A/N: Thank you so VERY much for the many awesome reviews and your patience. We are reaching a precipice before jumping to the next level of plot, where much is fixing to happen…please remember, this isn't a tame story- it is M/MA- for explicit sex and adult situations including lewd/depraved moments & shocking occurrences that work for who my characters are. That said, this chapter deserves the rating.
With that warning, at last I give you the long-awaited words:
On with the story…
Chapter XLI
.
Arabella realized her mistake the moment the reckless words left her lips.
The tightening of his arm about her waist and his fingers clamping around her throat a second time, along with the elevated sound of his breathing made clear the Phantom's anger with regard to her foolish slip. Fear that she would never see another dawn was almost her undoing.
Dear God, he truly did mean to kill her!
Desperately seeking the calm rationale she had needed for unnerving moments while she stood, guilty, before the stern headmistress and feigned innocence, Arabella again grabbed his arm, trying to pull it downward, and sought to rectify her error.
"The lad," she rasped with what air remained in her windpipe, "doesn't - concern me. Only Christine! - please - don't - do this…"
The Phantom gritted his teeth, hesitating to push harder against her larynx and deal the killing blow, or perhaps only render her unconscious. There existed a fine line between both, but he knew the difference. Compassion did not move him. Only the knowledge prevailed that if the Lady de Chagny were to disappear, a search would be issued and his caverns invaded by those determined to find her, with the excuse for a Vicomte leading the throng. Twice in the span of two days the same number of interlopers had found their way into his hidden lair. For his safety and those he protected, he could not take that risk. Nor could he lock her in a chamber of a distant corridor, away from Christine, for the same reason.
"No, mademoiselle, I will not kill you," he spoke quietly into her ear. "This time."
Disgusted with his options, he lowered his hand from her throat but kept his arm like a band of iron around her, keeping her held tightly against him. She coughed, gasping for breath, and grabbed her neck, rubbing it.
"What do you mean to do with me?" she hoarsely whispered. "I've heard accounts of how you seduce young, innocent women at the opera. Do you mean to ravage me? Tell me you have not done so to Christine!"
Despite his mounting ire he laughed wryly in disbelief. Good God. Two hapless indiscretions, both consensual with dancers who could hardly be described as "innocent", and his reputation was now that of a plundering scoundrel haunting dark corridors to molest young virgins. His notoriety surely would soon surpass Don Juan's. He was surprised the young Miss Giry had not yet pealed the bells of Notre Dame and announced her warped versions of his past liaisons from the highest belfry for all of Paris to know.
"For one who fears such atrocities be forced upon her person, you have an uncanny proclivity to speak your mind without regard to the consequences," he advised his captive bitterly.
He felt the rise and fall of her breasts as she took in a deep breath. "Will you let me go, sir?" she asked more calmly.
"So that you can run to your intrusive cousin and relay all of what you have discovered here tonight?" He knew he had no choice but sought to know her intent. "Perhaps I should lock you away in one of my darkest dungeons, with only the rats for company."
He felt her shiver beneath him.
"I told you, I have no interest in the boy. I assume he's yours?" He did not answer and she quickly went on, "from what I just heard his life isn't in peril. I only came here to learn that Christine is alright."
He narrowed his eyes, loath to believe her. "You had no intention of helping her escape?"
Her silence gave her away.
"Did she sound as if she was being held against her will and seeking flight from my caves?" he persuaded in impatience.
As if she'd heard his question, again Christine began to sing the light aria, and again the woman he held swung her head toward the fissure in the rock wall. Christine stopped mid verse, then returned to the beginning, as he had taught her when she made a mistake.
"I have no idea what or who to believe any longer," the Lady de Chagny whispered in puzzlement, "but I think I understand something not clear to me before. She is to be your star, isn't she? I was told of the note you delivered at practice and that you had a new diva lined up for your opera."
The irksome woman may be swift to speak but she was shrewd. He saw no reason to hide the truth since all would soon know of his plans.
"Yes."
"And she agreed? To sing - but not only that, to sing in public?"
This was her second reference to Christine's lack of desire to sing and he remembered her refusal to do so at her audition. Had she truly lost all confidence in her ability due to the few years of disuse to her voice? She had been out of form, it was true, and never had been taught the rudiments of training necessary for the opera. But her innate talent had only dulled, not disappeared, and these weeks under his tutelage had sharpened them to the crystalline clarity of which he knew her capable.
"But of course," the talkative woman answered herself, "she is using her mother's maiden name."
Surprised she would arrive to that conclusion, when he had not yet given Christine his permission to do so, he phrased his question carefully. "Is that so important?"
She hesitated. "To Christine it is."
He had the feeling she withheld more, but since he assumed it was in some way related to her loathsome cousin he had no desire to know.
"The situation most prevalent in my mind is what should be done with you," he pondered aloud, a threat again lacing his voice.
"If it means anything, I have obtained what I wished to know. I came seeking assurance as to Christine's welfare. I have it. I don't pretend to understand why you sought her out to make her your lead in the new opera, but I am convinced that this is the best place for her at this time."
Her startling admission contradicted what he presumed she would say, and he wondered if she lied to escape his clutches. "If you tell anyone what you have learned, including that meddlesome cousin of yours, I will find you and will not be so merciful to let you go free a second time."
She drew in a swift breath. "I understand."
"Do you?" The Phantom scoffed a laugh then grew stern, squeezing his arm tightly around her torso in warning until she gave a little whimper. "Let us hope you do, Miss de Chagny. No one will destroy what I have waited years to accomplish. No one. Should you try to find your way back here, the passage will be blocked, perhaps with a more sinister trap in place, of which your foolish guide is unaware. You may tell her I said so."
Instantly, he released her.
Arabella gasped at being freed so swiftly, staggered a step, then spun around to face him.
The Phantom, true to his namesake, had silently disappeared into the darkest shadows.
"Go back the way you came - AT ONCE - lest I change my mind on what is to be done with you..."
His threatening words echoed all around, impossible to tell from whence they came as he seemed to be everywhere at the same time.
Grateful to escape with her very life, Arabella clutched her skirts and practically ran through the passageway of the cold cavern. She retraced her steps to the concealed, shrub-covered entrance, desperate for the sane and welcome sight of light and civilization.
Raoul had been right in one respect.
The Phantom was most certainly a madman. But she sensed he was also much more that Arabella didn't understand, which confused her and caused her to change her course, away from the hotel and toward the opera house...
where she was determined to find answers.
.
xXx
.
After changing into a dry dress, her second time that day, and sopping up the last of the water from the boy's sneak attack, Christine then focused on replacing her soiled bandage. Once she tore another strip from the cloth the Phantom had used that morning and managed to get the wet linen off her finger, she realized her dilemma.
The cut looked no worse, for which she was grateful, but she needed three hands to mummify her finger as he had done. Even her two hands seemed deficient.
"Drat." At her third attempt, the ribbon of cloth evading her grasp and bagging too loose to form a proper bandage, she was ready to give up when the boy came to stand before her.
Warily she eyed his hands, noting with relief they were empty of goblets or food, and looked at his face. He seemed almost penitent as he held out his hands, palms up.
"What do you want, Jacques?"
To her surprise, he grabbed the ends of the ties and wound them around her wounded finger, tying them off in a clumsy knot. Afterward, he looked up at her, hopeful.
"If you think this absolves you of dousing me with water, think again young lad."
She doubted he had been able to follow her swift words but he must have sensed the ease of her tension by the relieved smile he gave.
She ruffled his hair. "Are you hungry?"
He nodded eagerly.
"Alright. Let's see what there is."
Christine scanned the kitchen area. She had exhausted the loaf of bread when making toast and had used all the eggs. Save for the lemons in the bowl, she saw nothing edible.
She approached the boy. "Do you know where the food is kept?"
He stared blankly at her.
"Food?" She put her hand to her mouth as if holding a fork, as she'd seen Jolene do, then spread her hands in a shrug.
The boy's eyes lit up. He ran to the edge of the water, looking back at her to join him.
"No, Jacques, not water..." Her words trailed off as he excitedly pointed to a lever near the wall. A chain rose above the lake attached to a pulley above. All of which she had noticed before, but the Phantom's lair was filled with so many oddities and curiosities, she'd never given the chain a second thought.
Curious, she pushed the lever forward. The chain began mechanically to wind onto what looked like a giant spool overhead and soon brought up a trunk from beneath the lake. In wonder, she stared at the huge container a few feet away, rivulets of water dripping from its bottom.
Now what?
Jacques grabbed a wooden pole with an iron hook at the end and gave it to her. He pointed to the pole, then to the trunk. A metal rung was suspended from the front and she realized what to do. Reaching out with the pole, she hooked the rung on the second try and pulled the trunk toward the bank, the chain giving exactly that much leeway. Yet now another problem arose. If she let go of the pole, the trunk would drift. She could not open the lid and hold the pole at the same time. A tap on her shoulder had her turn her head to look. She watched Jacques point to a rock on the bank with a hook embedded in it then he pointed to the end of her pole. It formed a loop and once attached to the second hook, the trunk stayed in place.
Genius.
A curious glance over the bank into the green water explained why the Phantom hadn't positioned the trunk closer, the dark rocks uneven beneath and sloping outward, reminiscent of the wild rocks of her moors.
Jacques pressed an iron key into her hand.
"What's this?"
He pointed to the trunk.
Christine fitted the key into the lock and turned it, which led to the sound of tumblers clicking and rods moving out of place. She lifted the heavy lid and gasped to see the dry interior filled with whatever food she desired. There were cheeses, fruits and vegetables, a platter with what looked like the remnants of a cooked bird, jars of jams, sauces, and some items she had no concept of, perhaps only native to France.
Jacques pointed to the half eaten bird, and she grinned.
"That's what you want? Very well then." She took the platter out, along with one of the slabs of cheese and an orange.
Going through the steps in reverse, she soon had the trunk back beneath the water and began to understand that Jolene must have removed all items intended for the full day's menu each morning, so as not to deal with the meticulous task for each meal. She held up the iron key and Jacques took it, looping it over the hook, then covered it with a loose brick of rock so that the hook was hidden and not a danger to unsuspecting bare ankles or expensive clothing.
They enjoyed their light repast, thankfully lacking in a food fight, and she discovered a new pleasure - she preferred orange slices cold. Once she popped the last section into her mouth, delighting in the burst of icy flavored juice as she bit down, she turned her attention to washing the dishes, favoring her bandage and trying to keep it as dry as possible. With that task finally concluded, she wondered what to do about Jacques.
When Christine was a child, Berta had her in bed by seven, but she had no way to tell time in this underground cavern. In the Phantom's absence, was she expected to see to the boy's bedtime? As his wife, she supposed it was her duty.
The reminder of their legal union sent a warm rush of blood through her being that conversely made her shiver. And she wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to the knowledge that she belonged in name, if not body, to the Phantom of the Opera.
Watching Jacques halfheartedly play with two of his soldiers, she noticed him yawn and took that as her cue.
She approached and held out her hand. "Come along then. Bed time."
He shook his head furiously.
She nodded sternly.
He set the soldiers down and crossed his arms with a pout, identical to the Phantom's, and avoided her gaze. As if by doing so she would simply vanish.
Stubborn to a fault, just like his father. Well, she could be stubborn also.
She plucked up his soldiers and headed for the bedchamber. As she suspected, Christine soon heard the sound of his shoes striking stone, hurrying to catch up with her. In his bedchamber, she laid the soldiers on a table and turned to face him. He didn't look happy but didn't protest when she picked up his nightshirt and held it out. He took it then made the motion of drinking.
"Water?"
He nodded.
"Alright. Be a good lad. Get dressed for bed."
She hurried to the main chamber to retrieve the drinking water from a pitcher there and returned to the boy's bedroom - finding it empty. With a scowl, she remembered the many childhood tricks she played on Berta, often commandeered by Erik, neither of them wishing to go to bed at the allotted hour. For the first time, Christine felt empathy for the old woman. At least the boy couldn't leave these caves, as she and Erik had sometimes escaped to the moors or fled to the stables to hide.
"Where are you, little imp?" she breathed, setting the cup down.
A glance into the bath chamber showed it empty, and she took the shortcut to the lake, thankful when she didn't see a glimpse of his white nightshirt in the dark interior. A chase around the large body of water didn't appeal after having just eaten. Taking the long route, she looked into two empty chambers then glanced into Jolene's room, stopped and looked again.
Her little fugitive sat in his nightshirt at the head of the bed, looking with confusion at the blanket that should be covering his sister. He looked up, curiosity bright in his eyes, a trace of pain making them glisten. The unasked question tore at Christine's heart, and she sat down beside him, drawing him close to her side.
"It's alright," she soothed after a time, pulling away and cupping his chin while bringing her face down to his so he could read her lips. The torch's flame from the corridor made it bright enough to see. "I'm sure she'll be back soon."
He made motions with his hands, but she had no understanding of them and shook her head. "I don't know what you're saying."
He sighed in dejection and slid off the bed, leaving the room. She followed, relieved to see him walk into his chamber. He drank some of the water then rubbed his teeth with a cloth there and crawled into bed. First Papa or Berta, in later years Erik would either tell her a tale or read a story, but that wouldn't work for Jacques. Nor did she see any books lying about. And she didn't see how she could relate an entire tale with him reading her lips. Papa or Berta would then sit with her while she said her nighttime prayers, but that seemed out of the question as well. Not knowing what else to do, she tucked him in and moved to go.
He made a protesting sound in his throat and she turned back to see him sadly look up at her, a plea she could not refuse. Bending down she gave him another hug and a kiss and smoothed his dark hair from his brow. Again she tried to go, but he grabbed her hand.
"What, Jacques?" she asked in mild frustration.
He closed his eyes as if going to sleep, but did not let go of her hand.
"You want me to stay," she whispered, hurting for the little boy who'd lost so much. And now apparently his sister had left him too. "Only until you fall asleep then."
She wondered if the Phantom would ever tell the boy of the special bond they shared. It might help him to know…
Sitting on the edge of his bed she watched his dark lashes flicker and grow still. She waited until his breathing slowed to a steady rhythm and his hold on her hand lessened.
Only then did she exit the room, once more looking back in the doorway.
He did not stir.
She wished she could do more but felt helpless. She certainly couldn't search for his sister and wondered what had gotten in the girl's head to take off as she did.
Having the person one cared about most in the world leave without saying goodbye was a terrible experience to endure.
Having a person who had become a part of one's life leave without explanation could also be troubling to the soul - even if he was coming back.
Wearily she retraced her steps to the main chamber. Casting a listless glance toward the organ, empty of its master, she decided to retire early. Her body must still be finding strength from its debilitation of weeks ago. It was the only explanation that made sense, as melancholy as she felt.
Once in her chamber, she couldn't sleep. She worked on memorizing lines from the libretto then gave up the pursuit as futile, her mind in constant turmoil as to where the Phantom had gone and why it was so damnably important he be there. Did it have something to do with Jolene? Had he gone in search of the girl?
Resigned that a hot bath might help her sleep, Christine shed her nightdress and pulled on her wrapper.
A short time later, lulled by the heated water, she felt the tension ease from her body. Only minutes had elapsed since she entered the bathtub, but she knew she needed to leave - or risk making the long porcelain vat her bed and the silky water her coverlet. And she did not anticipate waking up with wet hair, what had happened once before.
Grudgingly she stepped out and wrapped a piece of toweling around herself. Pulling the pins from her long curls, so that they fell over her shoulders and to her waist, she padded in the direction of her room, half asleep, ready to fall into bed.
A distant rasp of a giggle made her groan.
"Oh, Jacques, no..."
Dreading what she might see, she stepped onto the table and the box and looked out her natural window, over the lake.
Instead of the boy dashing about in his nightshirt, the sight that met her eyes brought her wide awake and sent a chill to the marrow of her soul.
A man and woman stood at the far wall, faintly illumined by torchlight but too dim to see well. But she could see enough, and the towering shadows they cast on the wall behind acted as a relentless mirror to their actions. The man stood tall with dark hair and had his back to Christine. He clutched the woman's waist, his face at her neck. The woman was buxom but otherwise petite. Even in the faint light and at such a distance, Christine recognized Jolene. And the man could only be…
"It's too dangerous," Jolene's words came sketchy and low, but their message carried over the still water.
The man's hand went to her bodice and she giggled. "I see that you missed me, but at least wait 'til we get to your bed where it's safe."
The man's answer came indistinguishable, deep, his head dipping lower as he pulled the sleeves from her shoulders, baring skin. Her faint moans also carried over the water, each one a stab to Christine's bleeding heart, but she stared, transfixed, a prisoner to the horror being played out before her.
"We can't. Not here." Jolene's breathless entreaty ended in a groan, and the man lifted his mouth from her bosom, pulling up her skirt. "Have you gone mad?" she said, a nervous ring in her voice.
"Yes," he growled, his voice low and faint. "Mad for you."
"But anyone can come at any time!"
He laughed wickedly and pulled up her leg around him, shoving his hips hard against her again and then again.
Jolene gave a little cry, grabbing him tight. "Oh, God - yesss!…it feels so good…it's been too long…" She let out an extended moan.
Christine violently pulled away from the image of their writhing bodies and the terrible accompaniment of tall undulating shadows. She barely could step down from the box and table she shook so badly. Her vision obscured, she brushed away inexplicable tears.
She had suspected their close arrangement almost from the beginning, it came as no surprise. So why did seeing the proof of it hurt so fiercely?
Their eager moans mingled. She ran to her bed to escape them. Throwing off the damp toweling, she dove naked under the coverlet, not taking the time to don her nightdress. Still, she could hear their voices, faint now, and for the first time she was thankful Jacques could not hear, so he would not to be awakened by the disgusting duet and go in search of the nightmare.
Christine brought the pillow over her head to drown out sound, but each time she removed it, thinking surely the torture must be over, their distant moans went on, and her silent tears ran unbroken. A sharp ecstatic cry, and at last it was over.
Christine stared at the flickering patterns the torch made on the wall, her pillow soaked, her heart as heavy as stone. How long she stared - why she even cried or felt so beastly, she had no idea! - but at last, the emotion draining, she fell into troubled slumber.
Music woke her. It was in hearing those first dark chords that her heart flared back to life, and she sat up in bed, a determined Persephone, feverish to confront her contemptible lord and master.
She pulled on nightdress, robe, and slippers in haste, leaving her hair as it was, and marched to Hades' throne room with grim purpose.
.
xXx
.
The Phantom sat at his pipe organ, unable to concentrate on the notes to a potential new opus. Disgusted with his poor attempts, he threw the pen skittering atop the glossy black surface, just curbing himself from knocking away the bottle of ink as well. A step on the stones alerted him, and he turned at the waist, not surprised to see his visitor, at the same time curious about the hour she'd chosen to approach him.
Her dark hair rained down around her sides in a riotous adornment of tight, unbrushed curls, and he wondered if she had just left her bed. Her cheeks were highly flushed, her eyes overly bright and puffy, and he realized with a start she'd been crying.
"Madame…" He forced a surge of emotion down, both concerned and desirous. To keep his detached distance from the exquisite creature that Christine had become grew more difficult with each passing day. "Is there a problem?"
"I am fine," she said in a bare facsimile of polite detachment. "Perfect. I only wished to say - that is -" She balled her hands to fists at her sides. "I thought to come early, to practice."
"I see." He shifted the rest of his weight around to face her entirely. Her last words had come jumbled and swift, as if they just occurred. Nor had she ever appeared for practice without being fully dressed. "You do realize it is not yet midnight."
"What?" She blinked, her surprise evident, and shook her head, flustered. "How am I to know such things? I have no timepiece to track the hours."
"The window of your bath chamber looks out onto the lake and is an adequate measure of daylight and darkness."
"Yes, I have found it to be a window to many things," she snapped.
"Is it?" he said, lacking interest. If he was not so shocked by her queer behavior, he might have allowed his previous irritation to dominate the moment. As it stood, he had no desire to dwell on either. "Very well, if you wish to practice…"
"Tell me, monsieur, how did your appointment go?"
He pressed his lips together. His contact had not shown, though he had waited for hours in concealment.
"I have no wish to speak of such matters with you."
"No?" Her tone wavered at the courteous edge of accusation. "I take it then things did not go well? How unfortunate."
"Yes," he gritted. "Take your place -"
"But upon your return did not fortune favor you with a more productive evening?" He watched in curious shock as her entire face bloomed red. "Surely it could not be construed as a total waste? Especially now that you have your little slave girl back!"
"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Impatient with her games, he rose from his bench and approached, noting her back up a slight step but no more.
This close, Christine could smell a hint of lavender on his clothing, a scent not unlike what Arabella wore - feminine, but nothing she had noticed on Jolene. Maybe there had been more than one "appointment" kept tonight.
"Don't bother denying it. I'm no fool, though you may play me for one," she hissed before she lost courage. "I'm talking about the disgusting performance that went on outside my bath chamber this evening."
"You don't like my new music?" he sneered.
She jabbed her finger into his chest, lifting her chin to see into his eyes beyond the mask. "This has nothing to do with your bloody music - and you damn well know it!"
He shook his head. "Have you gone mad?"
His mirror to Jolene's words earlier spoken had her let out a slight hysterical laugh. "You are a vile beast to say those words to me…"
The Phantom was so stunned by her indignant behavior he could only stare, his mouth parted in confusion.
This was the Christine he knew from The Heights, wild and passionate, afraid of no one, but with a more mature assurance - and if he knew what the hell this discussion was about, he might fully be able to appreciate the change.
"No matter that our marriage is in name only - " She jabbed him again with her finger. "No matter that your reputation is as lurid and soiled as that despicable character in your opera" - Another hard jab. "You could at least show me the common courtesy not to rut with your whores outside my bath chamber!"
Her profusion of garbled venom suddenly sharpened in his mind, beginning to make sense, and he grabbed her below the shoulders.
"What did you see?" he demanded.
"You know what I saw," she hissed. "LET ME GO!"
He shook her fiercely. "TELL ME WHAT YOU SAW, DAMN YOU!"
She struggled to get loose, hitting his chest with her fist. His hand went to her spine, bringing her up hard against him while trapping her arm. His other hand clutched her hair at the nape, pulling her head back to look into her face.
"TELL ME!"
Eyes like molten lava threatened to sear her flesh, the waves of warmth she experienced to be crushed against his hard body dizzying.
"You and Jolene - together- by the lake," she whispered disjointedly, even as her own eyes filled with unwanted hot moisture to recount the awful words.
Enraged by the disclosure, he released her forcefully and turned on his heel. She staggered and just prevented herself from falling.
"BY GOD, THE SLUT WILL PAY FOR THIS!" The Phantom knocked a tall candlestick out of his path as he stormed toward his bedchamber. "SHE WILL PAY!"
At his deep bellow that resounded throughout the huge cavern and the murderous rage that had leapt to his fiery eyes, Christine stared after him in mounting horror.
The blood drained from her face at the sudden awareness that she had made a dreadful mistake.
.
xXx