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Chapter Twenty Five: First Return
"Is that your phone?" Raoul asked as Christine stared at it, her face white.
"I don't know," she murmured, then seemed to come to herself. "I mean…I have to take this call."
She stood up abruptly and nearly ran from the table. Raoul and Meg caught eyes and, after a moment, rose to follow her.
Christine pushed open the doors and rushed outside, the shrilly beeping phone still in her hand. She paused, scanning the street for a quiet place, before turning and darting into an alleyway next to the restaurant.
She stared at the phone for a few more seconds before shakily opening it. "H..hello?" She asked, her mouth dry.
"I was beginning to think that you weren't going to answer." His voice rolled out of the phone so smooth and clear, and she nearly gasped. Even after all of this time its beauty could still take her breath away, but she tried to push that thought out of her head and focus on the moment.
"What are you calling me for?" She said softly, her hands shaking.
"I told you I would contact you," his voice sounded almost amused. "I thought that now would be a good time to say hello, even though I did have to interrupt that lovely conversation with your…friend."
Perhaps it was the fact that she was outside, or that he wasn't standing right next to her, but instead of fear at his words Christine felt anger stir in her stomach. "How dare you," she hissed, her voice low. "How dare you watch me, even here? I'm out with my friends, and you…"
"I have every right to watch you with my rival," he said evenly.
Christine almost laughed. "Rival?" She asked, her voice rising. "He has nothing to do with this, I told you…"
"He has everything to do with this," Erik's voice had that same insufferably patient tone, as if he were trying to explain something simple to a child. "He saw you on the fourth of July. He remembers. He's asking you questions, trying to get close to you. He's dangerous."
"He's my friend."
"But he wants to be more, and that, my dear, makes him my rival." He paused for a moment as if thinking. "But you did not tell him anything, and you have not given him reason to pursue you. Continue to be cold to him and he will stay safe, so long as he stops asking questions."
"God damnit Erik, am I to be denied even friends?" Christine asked, anger making her less cautious. "You can't just call me and tell me what to do, you let me go, you have no right…"
"I chose to let you go," he said darkly, and she immediately fell silent. "And I choose to call you now, instead of coming for you in person. I am choosing not to harm your young man…for the moment. Don't forget that I choose to do these things, I do not have to do them."
"What about me?" Christine was almost in tears. Somehow, over the phone she was able to ask all of the things she had been afraid to ask before. "What about my choices?"
There was a pause. "Those, my dear, come later. Don't forget that there is a story that has yet to be played out." He was quiet for another moment, as if allowing her to absorb words she didn't really understand. "Please do not be angry with me," he said, his voice suddenly more gentle, wrapping around her like a blanket. "But it pains me to see you with him. He has everything, and he loves you, even if you do not love him. I do what I do because I do not want to lose you. I do not know another way."
"There's another way," she whispered, and she could almost feel his wry smile at the other end of the line.
"Not for me."
"Erik," she whispered, but he interrupted, his voice suddenly stronger, surer.
Now," he said. "I would like to see you again, like you promised. You will come to my house tomorrow night at eight."
"But how will I…"
"There will be a car waiting for you at your apartment. I'm sure that I don't need to say tell no one." He paused, and then almost inaudibly whispered, "Goodnight."
"Erik, I…" Christine started, but a buzzing filled her ears. He had hung up.
Christine closed the phone wearily and stared at it for a long time, before closing her eyes and clenching her fist around the small object.
"God damnit," she whispered, tears burning at the edge of her vision. She raised her head to the sky and shook her head, trying to clear her mind. "This is all wrong. Poor Erik." She sighed, and glanced down at the ring on her finger. "Poor me."
As she slowly pocketed the phone and turned to walk back into the restaurant, Raoul and Meg darted inside the building and into a hallway near the kitchens. They watched as she passed by, eyes downcast, to the table, before turning to one another.
"What the hell was that all about?" Meg asked when she found her voice. "Raoul, what's going on?"
Raoul turned to the small girl, who was still practically a stranger to him, and shrugged. "I don't know," he muttered. "But something is definitely wrong."
"Well of course it is," Meg snapped, exasperated. "I'd known even before she got back that something was wrong. It's not like Christine to go jetting off to another country and never even call. And now this…"
"Did you hear her?" Raoul's voice was low and tight as he mimicked her voice. "How dare you watch me…Am I to be denied even friends?" He paused. "She said 'you let me go.' She said…Erik. Poor Erik."
"Raoul," Meg said tentatively. "The ring…What does it all mean?"
"I don't know, but I have a feeling that it's bad...very bad."
Meg stared at him with determined eyes. "The first step is to find this person," she said with certainty. "Or at least find out who he is."
"Yes," Raoul agreed, running his hand through his hair tiredly. "We need to find Erik."
They turned and walked back into the restaurant, sitting once again at the crowded table on either side of a distinctly pale Christine, who was gulping down her Margarita at an alarming rate. She glanced quizzically at them but didn't ask where they had been, and they in turn pretended that the overheard phone conversation had never happened, that it was just an ordinary night out with friends.
The next evening Christine slunk out of the apartment at 7:45 with the excuse of going to the library to study. Meg eyed her as she left but didn't say anything; she pulled back the curtains at the window to watch her friend get into the backseat of a black car and disappear down the road.
The car wound through the city streets, carrying a tired Christine with it. He had not been in the car waiting for her, and that surprised her, but she felt better for these few minutes of contemplation. A small thread of worry wound its way in her stomach at the thought that if she reentered that house she might never leave, but she tried to push it aside. He had kept his promise before, and she would just have to act her part and pray that he kept it again. For some strange reason, she believed that he would.
Soon the car pulled into the parking lot of the familiar abandoned complex, and Christine felt a strange emotion, a mixture of anxiety and familiarity, wash over her.
'I lived with Erik for four months,' she reminded and tried to reassure herself. 'I can handle this…I can handle him.'
Christine walked to the side door as the car pulled away, and it opened easily underneath her hand, the gently upward sloping hallway lit with the same eerie light that had always guided her through the labyrinth. At the end, facing that familiar gray door, she had a sudden moment of panic, and nearly turned and ran back down the hallway. She gasped for breath, trying to steady herself, when the door sudden opened and he stood there, as always masked and immaculately dressed.
They stared at each other for a long moment in silence; his yellow eyes were wide, as if surprised to see her standing there.
"You came," he said almost inaudibly, then shook himself out of his stupor and gestured her into the house. She walked past him nervously; the room was too familiar, and it brought back to her a stifled memory of claustrophobia. The stagnant air of the house was nearly overwhelming, and she nearly choked as it lay heavy as a scarf around her throat.
He closed the door behind her, and the soft click of the lock rang like a gong in Christine's head.
"You look lovely," he said, sounding pleased, and she turned to face him. "Healthy. I am glad that being home has done you good." He walked toward her as he spoke, his beautiful voice soothing and pleasant, and raised one hand to trace the air around her cheek. "The sun has kissed you," he said softly.
Christine stared at him and held her breath. He was so compelling when he was gentle, his voice golden and achingly smooth. She realized suddenly that she had missed it. Despite everything, she had missed his sound.
"Thank you," she said, finally finding her voice. "It felt good to be home. I'm very happy, I missed it so much."
"I know," he said, then paused. "What would you like to do this evening? We can go out, we can do whatever you would like. I just…" He hesitated, as if the time apart had made him shy. "I needed to see you. But this evening is yours. I am just attending it."
His offer, so close to humility, left her speechless. Gone was any hint of a threat in his voice, any demands…except to be with her.
Mentally she slapped herself. 'Don't be fooled into illusions of equality,' she thought. 'He still has control…I can't forget that. I'm still a prisoner in his eyes.'
Outwardly, she asked, "Is it because I came back?"
He understood her question immediately. "Yes," he affirmed, his voice warm, then added softly, "I want to make you happy now." Then, in an even softer voice, "I did not know if you would return."
Christine wanted to point out that he hadn't given her a choice, that had she not gotten into that car of her own free will he would have come for her. She wanted to say that she still felt like a prisoner, that he still hadn't given her the option of true freedom. She wanted to tell him that she was angry on the inside, and a little scared, but when he spoke to her gently she only wanted to listen. Instead, she brushed the black material of his shirt with her hand and said, "I would like to hear you play."
"Will you sing for me?" He asked, and she nodded.
"I will sing, Erik."
"Then I am content," he murmured, and led her into the music room.
