock. The poor man couldn't abide with water, having nearly drowned as a young man. Even at this distance, the man's age-seamed features were grey with distress. Erik exhaled heavily through his nostrils.
'Thomas, I must speak with Monsieur Greene. I want you to promise me that you will not let go of this post,' Erik said, wrapping his son's mittened fingers firmly around the dock's support post. His son's wide green eyes were solemn.
'I promise, Papa.' For all of his mischievous exuberance, Thomas was a sweet and biddable lad, lacking his father and grandfather's notorious temper. Erik pressed a quick kiss on his warm, golden head and stood.
"To this day, I don't remember what Greene was there to tell me," Erik's voice sounded cold and dead to her, as cold and dead as that winter's day.
"All I remember was that sound—that horrible, awful sound!" Erik pressed his hands to his face.
A groan and snap of abused wood, the squeak of shattering ice, mingled with a high voice shrieking 'Papa!' Erik turned in time to see Thomas disappear over the edge . . .
'Thomas!' Erik roared. Ten galloping strides and he dove into the black, stabbing cold.
"Thomas swallowed a great deal ofwater, but he was still breathing when we broke the surface. It was half a mile back to the Château. By the time I got him inside, the damage was already done. Less than a week later, Thomas was dead. Because of me."
A harsh, animal-like keen emanated from him, the articulation of his soul's blackest guilt. He seemed to crumple, his rigid soldier's posture disintegrating as he slid to his knees. Her heart broke for him.
Erik's face was carefully blank, a prisoner awaiting his sentence.
"I loved my son more than anything in the world." The rough, pleading edge to the words snagged her heart. Christine swallowed the lump in her throat. Erik's words drifted back to her: Mend the void yawning between us . . . I wanted it so badly . . .if you only knew what I've done . . .
With a terrible clarity, she knew the dimensions of the guilt he carried since he was scarcely older than she. He thought of himself as cursed. That opinion was beaten and branded into his heart.
"You think I can't love you now. Because Claire doesn't." Erik leapt to his feet, turning his back to her. She watched his head wag solemnly. Christine wanted to embrace him, kiss him, but she clenched her hands in folds of her skirt. He needed the words.
"Erik, look at me." His head snapped up at the sharp command in her tone, eyes shining with unshed tears.
"You fool man! Of course I love you. How could I blame you for something you couldn't have possibly prevented?" Again she saw that fragile yearning, that desperate hope quickly seized and smothered.
"I shouldn't have left him on the dock, I should have made him stay in Paris with his mother-"
"It was an accident."
"It was Fate. I was not meant to father children."
"That a lie!" Christine flew to him, cradling his cheek. With a hitching breath like a sob, Erik turned his face into her palm and peppered it with hungry kisses.
"Claire was cruel to lay this at your feet. It was an accident, love. A terrible accident, a horrible tragedy and I'm so sorry you lost Thomas. But it was not your fault. I love you. I can't remember when I didn't."
"Do you really, Christine? Can you love me still?" his voice was soft, unbelieving. Christine smiled gently, peeling the mask from his face like a groom removing his bride's veil.
"I do," she whispered, standing on tiptoe to kiss his soft, parted lips.
Erik shuddered beneath her touch, his mouth quiescent. Then his hands plunged into her hair, cupping her skull. Christine flicked her tongue into his mouth, shyly, playfully. A low growl rippled from his chest and Erik angled his head to plunder her mouth, his long, skillful tongue surging. Pleasure weakened her knees, turned the bones of her pelvis to sponge. Every interconnected nerve felt as if it were bathed in the cradling stroke of his tongue, the rub of his lips, the taste and scent of him. Christine's hands stroked his poor, twisted face, treasuring the dark and light of him. She tasted the salt of his tears, felt the subtle quiver of his body. Compassion twisted its gentle knife in her, pierced by the fragility underneath his strength. The kisses softened and eased into a series of languid pecks.
"Christine," he whispered, and she shuddered at the exquisite flavor of love in his voice. Erik pressed soft kisses on her cheeks, her chin, her forehead, her eyelids.
"I love you. I didn't want to say it while you were still trapped here, but I can't help it. For the first time in my life, I am in love and it's beautiful."
"Oh Erik," Christine breathed, drawing him down for another kiss.
"I love you. I love you so much!"
God, spoken aloud, Christine realized how inane and inadequate those words were. How could they describe the miracle of it, the terror and the hope? Christine tunneled her fingers into his hair, devouring his mouth with passionate, hungry kisses, striving to show him the depth and breadth of her love. Heavy heat pulsed through her body and she wanted him to spread her across the bed like an empty dress and claim her. But he gentled, resting his forehead against hers even as she felt his manhood hard and eager against her belly.
"Christine . . . my darling, my sweet girl. I want to make love to you. But . . . not now. Not here. Not until we both are free. Are . . . you amenable to this?"
Touched by his desire to honor her as well as keep her, Christine nodded. Erik dusted her face with soft, grazing kisses and Christine hummed softly, drinking in his passion and his comfort. Finally, they sat on the edge of the bed, facing each other with their hands linked. For herself, Christine couldn't bear not to be touching him in some manner. Erik's green eyes hardened into a jewel-like brilliance.
"I will come for you tomorrow night." For the second time that night, all the breath rushed out of her lungs. But this time, her heart raced with a beautiful, breathless hope.
"T—Tomorrow? That's so soon . . ." Christine breathed. Erik's smile was quick, mischievous and utterly charming, as if they were about to embark on a wonderful adventure.
"Yes. My friend Nadir must have fallen off the face of the Earth; I haven't had word of him in weeks. It was his help I was waiting for. You . . . you understand now why I couldn't—I couldn't—risk your safety? A moment's lapse and . . . and-" His features crumpled and her heart reacted similarly at the sight of the naked grief on his face. This at the mere thought of her coming to harm, how he loved her! Christine hushed him with a finger pressed to his lips.
"It's all right. I understand." Erik whispered his thanks against the sensitive pad of her finger.
"Raoul and an . . . informant we recruited has graciously offered to help me. I will cause a distraction outside and Raoul will smuggle you away. Our informant told us Méchant's men will be otherwise occupied at a quarter past two in the morning. Raoul will escort you out of the city. My mother's family had a cottage in the forest near Reims that fell to me when she died. You will be safe there." Christine couldn't stop the smile from spreading across her face. Erik's face grew grave and she saw the shadow of terror. They shared in it for several heartbeats.
Erik cupped her chin and kissed her, lazy, sweet and heavy like honey, like a sun-kissed promise.
"Tomorrow?" she whispered against his mouth.
"Tomorrow."
A/N: Reviews are lovely.