Chapter XXIII
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Christine took the sleek weapon in her hand.
In horrified fascination she stared at the deadly blade that made a series of graceful curves from tip to hilt …so lethal…beautiful really, with a macabre sort of brilliance. The bottom of the silver hilt was engraved in an elaborate design of grapevines and swirls, and at its top, where her hand gripped it, the figurine of a lion reared up attacking a stallion, also standing on its hind legs in defense but no match for the great beast whose claws dug into its back and teeth were poised to sink into its neck.
A gentleman's showpiece…
But no gentleman dwelled within this underground chamber…
Only a monster with foul intent that made a cave his home.
She ran her fingertip lightly along the curved tip of the sharp edge to its point. A bead of blood appeared on the sensitive pad of her finger. She barely felt the sting.
Again, she lifted her eyes his way…
Powerful. Dark. Deadly.
Lucifer, seducing her with his decadent music …
Hades, trapping her in his freezing hell below the earth.
A devil who gave no mercy, he deserved no mercy.
There was only one way to find escape. She had tried everything and failed. There remained only one way...
Her pulse raced in grim anticipation as she stealthily approached and took one set of three stairs that flanked the dais. His chords reverberated around the chamber, dark and despondent, absent of all hope.
Unaware of the threat she presented, the Phantom continued to play, lost in his music, his eyes closed in deep emotion behind the mask. Her throat felt parched and tight as she moved up behind him. She tried to control her breathing, coming more panicked with each careful step she took. Her hand that clutched the dagger lifted without her barely realizing she'd done so, to the level of her eyes.
Every part of Christine trembled as she stared at the back of his glossy, raven hair and tried to move, to force herself to lunge forward and bury the razor point of the fatal weapon between the shoulder blades of his broad back…to kill the beast and regain her freedom…unlike the stallion, she would triumph over the lion; or in her case, the panther, dark creature of the night.
He suddenly took his hands from the keys and straightened…
while her heart froze…
…and resumed its mad, painful beating as her abductor slowly turned and saw her standing less than three feet behind.
His mouth pressed into a hard line as he stood to his feet. His every motion fluid and deliberate, he closed the scant distance between them.
Dreading what would come next she slowly looked up into his eyes. Beyond the black mask, a sheen of moisture made them shimmer a vivid golden in the candlelight. Never had she seen such anguish in any person's eyes as she now saw in his…
Except in her own.
Shaken, she took a slight step backward.
She could not do this. Was foolish to think she could! Trembling head to foot, she lowered her arm to her side. Her body felt frozen to the rock, would not obey her mind's demand to flee for protection from his certain wrath.
He reached out, his movement unhurried, and grabbed her hand with the dagger, wrapping his long, cool fingers around her quivering fist.
She inhaled sharply in fright then let out a breath of confusion when he did not wrest the weapon from her as she expected. Taking a slow step, he brought her hand up with the same methodical pace until the point of the blade rested against the center of his chest.
"Do it," he rasped, his features taut with despair. A tear rolled from beneath his mask. "Spear the heart of the beast as you wish to! End it now."
She gasped at his low, shocking words. Her heart twisted in pity while wondering what horrors he must have lived to invite his own death. His throat worked hard as he staunched some nameless, powerful emotion. The hopelessness in his eyes brought tears to her own. She could not move, could not speak or think.
His fingers crushed hers against the dagger's handle as he forced her to press inward.
Her eyes and mouth opened wide in horror as she watched the point of the blade pierce his skin. A trickle of blood seeped down staining his pale flesh and coloring the sparse hair in its path crimson.
"My God – NO!"
Christine wildly pushed against his shoulder with her free hand, at the same time struggling to pull the blade away without cutting deeper.
"Stop it," she pleaded in a sob when his hold did not diminish, as if he would not heed her wishes. In her weakened state she could do little to challenge his greater strength and force him to yield. The tears she had held back now rolled freely down her cheeks. "Don't do this! Please - I BEG of you - don't do this!"
Suddenly, he released her hand. She whirled aside and with no thought but to get rid of the horrible thing she flung the weapon baptized in his blood as far as she could throw it, watching with grim satisfaction as it splashed into the middle of the lake.
He also watched the dagger fly into the water, his features without expression, then looked back at her. Confusion narrowed his eyes as she wiped the tears that still coursed down her numb cheeks. They stood apart from one another and stared.
She glanced down at his chest. The relief that the cut he had forced her to inflict looked no more than superficial came so strongly she almost hurled herself into his arms …
Her heart racing with the shock of such an impulse, she quickly retreated a step.
"Stay back!"
She clutched her head with both hands, grabbing handfuls of her wild, loose hair. God, what was wrong with her? In feeling the give of the blade pierce his skin and seeing the blood he had forced her to shed – she had suffered more than he!
Why should she care for this tyrant's welfare? This merciless devil – her jailer. Why should she care if he lived or died, and feel such a draining, blessed relief that he still stood so tall and powerful before her …?
The music! It was his possessive music. It confused her mind. Made her feel his pain. Made her feel unwanted feelings to be near. To be with him. To hold him. But – that made no sense! The music was no longer playing when she begged him to stop – was not playing now – and she knew in a blinding flash of revelation –
She could not bear the thought of him dead.
"Stay away from me!" she fiercely commanded, though he had yet to move.
He stood silent and motionless, hardly blinking as she backed from him another two steps. Her gaze was frantic as she took in his inscrutable expression – then whirled around and took the stairs down to the bank at a mad run …
Past the bright candelabras of his living tomb …
Through the endless corridors of his devil's maze …
To the prison chamber that was to become her home –
But no matter how fast or how far she ran she could not escape the depths of sorrow that had first shimmered within his haunting, golden eyes.
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xXx
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Over the next three days, the Phantom gave Christine a wide berth, staying far from her and her chamber.
Enmeshed in his dark music, in the pain of his past, in the bleakness of their current situation – he had shown her a part of himself he'd sworn never to reveal. His accursed emotions had been boiling too near the surface to suppress, and so, apparently, had hers.
He had not been surprised that she had come to this room. She had proven that she was unafraid to probe the passages, and the corridor in front of her chamber led directly to his.
Nor had he been surprised to turn and see her holding his dagger. She had tried before to conceal a weapon from his knowledge.
And he certainly wasn't surprised that she wished to kill him. He had given her little reason to do otherwise.
What had stunned him beyond comprehension was the remorse and panic in her horrified eyes when he attempted to help her follow through with her plan.
He had thought she would be relieved to kill the monster she so often called him, with no inkling of just how beastly he truly was. The hopelessness that had raged inside his heart in that moment had not allowed him to think beyond his despair of the life lost to him and the horrors he had wrought in Persia that truly shaped him into a monster. Death had seemed preferable and during that one brief moment as he brought her hand with the dagger to his chest, he wearied of all of it and no longer cared…
That discord of turbulent emotion at last departed, now he did.
To hear her perform his opera was his greatest and last desire, all he had left to live for. And he would hear her sing. To exact revenge on his enemies he had planned to keep her with him and make her into the next diva. He had done all he could to compel her to sing. He still held hope that he would succeed within the next few weeks – he must succeed if the opera was to commence on the time schedule he had planned. Nor could he watch what was left of her spirit slowly wither and die…
If she did not fade away from starvation first.
The pen snapped, red ink staining his fingertips like blood. With a curse he threw the quill down and pushed his sketch of a costume away, wiping his hand on a cloth.
He knew she had nibbled at the bread, little good that did. He scrutinized each full platter Jolene brought back. If his stubborn captive sampled anything else, it wasn't evident, the food always appearing untouched. She couldn't continue in this vein for long. He knew, from Persia, that a person could survive without food for weeks, but damned if he would allow her infantile foolishness to go on another day!
A step on the stones had him look behind him. Jolene entered, carrying a silver domed dish. He distantly watched her set it down and looked back at his unfinished sketch. Her steps soon departed. Concentration also fled…
His attention went back to the serving dish.
Bloody hell!
He leapt up from his chair, tossing the ink-stained cloth to the ground. In three strides he was at the table and snatched up the dome.
He stared at the full portions on the platter, his rage building. With a growl, he threw the cover to the stones, turned on his heel and stormed out of the lake room.
It took him less than half the usual time to reach her bedchamber.
He threw open the door, sending it crashing into the wall. Her newest serving dish also went untouched. The shape huddled beneath the velvet coverlet attested to her whereabouts.
"Get out of that bed this instant and eat what was brought you or so help me I will not refrain from carrying out my threat of three nights ago," he warned in a deep voice that shook from his anger. When she made no move to comply or even acknowledge his presence he strode to the side of the bed and whipped the coverlet from over her mussed mahogany curls, snapping it from her body.
What he saw unnerved him.
She lay on her side, confined in her maid's uniform and he wondered if she ever took the damned thing off, but that wasn't what made his stomach clench and acid fear eat his gut. A heavy sheen of sweat beaded her brow, her skin pasty, her cheeks highly flushed. Her eyes remained closed and he knew she wasn't feigning sleep.
"Damn you, what have you done to yourself now?" he whispered, laying a gentle palm to her forehead. It burned like fire even while she shivered as if cold.
He experienced a rush of guilt to keep her shoes from her to discourage any attempt of escape. He should have returned them the first time she tried and failed, once she learned of his traps firsthand. That had been the sole reason he had kept her barred within her chamber, to protect the little fool. There was no escape to the world above, except through his private quarters. His added precaution to keep her in her stocking feet had been a vain stratagem when he considered her wretched stubbornness – and briefly he closed his eyes. The regret lasted only until the memory returned, and he tightened his mouth into a thin line of resolve.
He had provided for her every need! She had a voice and could have told Jolene to heat water for a bath to dispel any chill. She could have changed into fresh, warmer clothing.
A glance around the room told him the small trunk he'd ordered Jacques and Jolene to bring three days ago was absent and he scowled. Where the hell was it? Another glance told him Christine had not removed her wet stockings. He wondered if the fool girl ever removed them. And surely her refusal of adequate sustenance had only aided what infirmity now plagued her body.
Damn the little hellion! She was more trouble than she was worth!
Even as the disparaging thought rushed through his mind he swiftly rejected it, a wave of unwelcome compassion briefly chasing away his anger.
He was the true fool.
Giving no heed to the consequences of his next act, he lifted her from the high, draped bed that had belonged to the set of Zémire et Azor, a fairy tale opera involving a beast and a beauty …
… similar to the one he now carried to his private lair.
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xXx
A/N: Merci beaucoup for the many reviews! :) (in answer to the questions- angst: great sorrow/anxiety/remorse ... sequel to Treasure - er, not sure, hopefully soon. :))