A/N: Thank you for your reviews! They are much appreciated! :)
And now, a long awaited moment...
Chapter XXIV
.
"JOLENE!"
The Phantom's deep voice thundered through the caverns for the third time as he swiftly carried his unconscious prisoner to his chamber rooms.
"Damn your hide, you useless girl! Where the hell are you?"
With no sign of the little French maid or even the boy who usually was underfoot, the Phantom cursed a string of vicious profanities and swept into his home, up the stairs and to the back chamber that held his wide bed. Managing to pull the coverlet down with Christine in his arms, he carefully laid her on the cool sheeting.
She failed to stir; her eyelids did not once flicker.
"Are you trying to incite my wrath and earn my everlasting contempt for your idiocy?" he asked quietly. Again he pressed his fingers to her forehead then the backs of them to her cheek, hoping he'd been wrong, that it wasn't as bad as he feared …
Her skin seared his flesh.
Grimacing, he softly brushed the damp curls from her sweat-soaked brow with his fingertips. "Damn you for doing this to yourself … to me … for attempting to destroy all I have planned for our future together at the Opera …"
She moaned faintly at his touch.
He withdrew his hand and shut his eyes and heart to the surge of raw emotion at the sight of her being ill. God, she could not be ill!
"I already despise you…" He kept his voice low and gentle, not wishing her to awaken. "Is that not enough? Must you demand more from me?"
Torn, he walked a short distance away, hesitated, looked back at her, then paced some more. Wiping a shaky hand down the back of his head, he stopped with his back to her and closed his eyes.
No. Hate was too strong a word. It was her foolishness this week that had provoked his utter disgust with her behavior. As for the girl in his bed, he simply did not care …
Another moan had him look her way. He hesitated at the anguish that pierced her voice then again moved toward her.
"Christine?" The quiet sound of her name falling from his tongue wrenched something deep inside the hollow area of his chest, more painful than pleasant, and sadistic fool that he was he longed to hear it again. "Christine …"
She began to shiver uncontrollably. He observed her in dismay. How long had she been like this?
He darted another impatient look toward the entrance for the idiot maid who was still absent. Where in blazes was that girl! Had she not heard his summons? She had not told him she was going into the city, so she must be somewhere within these accursed dank walls. But now she would need to go, and soon. He could not wait for dusk to fall to make the trip himself.
His attention swung back to his caged songbird. Her face contorted as if she might cry. Within moments her features again smoothed, and he hoped whatever pain she experienced had passed.
He took in her slight body - too damn slight - did the stubborn little chit never eat before she came to his dark catacombs either? He had to get nourishment in her soon and the essential medicine as well - Jolene must procure what was needed from above. If the damned girl ever arrived. How many minutes had passed? Five? Ten? Too damn many, that was certain!
His gaze lowered to the stockings covering Christine's small feet. Gingerly he ran the pads of his fingers along the bottom of one to find it damp and chill as ice.
Bloody hell! What was the little fool trying to do? Catch pneumonia on top of starving herself to death?
Briefly he closed his eyes at the knowledge that he must undertake the task himself. There was no choice. He could not wait for an absent maid who might never show.
With clenched jaw, the Phantom lowered himself to sit at the edge of the mattress. He took a deep breath, shutting out all emotion as he had learned to do long years ago, then slipped his hands beneath the hem of her skirt. He cursed them for how they trembled and tried not to watch as the material unavoidably rode higher with his movements. The first touch of her satin thigh against his skin almost undid him. He doubly cursed the mad leap his heart made.
He took another steadying breath, holding it then slowly releasing...
"You mean nothing to me," he whispered, untying the ribbon and tucking his fingertips around the edge of the stocking, pulling it down her slender leg. He brought the coarse covering over her slim ankle and ice cold toes. He grimaced, remembering the terrified lunge his heart made when he'd seen her recklessly run into the dark, wet tunnel with his trap of vipers.
"Nothing," he repeated firmly.
He reached for the black twin, noting how hot and damp her skin felt as his fingertips traced the scratchy wool down her soft leg, the skin slightly reddened as if from a faint rash in an adverse reaction to the material. Hell, did they have nothing better to clothe the help with than this inferior garbage?
Her closed lashes fluttered, and he paused to watch. She moved her head on the pillow, softly shaking it. Her upper body squirmed to the side for several seconds then she rolled to her back and again lay still.
Her shallow, even breaths testified that she continued to sleep...
Once more, he resumed pulling the wretched stocking from her leg.
In her delirium she could not possibly hear or understand anything he said. The need to speak what clawed at his soul, since the morning she entered the theatre for her audition, overpowered all else:
"The night I rode away I wanted to kill you for what you'd done," he whispered softly, "what you said, how damnably you had changed - into one of them," he hissed. "Did you and your precious boy have a good laugh over the poor inept fool you tricked? Did you, Christine? Was his profession of adoration a mere trophy for your damned vanity?"
His fingers tightened convulsively beneath her knee. She gave a little moan.
"Were you relieved to learn the beast was dead? Did it make your decision easier to go through with?" His eyes fell shut and his hands relaxed, remaining motionless around her leg as his mind relentlessly slipped back to those dark days.
"Tell me, once you so carelessly set my death in motion, how long did you wait before you went to be with the blasted Vicomte? How long, Christine…?"
He gritted his teeth against the old pain, relying on the welcome sting of fury that served to steady him until it, too, faded into calm indifference. He pulled the stocking the rest of the way down to join its discarded mate on the stones.
"I have hated you as fiercely as I once loved you…" he continued his whispered confession, looking at her small, punished feet. He took an icy one between his palms and slowly rubbed the chilled flesh to warm it. "…hated you with a passion equal to the love I felt for you, fool that I was to fall under the spell of your charm."
He gave a humorless, short laugh and held her foot still, cupped in his large hands a moment before continuing his gentle massage. "Not that you would care, but a man found my bleeding body in a gully and tended me. God knows why or even how I survived. I went with him, to his homeland of Persia -"
He broke off, unable to speak of that terrible year; but nowhere could it amount to the agony of her blinding betrayal. He had almost died. When he recovered and learned the truth, he had wanted to die.
"Later I came to France, made a home within these caves. Became the dreaded Phantom and earned an equally fearsome reputation." He narrowed his eyes on her still face. "I killed that man you knew, Christine - killed him as surely as if I had driven a dagger through his pathetic, yearning heart and cut it from his miserable body. And I plotted. And I waited. And I prayed for this day… Perhaps God does exist as you tried to convince me. Perhaps it was the hand of Fate that granted my wish." His smile was a grimace, cold and triumphant. "Perhaps it was more…"
He lowered her foot and reached for the other.
"Did your precious boy speak of the letter the day he received it, Christine? As swiftly as you arrived, your decision must have been immediate. Tell me, did it pain him when his fiancée chose to leave England to indulge in a career at the opera?" he sneered softly and stopped rubbing her foot though he did not let go. "No more than it would pain him to know that I wrote the letter, surely?" His laugh came vicious and low. "It was a gamble but you came, and now he has lost and I have won."
But she would no longer sing. Had the pompous simpleton discouraged her from sharing her talent?
"You will never marry him, Christine - never!" He began to rub her warmed flesh again, more firmly, his whisper now fierce. "You will sing - you will marry me - forced to chain your soul to the ruthless monster you so despise, who cares nothing for you. You will live out your days and dwell beneath the earth in darkness - with me, though you will never know it. And I will have my absolute revenge…"
She gave a soft groan. "Erik."
He froze. Slowly looked up.
She was dreaming.
"Yes," she whispered, " I always will…"Her brow grew troubled and she twisted her body again, writhing on the sheet. "No… go away! God, no… please - you're lying … - oh, God- NOOO!"
He winced at her bloodcurdling cry. Feverish slumber created nightmares of the cruelest sort. How well he knew. Sounds that grew eerily enhanced and sounds that did not exist… Hallucinations obliterated stark reality and lent to a private hell, where guilt and fear became the constant tormentors of one's soul. Awake, asleep, it failed to matter. The nightmares always lingered.
He lowered her foot to the bed and stood, looking down at her. "It's no less than you deserve," he rasped, weak emotion making his voice waver and his eyes moist. He cursed any lapse of pity for her and pulled the coverlet above her waist…
…stopping midway in horror at the sight of a bruise.
In the stronger candlelight, this close and with her thick hair out of the way, it was easy to discern. Yellow-brown and faded. It had been there for some time. More than a week. Her badly fitted chemise and shift had twisted around her body as she writhed in sleep, revealing the top of her slim shoulder and the faint markings of an old bruise on her pale skin.
Bruises. In the shape of a large hand. Fingers …
He had never grabbed her there.
White hot fury blurred his vision - but not so much that he did not fail to notice another faded mark that disappeared beneath her neckline near her cleavage. Good God! Were there bruises all over her body? Had someone beaten her? Dared to harm her?
Who would do such a thing!
An icy stillness filtered through his veins, chilling his blood, as the answer came swift and sharp. Of course. The wretched fool in whose house she once lived, at whose table she had supped, in whose bed she had slept …
Damn it, no! He no longer cared. He would not let himself care…
Grimly he looked at her.
But for this the boy would die.
.
xXx
.
The walls had come alive.
They breathed, hissing at her. And the voices - so many. Too many. Soft then louder … soft again…echoing strangely, always echoing…
Eyes watched her from within the walls … eyes glowing golden … eyes burning blue … all around …
and around …
and around …
the walls were spinning…
She closed her eyes in fear.
The touch of hands … large, cool hands …gentle hands…she did not want the hands to leave. They felt so good against her burning skin… A soothing voice, a whisper … lyrical, beautiful… spouting hateful words that made her want to cry.
Erik was there. He called out to her. Told her he loved her. Told her he hated her. Wished to punish her … marry her - God, yes, yes! - she reached blindly for the distant, shadowy image of him. He turned his back to her plea and dissolved, once more to become Henri's hateful leer -
"He's dead."
No!
Her eyes flew open. "Erik…" she rasped.
"Mademoiselle…?"
An angel's face in a halo of dark red curls abruptly entered her line of vision, startling her. Anxious blue eyes, tears making them glisten.
"You are awake. He will be pleased."
Not an angel. The girl by the lake. Candles flickered all around. Silk against her skin.
"Wh-where am I?"
"In the master's bedchamber."
The master …
Phantom!
Christine tried to sit up but a small, gentle hand pushed her shoulder. "You must rest. You're very ill."
"Ill?" She could put no more words together, could not decipher what was real, what was false. She weakly laid back down and closed her eyes.
Bitterness touched her lips, entered her mouth, slid down her throat. She turned away.
She felt herself moved, jostled … go away - please go away! … Wetness poured over her skin - Pain! White hot and blinding. She screamed. Her back was on fire! Her eyes flew open - light - so much light! Too much! The large hand again, firm but gentle … her eyes closed … the darkness embraced …
Images faded, appeared, faded again. Dark images. Bright images… Shapes…Shadows…the hissing…God, please make the hissing stop!
Time lapsed …grew …thickened … the voices rose and fell, undulating all around her…all around and around …whispers, dark and fierce …whispers, soft and meek …both terrified.
"You little fool! Why did you not give her the trunk of clothing as I commanded!"
"I'm sorry, Maestro. She told me to take it away…"
"I told you not to listen to a thing she says!"
Listen … listen …
She did not want to listen.
She tried to speak, to tell the voices to stop. Her mind blissfully slipped back into nothingness…
Voices woke her again. Softer voices. She groaned, wishing them away as well.
"No. Do not speak. Drink this."
The deep voice again. A man's voice. She knew that voice. Her head was lifted, the hand large and cool at her nape. So nice. She wished to turn her burning face into that hand. A container slid against her mouth. The taste at her lips was bitter. She remembered it. Did not like it. Tried to push it away. The hand was insistent. The liquid slid down her throat, warm. Potent …
She felt her head lowered back to the pillow, felt the lassitude seep into her bones again, pulling her downward, always downward…
It was the silence that woke her. After the endless voices and hissing, the absence of sound startled her awake.
Christine slowly opened her eyes, her body no longer feeling as if it might melt away from her bones. She felt extremely weak and dizzy, but her skin no longer prickled and again felt like her own, cool to the touch.
What had happened to her?
Had he drugged her again?
The heaviness of her skirt was gone and with alarm she realized she lay in her loose shift, damp and clinging to her skin. She carefully sat up, heard the rustle of silk fall away and glanced down at the maroon sheet.
This was not her bed. This was not her prison chamber.
This room was even larger with candles that stood in holders in every direction. An opening led out to another wide room filled with more candles and she could hear and see part of the green lake that softly lapped against the rock shore. She glimpsed part of a closed iron gate beyond that. Trunks of different sizes lined the walls of this chamber. A tall gold statue of some creature that looked half woman, half serpent presided nearby. The canopied bed was even bigger than the one she'd been given, the furnishings of deep maroon silk and a brown so dark it was almost black.
She shivered a little, in no doubt where she was. The room resonated his persona, and his scent clung to the sheets.
She heard footsteps approach and stared out into the bigger room, anxiously wondering what to do next.
xXx
A/N: Now that the wildcat is out of the bag - of course it's Erik! You didn't think I'd string you along for ten chapters and then throw someone else at you, did you ? ;-) - Most of you knew right off it was him, but some of you weren't sure. So as not to spoil it for anyone, I said nothing…now I have to say how much I have LOVED writing the irony of this - Christine desperate to get away from the beastly Phantom - the same man that throughout her life she has loved and wants to be with the most! lol (rubs hands in mad glee for all I have planned)… also, I based her feverish delirium on what I experienced as a child and still remember, whispering voices, seeing things not there -even hearing a waterfall painting that hung near me come to life. Very creepy. Only here, Christine had a lake nearby so it made more sense… :)