XVIII
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Her head throbbed dully. Not a severe ache … more a sense of not being connected to the earth. Her body felt listless, her limbs weak and heavy … and a strange chill in the air made her shiver.
With difficulty, Christine opened drowsy-lidded eyes and stared at a wall of brown rock.
Rock?
She tried to think, willed her mind to remember…
She had lain upon the chaise longue after talking with Meg. They – no – she had drunk wine. She could still taste its sweetness on her tongue…
There was a mist …
A mirror …
A man!
Her eyes flew open the rest of the way.
He had come for her…
Beckoned to her...
She had gone to him!
He had called himself …
… her Angel of Music?
Quickly she sat up.
Impossible!
Still woozy, she gripped the pillow her head had rested on, seeing that she was on a massive bed. No common bed this, the frame heavy, the headboard elaborately scrolled, the mattress spongy – not filled with hay or lumpy wool or even malodorous chicken feathers but surely packed tight with the softest goose down – and the furnishings were a pale shade of peacock blue embroidered with iridescent gold. Nothing finer had she seen anywhere, certainly not at The Grange or in her travels!
But no angel had brought her to heaven. Not the heaven she had been led to believe existed. There was no sky. No music. No light. Just rock and cold…
… and profound darkness.
She shivered and looked at her surroundings of rough stone, walls that followed their own formation so that the dim room was not square but narrow at one end and wider at the opposite where the bed stood. A ceiling and floor of stone composed the chamber of the same umber colored rock.
My God - was she in a cave?
Tapestry rugs of diverse patterns lay spread over the ground. A small table held a pitcher and basin. A candle also burned, giving her some light to see, but beyond the scant glow of the protective circle was nothing but rock and deeper darkness. She sat up further and noticed for the first time that her shoes were missing though she still wore stockings.
Anxiously she put a hand to her bodice and looked down, thankful to find her clothes fully covering her. At some point her net must have fallen loose from her hair, which was a tangled mess of curls all about her. She wore only her loose shift beneath, so no tight bone lacings of a corset could be the cause of her constricted breathing or fainting spell. She found it difficult to think. What had made her lose consciousness? She was not one given to swooning without a strong reason, could not remember a time in her past when she did.
She moved off the bed, high enough that she had to clutch its edge to ease her feet to the cave floor as dizzy as she felt. The mattress was wide enough for two people to rest more than comfortably, the velvet, tasseled canopy also suggesting that the monolith came from an earlier century, perhaps the Renaissance. In all likelihood it was a theatre prop... if she still remained within the boundaries of the opera house.
Trembling with a curious dread to find herself in such a bizarre chamber with only the fuzzy memory of a tall, cloaked form calling out to her, no – singing to her in a hauntingly rich voice of being her Angel – and she had gone to him! – she quickly searched the ground for her shoes, intent on finding a way out of this cavern of darkness. A quick search revealed that only exotic rugs covered the icy floor of stone.
The sudden scrape of a beam lifting from wood had her whirl around.
She pressed her hand to her heart in a vain effort to quiet its erratic beats, while in the shadows of the narrow part of the room, an arched door she'd not noticed before swung slowly outward.
A dark shape loomed in the opening – a man – with shoulders so broad they appeared almost to touch the walls and standing so tall, his head came close to the upper rim of rock. The flame from a torch flickered on the wall behind him, outlining his intimidating form while casting the front of him in shadow.
She gasped, taking an instinctive step backward. He didn't move from where he stood, his bearing like that of a tall, dark wraith. Stunned, she took him in from head to foot.
An ebony cloak shrouded his lean, powerful build and hung very nearly to the hem of his dark trousers. A fitted mask of black leather molded the entire upper part of his face from beneath his nose to forehead, a match to the raven black hair that grew thick and long, brushing past his high stiff collar. A black cravat, and a silk waistcoat embroidered in gold finished the overwhelming picture. His appearance was an anomaly, his clothing refined, that of a gentleman - but his physical attributes were wild and his bearing dangerous.
Christine's earlier questions jumbled inside her mind. Only one would present itself.
"Who are you?" Her voice came tight and she backed up a step to the two he took as he entered the shadowed chamber.
An indolent smile curved his lips, a sardonic tilt lifting their corners.
"Surely you have borne witness to my presence inside the theatre?"
His accented voice was deep and rich, an entity unto itself, deeper than any voice she remembered ever hearing. His voice - his very presence - charged the damp, still air and produced a chill of foreboding down her spine.
Her terrifying abductor, this fearsome being, could be only one man …
"The Phantom of the Opera," she whispered in dread.
He bowed from the waist, holding the inside edge of his cloak with one hand and bringing it up before him, his every movement fluid, darkly poetic…
"And so, Mademoiselle Daaé," he said once he straightened to his original stance and again stared at her. "We meet at last."
The quiet greeting held something unnerving behind it … derisively polite, almost sinister.
She lifted her chin and swallowed hard, forcing words to come over shallow breaths.
"Wh-where am I? This is not the theatre."
"No, it is not."
"So why have you brought me to this place?" she fairly shrieked when he said no more, ill at ease by his disturbing composure. "What do you even want with me? And, and – where are my shoes!"
He smirked at her last question, but she didn't care how inane she sounded. She only wanted answers, her footwear – and then, to find a way out of this godforsaken cave!
"You are in the depths of my dark dungeons, five levels below the earth from where I have brought you. Your purpose for being here you will know full well in time. And you have no need of shoes, as you are not leaving this chamber."
Five levels below the … not leaving …
She blinked in shock. "You mean to keep me prisoner here?"
"That is entirely up to you."
She shook her head in wary confusion of his mocking quips that told her little or nothing at all. A sudden rush of anger surged through her blood at his undeserved cruelty.
"You cannot do this to me!"
"In that respect you are mistaken. I already have."
Where he stood, he blocked the exit. But even if she could somehow slip around his daunting form and escape, he would likely outrun her and swoop down on her like some great winged bat. Desperate, she tried to think of something to say to stop his evil intent.
"They will come looking for me! Those who run the theatre." She had no idea if they would or not but prayed it so.
"No one will expend the time or effort to search for a cleaning woman, mademoiselle. The impotents who run the theatre will assume you were dissatisfied with such a menial job and left."
"Without telling anyone?"
"It has happened before."
"I will not stay here!" With her fists balled at her sides, she rushed forward without thinking.
At her sudden movement, he visibly tensed and also took a swift step closer, his eyes glinting hard in warning as he looked down his masked nose at her. She came to a stunned halt. She stood tall for a woman, her forehead nearly coming to the level of his chin, and she could now see more clearly in the light of the candle's sole flame.
She felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. All the air seemed to leave her lungs, and she remembered what caused her to faint.
"You have no choice but to stay," he answered, but her mind struggled elsewhere.
"Your eyes …" She felt absent from reality.
He showed no flicker of emotion.
"They're golden."
"Your perception truly astounds."
She ignored his cutting remark. "I once knew someone with golden eyes ..."
"How intriguing." He sounded bored.
"It is a most unusual color. I've never seen eyes that color, except once. Now twice…" Her breathy words came dazed, her lips barely moving as she spoke. "I would never forget those eyes."
"Mademoiselle." His manner grew condescending. "I can take you out to the Rue Scribe at this moment and point out five people with eyes the color of amber. It is not as uncommon as you seem to believe."
She drew her brows together in a frown. With little to judge by, having rarely left the remote Heights or The Grange, except during her time abroad with the de Chagnys, when in her despondency she paid scant attention to others, she reasoned he could be telling the truth…
What was she thinking? From what little she could recall of her lost love, his eyes were the only similarity to this brigand's features. The Phantom's hair was a shiny raven black not soft sable brown, he stood too tall, his shoulders were too broad, his voice too deep, and he was much too cruel.
Still, she could not let her suspicion go so easily. There was one matter that yet troubled.
"Why do you wear a mask?"
"The obvious answer is that I do not wish for my face to be seen."
Her heart gave a mad jump at his impatient admission then crashed with his next words.
"I am a wanted man, as I'm sure you've been told. It would not do for anyone to see my face and be able to describe my features to the gendarmes. Someone might recognize me."
"That is the only reason?"
"What reason would you prefer? That I am in keen search of a masquerade ball since I am not without costume?"
"There's no need to be nasty about it." Distress made her snap at him. Anyone who would abduct a helpless woman could be nothing but spiteful. "What is your name?"
"I thought we established that."
"Your true name."
"I cannot tell you ..."
"– Cannot? Or will not?" Her heart gave another mad thud.
"... for the same reason I do not show my face," he continued without emotion as if she had not interrupted. "I wish my identity to remain secret. I have no desire to spend the remaining number of my days in a French prison."
She would leave no stone unturned.
"Your first name only then," she forced herself to say the words. " Is it … are you … Erik?" Her plea came out in a raspy whisper.
From what she could see of his stony countenance, not one nuance of his expression altered.
"Tell me!"
"No … I am not."
She pressed her lips together at his careless reply, still not satisfied and determined to get to the crux of the matter. "You don't know me? We've not met before? Known one another before?"
He narrowed his eyes but remained silent.
"In England. Have you been to England …? Have you?" she insisted, taking a step closer so that she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
"Before finding a home in Paris, what home this is," He lifted his gloved hand to motion to the walls in derision, "I spent my days at the shah's palace in Persia."
She frowned. That hardly answered her question. "But have you ever –"
"No." His voice came chilling and cold. "I have never been to England."
"Do you swear it?"
He regarded her in disdainful amusement and took a step back from where she had come to stand so close. Indolently he crossed his arms over his chest as if pandering to a child.
"Do you swear it!"
"If you wish."
"Say it. Say the words. Swear to me you've never been there - that you're not him!"
He held back for several anxious breaths, as if to punish her for her impertinence. His eyes were cold.
"I swear that I have never been to visit the Queen's homeland and I am not this 'Erik' of your past. Satisfied?"
Satisfied? She refrained from a bubble of hurt laughter. Hardly. She guessed that the powerful longing to have him back pushed her into following such an outrageous assumption, that this fiend could actually be …
No. He would never be so cruel, to put her through such torment.
Her heart fell with the emergence of that truth and she retreated, dropping her gaze to the ground, then remembered her initial question. Again she turned to glare at him.
"Do you make a habit of abducting innocent women and dragging them to your cave? I demand to know what you want with me."
"You are hardly in a position to make demands."
She stamped her stocking-clad foot in frustration. "Damn it! Why have you brought me here!"
He chuckled, pleased with her reaction. "What language for an innocent," he exclaimed in mock horror. "Temper, temper, mademoiselle."
Ready to show him just how hot her temper could get, she stopped short of grabbing the candlestick to throw at him. With a swiftness that made her veins freeze like ice she recalled the lush, wide bed on which she woke. Besides the table, the bed was the only furnishing in the room. Her eyes widened and she felt she now understood as she backed up a step.
"I have heard about you, about the defenseless women you molest in corridors. Do not dare lay a hand on me, monsieur. If you attempt it, I will scratch your amber-golden eyes out! I swear it!"
Something dangerous flickered in those mesmerizing eyes she had just threatened. In the candle's flame they truly did seem to glow. His lips pulled into a tight line.
"So, Little Giry has been busy with her theatre gossip again. If she would expend half her energy on the dance as she does in meddling in other's affairs, she might be a prima ballerina by this time instead of an underling in the chorus."
"You deny her claim?"
He only stared at her, his expression inscrutable.
"I thought not." She lifted her chin. "Again, I will warn you, Monsieur Phantom," she put a mocking twist to the title. "Keep your distance."
"You flatter yourself, mademoiselle." He flicked a dispassionate eye over her form. "I have no interest in any womanly attributes you may possess."
His demeaning attitude stung her pride, though she certainly did not covet such interest, especially from him. After the lechery Henri attempted which led to his death and the reason she fled to Paris and found herself in this godforsaken cave in the first place, she wanted no man's touch again. She wondered what this Phantom creature would say if she told him that she was wanted for killing a man. He probably wouldn't bat one dark eyelash. In all likelihood he had killed many in cold blood, along with his "accidents" - and who knew what other crimes he was guilty of committing …
"Why should I believe you?" Try as she might, she could not disguise the quaver in her voice. "From all I've heard of your numerous exploits, you are a horrid beast! A ruthless monster! A true devil in disguise –"
He laughed darkly and she broke off from spouting her next insult, her eyes going wide with shock at his response. He actually seemed pleased to hear her condemn him!
"Yes," He stalked closer, "I am all those things. A beast. A demon …" His stride was long and lithe and ruthless, a savage panther advancing toward her, and she, his prey, panicked and backed up until her thighs hit the edge of the bed. She fell against it, her hand clutching the mattress for balance. "… A terrible phantom you would not wish to tangle with, mademoiselle. You would do well to remember that."
Had he shouted, his threat could not come any more menacing than the silken trap of his tone. His voice was like music, deep, rich and fluid, but his words were sheer evil. She swallowed hard, unable to tear her eyes from the wall of his chest now only inches from her face. Trapped between the devil and his bed.
"Please let me go." Her plea came barely above a whisper.
"That is not possible."
He did not move. She did not ask again. Did not dare draw a single breath, could not again look into those searing eyes that judged her with their strange, jaded, merciless contempt. The very air around her felt static with electricity that seemed to burn the oxygen from the air and make it difficult to breathe…
As sudden as his approach was he retreated from her just as swiftly.
Shaken by the encounter, realizing she was trembling, Christine inhaled a scorching breath into her lungs. Desperate to leave, she looked to where he now stood by the table with his back toward her and tried to reason with him.
"I – I don't understand why you won't let me go – you clearly don't like me –"
"I don't even know you to form such an opinion, mademoiselle."
A shiver trembled through her at an echo of similar dark words from another lifetime. She pushed the painful memory aside.
"I have found that women are foolish, vain, and capricious creatures." He turned and gave a graceful dismissive toss with his black-gloved hand. "From all I have witnessed, you fit into the mold with the rest of your gender."
His offhand arrogance made her grit her teeth, his distance reviving the fight in her.
"And how would you expect me to react, monsieur? I find myself suddenly in a cold, tomblike prison with little idea of how I got here – and no understanding of why I am here! My shoes are missing, I'm hungry – and now confronted by a villainous rake of a Phantom whose name so accurately describes his character – sinister, wicked, and cruel beyond reason!"
Frustration with her plight brought her words to a whimpering conclusion. Angry tears filled her eyes, but she would not allow them to fall in this pitiless ogre's presence, and she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, hoping to prevent the occurrence.
The Phantom did not flinch at her tirade. "Very well, Mademoiselle Daaé. I will tell you all of what you wish to know…."
xXx
A/N: Oh, dear. Doesn't look like Christine and the Phantom are getting along too well upon meeting, does it? One can hardly blame her for her hostility though.
*Gives angelic smile at this wee bit o' the twist… 0-:-) (slowly backs away… wonders if she needs to run and hide for fear of being Punjabbed …)
I told you this would be different - and you ain't seen nothin' yet! muahahaha!