A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! You guys had me giggle and grin quite wickedly. ;-) I'm glad you're enjoying the latest twist to the story … and now…
LIX
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Christine waited to hear his answer with expectant dread, watching as he drew himself up and stood so formidable and tall, at one with the shadows, a master of the night.
The Phantom stared at Christine in resigned despair, where she sat clutching the covers to her bed gown on the furthest side of the bed ...
But whose bed?
"Why are you here?" He kept his voice low, but it trembled with a surge of jealous rage that he felt helpless to ignore and worked hard to suppress. "I thought you wished to meet in the chapel tonight, to talk."
She stared at him with wide, luminous eyes, her lips parting in disbelief. "Surely, you cannot think – after all that has happened..."
He tilted his head in indifference, lifting his brow in mild question.
"Erik. A man was murdered tonight – onstage, as I watched – during the first act of the opera!" she added unnecessarily, her tone rising just above a strident whisper. "But – but you knew that before anyone else - didn't you?" She clutched the covers more tightly to her breasts, her voice coming out hoarse. "You killed him..."
Her final words of horrified conviction came softly and trailed off, even as her expression revealed disbelief, as if she wished him to state otherwise. The Phantom grew defensive, lifting his gloved hands in a careless shrug.
"And if I did? He harmed you, Christine. He tried to molest you. I swore that no other man would ever lay a hand on you again!"
His blunt response came harsh in expression but gentle in volume and made her wince.
"How… how did you know?"
"I know."
Those two simple words were filled with so much he did not say, leading her to believe that in matters concerning the opera house he was omniscient and knew all of what went on there. Everything considered, knowing all she knew about him, the probability did not come as a great surprise.
She dropped her troubled gaze to the satin coverlet, recalling the terror of that moment in the empty corridor. The drunken fiend had darted out from the shadows, grabbing her and taking her by surprise. He had held her struggling in his clutches, his meaty paws raking her back, his mouth slavering at her face and neck as he held her to the wall and angrily grumbled how all divas seemed to think they were so much better than he – taunting her about the raspberry mark he uncovered – jeering that if she really wanted a fuck so bad, she had no need to wander empty corridors like the dancers did, in the hope that the Ghost would give her what he was more than willing to share.
Christine's face burned hot while she remembered the vulgar man's crude words and lewd acts.
Swift and silent the Phantom approached, fully regaining her rapt attention. He pulled something from his cloak and dropped it to the empty side of the bed.
She looked there, recognizing the thin shawl of gold she had worn to the chapel and lost in her struggle to flee from the stagehand. She had finally managed to bring her knee swiftly up to his groin as hard as could be done, which awarded her instant freedom, then she had fled in terror, leaving her shawl still in his hands.
"You saw?" she whispered in shock.
"No, Christine. Had I seen I would have not stood by and merely watched. I came after you fled from the vile brute. I noticed the bloody scratches on his cheek and saw him throw your shawl to the ground. I heard the words he said aloud to himself, inferring that there would be a next time and you would not come out so lucky then. I followed and arrived to see him peer at you through holes that had been bored into the wall of your dressing room. Holes he must have once put there. Before I could get to him, your hairdresser arrived and he raced off like the loathsome coward he was. I looked, to ensure that you were unscathed, then followed."
At his direct, impassive words, a myriad of emotions vied for control, too turbulent to settle into manageable comprehension – shock and disgust to learn the wall had peepholes through which that awful man had watched her – how many times? Relief to know Erik had cared enough to look in on her, fear to realize what he was not saying, what he still refused to state, the one answer she had pleaded with him to give…
"Come, we must return to the opera house." He held out his gloved hand to her. "You do not belong here. With them."
She shook her head brusquely in frustration, ignoring his outstretched hand. "And what of my earlier question? Why will you not answer...?"
Nothing more would emerge from her throat as she looked up at him, the need to know, to hear him say the words blatant in her eyes.
He dropped his arm back to his side. His mouth drew into a thin line, his face still veiled in shadow, but discernible. From beyond the mask, his eyes burned into hers.
"Yes, Christine, I ended the scoundrel's life. It was no accident, and I make no apology for it. I would gladly do so to any man who again dares to harm you."
The Phantom watched the light in her eyes dim, and it bruised his heart.
If only he had arrived before anything could happen ...
If only he could have been there in England.
Christine stared at him in miserable reflection, wishing this waking nightmare would just fade away, that she would awaken in her dressing room. Better yet, his bed. That no part of this evening had occurred...
His raspy declaration had seemed torn from the depths of his soul, reminding her of England and how she also killed to defend herself from the same harm. With the truth now irrevocably aired, her eyes dropped to her lap covered with the bedding, as she tried to make sense of this moment, of this entire night. He had hunted out her assailant and ended his life for his crime against her. She had bludgeoned Henri in the act, before he could fully steal her virtue. One death was calculated, the other accidental, both of them crimes wrought in passion. But was what she did any less wrong?
Taking a life was criminal, no matter how one justified the act. If it were not so, she would not also be in hiding.
Her eyes briefly fell shut in despair. It seemed her life was forever to be haunted by death.
"And so, now in your heart you convict me of wrongdoing when my sole desire was to protect you?"
His question came distressed and resigned, laced with anger, and broke the uneasy silence that prickled between them.
"No, I don't. To do so would be unjust. But you should not have done it, Erik."
"You would prefer that I had overlooked his crime against you and let the scoundrel go unpunished? Perhaps locked him into a room as I did Jolene?" His scathing words remained low and burned into her soul like acid. "Do not try to convince me of that, my dear, for I would call you a little liar. Tell me you are not relieved he is gone and will no longer present a problem for you. I saw the distress you suffered after his attack."
She could not deny it and that made her feel as guilty as he was for the act, to be grateful for another man's death, no matter his offense. Forcing such wicked feelings down and resolute to dwell on what was considered moral and proper and right, as her papa had taught her, as she had learned from the de Chagnys during her stay at The Grange, she felt compelled to speak.
"The police could have intervened. As is their duty -"
"The police would not have bothered to investigate." He impatiently cut her off before she could form the rest of her sentence. "This is a gentleman's world, my dear. In all likelihood they would have thought you were lying and had a lover's tiff with the fiend. As you no doubt have learned in past years, women are regarded as a man's property, whether it be a father, husband, or guardian, and a performer of the stage is considered to be of ill repute by all in this society."
She grimaced at his derisive explanation, sadly knowing it was true. "Then you could have simply discharged him. I know you have authority in the opera house and make such demands with your notes."
He took a rapid step forward, his legs now brushing the edge of the bed, and lifted his gloved hand to point at her.
"You knew what I was when I first brought you to my caverns." His tone was reproachful. "I never hid the fact that I was a murderer – you knew of it, and why I was in hiding when you thought me only the Phantom."
"For killing the man who attacked the children at the hotel," she supplied wearily, her gaze downcast. Just as swiftly she looked up at him with alarm at the sudden realization. "This hotel."
"Yes."
She blinked, at once grasping the danger he had placed himself in to see her, and she sat up straighter. The blanket fell away but she ignored it.
"You should not have come here. They'll catch you!"
He waved a hand in unconcern. "They did not catch me then, they will not catch me now. Due to my less than sterling reputation, I have long learned to swiftly blend into the shadows if need be and become nothing more than a ghost. In part, it is how I acquired my name."
"Erik…" Something about his cavalier and distant attitude unnerved her, as if he hid something more horrible from her knowledge. It troubled her already besieged mind and filled her with dread. "Were there, were there others?"
"You wish to have that talk now?"
She swallowed hard at his dry words.
"Tell me – I must know!" she demanded in frustration, slapping the bed by her side. Her voice rose a notch but she kept it low enough not to be heard from the sitting room. Even so, she glanced at the door. She believed Arabella would stay put, to wait up for Raoul, who could return to the suite at any time. But she doubted strongly that he would enter this bedchamber to look in on her. He never once had entered her bedroom when she lived at The Grange, and she could not see him flouting his noble upbringing of propriety, even with all that had happened tonight.
Despite that knowledge, her tension did not ease.
Despite that knowledge, she must know more.
"How many men have you killed?" she forced the words out through a tight throat. "Before tonight and, and here - at the hotel."
"If you seek an actual number, I cannot give it to you." His words were grim, his manner cold and callous.
"Try," she insisted through clenched teeth.
He gave a curt nod. "As you wish, Madame. I would deem the tally to be two...perhaps three hundred. Perhaps more..."
At his offhand and indifferent reply, sickness twisted deep inside her belly. Her eyes widened until they felt dry and began to sting. Only then did she blink.
"I warned you earlier that you might not like what you uncover," he said more quietly.
She wished it all to be another sarcasm in retribution for her persistence to have him confess, but now, when she least wanted to hear such a truth, in his dark tone she heard nothing but sincerity.
"T-two or three hundred...?" she whispered. Or more? The idea was impossible to grasp, too bizarre for comprehension, too horrifying to be believed.
Surely she had fallen asleep on the chaise in her dressing room, and this was only a frightful nightmare. It must be.
"I have no definitive way of knowing. But yes, easily I would tabulate the total to be in the hundreds, though certainly not as much as a thousand. I was not always present to know." He apologetically spread his hands wide in careless explanation. "In Persia, my services were considered a tribute to the ruler there. Odd, isn't it, how depending on the country, the viewpoint so greatly differs. The extermination of the degenerates and the outcasts is looked upon with favor in one kingdom and treated with abhorrence in another."
"I – I don't understand," she whispered fiercely, wishing he would not speak with such ridicule about something so terrible, but knowing him well enough to realize he used bitter sarcasm as a defense to cover his true feelings. In that respect, he had not changed.
"Allow me to clarify, my dear, and introduce myself as I was known in that kingdom," he said with a mock little bow. "The title by which men of that land once called me is The Mask of Death. I was highly feared as the assassin-magician for the Shah of Persia and lived in his palace. I made people...disappear."
She swallowed over the uncomfortable lump that was steadily growing in her throat. "Y-you were an executioner of – of criminals," she stressed, desperately hoping he would agree, the stony set to his jaw telling her it was much worse than that.
"If you prefer to give it that name, but I daresay, not even a third of the victims were guilty."
"You killed innocents?" she whispered in disbelief, her words barely above a breath.
He waved a dismissive hand. "The Shah is a jealous ruler who demands a groveling sort of submission and loyalty. If a whisper came to him of even a hint of rebellion or a slur of dishonor against his name, the offender was hauled in, questioned without mercy, and sentenced to one of my deadly traps of magic. The Shah would soon grow bored with one and demand another. There were many I created, each more horrific than the last. He preferred slow torture to a quick death, you see. If an alleged miscreant went into hiding, their families were made to suffer for his crime. It did not matter to the Shah as long as he had his evening's entertainment and his pound of flesh."
His manner was detached but she heard the tightness enter his voice and saw a gleam of moisture sparkle in his eyes, causing her to think he was not as unaffected as he would have her believe.
"Why did you do it?" she implored, needing to know, though she was almost afraid to hear his answer. "Why would you become something so ..."
"Vile? Monstrous? Diabolical?" He looked right at her. "I told you I was an ogre and a beast, Christine, a true monster. From the very beginning, the very first day I brought you to my underground chambers, I have never lied to you in that regard. My face is only the outward mark of my affliction. The gypsies were correct – I am a curse to all who know me."
Tears stung her eyes, and she shook her head. "No, stop it! – stop saying that."
"You wanted the truth of the past, my dear."
"It's not the truth. I refuse to believe that about you."
"You don't believe that I am a murdering criminal when you have tonight's exhibition as proof of my skills?" he asked dryly, his tone incredulous. "However, I must apologize for the timing – Buquet led me on a merry chase through the flies. I had hoped to rid the theatre of the mongrel while you were still changing in your dressing room, to spare you the need to witness the plummet to his death."
She shivered, both the chill of the room and the iciness of his words affecting her frenzied senses.
How could his voice still be so hauntingly beautiful, so rich and smooth as velvet, when he spoke so casually of something as malicious as destroying human life?
She had thoroughly disliked the stagehand as well as her cousin – had wished them both gone from her forever. But the destruction of life – of any life – was too harsh and painful for her to so heedlessly accept, no matter the reasons for it. Once a soul died, there could never be restitution. There could be no coming back from death. Whether it be a shriveled baby animal, in neglect and barely breathing, or an evil man who deserved imprisonment – she never wanted to see any living thing die! She never had!
And yet in light of his selfless intent to protect those who were vulnerable, she could easily excuse all of what happened and never speak of it again.
But this! With his horrid traps he had killed innocents? Families! Women? Children…?!
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but she decided, for once, she could not bear to know.
"I don't believe that you're as uncaring as you seem to want me to believe," she whispered, needing it to be so. "I cannot believe that about you. There must be more to this than you're telling me."
He gracefully shrugged. "I cannot help what you choose to accept or deny."
"Why, Erik?" Tears wet her eyes as she leaned toward him, with one hand pressed to the bed. "You were never so – so cold and heartless in England."
"My life ended in England." His tone grew icy and she visibly flinched, knowing she was the cause of his pain. "I became a living corpse, a heathen devil who ceased to care about all of humanity."
"That's not true! You helped the children. You still help them. You tend to their needs. Shelter them. You – you care about them. About Jacques, and...and Jolene."
His eyes fell shut against her words.
"I cannot begin to comprehend all of this." It was all too horrible to know, too atrocious to be acknowledged - she did not want to acknowledge any of it! She closed her eyes, the tears slipping down her cheeks. "We have long been separated and both of us have changed over the years, but there is still that intrinsic part of our nature, that which lies at the core of each of us…" She opened her eyes, looking into his. "My soul knows your own soul as well as it recognizes itself. And I know there's more you're not telling me."
"You so badly want more, Christine?" he asked with heavy disdain, though he did not deny her claim. "Is the confession of my multitude of crimes against mankind not enough to provoke your eternal disgust? You truly do amaze me, my dear."
She ignored his sardonic attempt to deter her and shook her head. "More – as in your reason for doing what you did, in making those death traps. Were you forced into doing so?"
"You would like that, wouldn't you – to justify my actions and make them into something noble and proper and forgivable. To whitewash the past and find a way to excuse my villainous behavior, so as to make the beast into a prince." He shook his head in pity. "Sorry to disappoint you, my dear. You have mistaken me for the wrong storybook character. I will remind you again I am no more than the ogre in this tale..."
The sound of the door closing from the other room and Raoul's low voice greeting Arabella reached them. Christine turned her head to the door in alarm.
"Ah, and there's the noble prince now." His acidic whisper bit through her soul. "Will the frightened damsel call out for him to save her from the terrible murdering Phantom?"
"Stop it, just stop it!" She pressed her palms to her skull and angrily shook her head. "How can you say that to me? This is not one bit amusing!"
"I am deadly serious. What will you do, Christine?"
What could she do? She had no choice. In knowing that, she should speak, should tell him of the danger to herself and the cause – tell him that she was also wanted by the police and for murder. But the weight of his confession bore heavily upon her spirit, making it difficult to think. She could not bring that part of the past up, not yet, not after all this – nor was this the time. There was much to be said and no time to say all of it, what with Raoul standing just outside her unlocked door.
The realization made her panic.
"I cannot go back to the opera house tonight. Please, don't ask it of me. I-I need time. But you must leave now." She held her hands out to her sides, beseeching him. This is far too dangerous, Erik!"
"So you choose to stay here...with him?"
The Phantom spoke as he strode to the foot of the bed, his stance menacing as if he might suddenly swoop down and carry her away against her will. Christine instinctively drew back against the headboard, not out of fear but to prevent such an act.
"No, not with him," she quickly stated.
"Then you will come back with me?" he asked more gently.
"No- I only meant this is Arabella's chamber. I cannot go back," she stressed, "Not yet. I just - oh, please don't ask it of me. I vow to you that I will return soon, but I -"
A gentle knock at the door startled them, causing them both to look that way and shattering whatever sliver of calm remained within her spirit.
"Christine, are you awake?" Raoul's voice came low from the other side of the wooden panel.
Christine looked at Erik in horror.
"Your lover awaits," he sneered softly, turning back to her.
"You've been spying, you know he's not my lover!" she insisted beneath her breath.
"But does he?"
His slow words, quiet and lethal, made her cringe.
"You have to go, Erik. Please- please! I cannot bear it if he catches you here on top of everything else that has happened tonight."
"I could end this now," he mused, "and give the Vicomte a taste of my rope." His hand reached inside his cloak. "Perhaps I should, for stealing away my bride –"
She lunged across the bed to kneel where he stood at its edge. Grabbing his upper arm tightly, she wrapped both hands around hard muscle and brought him closer, her face inches from his. He stared at her in surprise, while invisible sparks of passion merged with barely contained rage and flew between them.
"You gave me your word once I married you that you would never harm either of them," she quietly bit out through clenched teeth. "If you break that promise, I swear I will never forgive you, unto the day I draw my last breath and am buried in my grave – and even beyond that!"
Midnight dark eyes clashed with golden fire in a battle of wills, the intensity of their anger as strong as the blaze of want that so swiftly erupted between them. His hand went beneath her jaw, his gloved fingers lightly circling her neck, his palm against her throat, much as he touched her once before, months ago. Despite his earlier confessions, she did not once flinch in fear, her pulse pounding out an erratic beat against the smooth leather for an entirely different purpose.
"And do you remember your vow, to me, in return, that you would have nothing more to do with that insufferable boy?" His eyes scorched her, burning into her fixed ones, then dropped to sear her lips. "How quickly you forget, wife ..."
His mouth came down hard on hers while his other hand clutched her hair at the nape, imprisoning her in his hold. Christine gave a helpless little whimper, her attempt to retreat from his cruel affection weak and short-lived. The ever increasing need to know his touch and experience his embrace eclipsed all despair-invoking admissions of envy and murder, all of that horrid darkness fading away into unimportance as her desire for him grew. She did not once release her hold on his arm, and now grasped him to her more desperately.
The Phantom quietly growled and moved his hand to her back, tightening his hold around her. Her eager submission made the bitterness of her refusal to return with him even more difficult to bear.
He took her lips again in a brutal, plundering kiss designed to punish. But the sweet taste of her in his mouth and the manner in which her small hands roamed his body, so urgent in their quest to touch and know him, soon disarmed his jealous anger.
Lost in his Angel, the Phantom softened his lips against her lips, stroking the silken inner flesh with his tongue and nibbling at their fullness. Again she quietly whimpered, clutching his shoulders, then the back of his neck, her palms sliding lower. He tasted her tears as she pressed her warm body to his, her mouth opening wider to receive him completely, her tongue meeting and melding with his...
At the rap of a second knock, the Phantom came to his senses. At once he pulled away from the delectable temptation she presented, pushing her off her knees and back to the mattress. Breathing hard, she stared up at him in shocked distress, the loose sleeve of her borrowed bed gown pushed down from where he had bared her shoulder and the lush upper globe of one breast.
Barely reining in the dangerous desire to lunge on top of his wife and remind her fully to whom she belonged, the Phantom picked up his hat that she had knocked away in their passion. With a hand that slightly trembled, he set it back on his head.
"Think on that throughout the cold, empty night, Christine."
His parting words came harsh and hollow, displaying the extent of his emotions he could not begin to mask. He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling about him, and swiftly strode through the balcony doors.
Thoroughly shaken, Christine stared after him, speechless. She felt anxious that he was actually leaving and worried at the finality of his tone, but at the same time, the slim practical side of her nature that she yet possessed was relieved to see him go. She feared for his life, and that those who upheld the law would find and take him away from her again...
And with every nervous breath, the fuller and more passionate side of her spirit wished him back.
"Erik, wait!" she whispered hoarsely when at last she could think to speak, already missing his presence, though no more than scant seconds had passed.
She had no idea what to say, still overwhelmed by the entirety of his confession ... knew only that she did not wish to leave matters as conflicted as they were between them.
With a hasty glance at the bedroom door, grateful it remained closed and all stayed silent, she struggled up from the bed and rushed through the balcony doors that he'd left wide open. The sharp wind bit into her, chilling her to the bone as she stepped onto the terrace...
...which stood empty.
There was no sign of him anywhere.
Startled, she hurried to the banister and gripped it with both hands, looking down into the street.
But in the three stories of darkness below she could see no sign of her Phantom. It was as if he truly had vanished, a nocturnal creature who had become one with the shadows of the night.
xXx