The Music of the Night

  Weighed down by her clothing, her arms and legs quickly tiring, she screamed for help one last time before she sank beneath the dark current.

  Erik cursed as the sound of Christie’s cries reached his ears. Foolish woman. Why hadn’t she waited for his return? Foolish man. Why had he refused to let her go? And yet, how could he? Her face, her voice – so like Christine’s of old, and yet uniquely her own. He had lived in solitude for so long. Surely he deserved a few years of companionship? If she would but stay with him, he would grant her every desire, fulfil her every wish. If she would love him. He laughed bitterly. There was little chance of that. A woman like Christie, so young and so beautiful, could surely have her pick of handsome men. Men who walked in the sun’s light without fear.

  He raced towards the lake with preternatural speed. He had no need of illuminations to find her. He followed her scent and when he found her, floating face down, he plunged into the lake and drew her into his arms. Relief surged through him when she coughed up a mouthful of water. A thought took him to his lair. A wave of his hand lit a fire in the hearth.

  Cursing his selfishness, he placed her on the bed and quickly removed her sodden clothing. If she died – no! He would not let that happen. Wrapping her in a thick quilt, he gathered her into his arms and carried her to the rocking chair located in front of the fire. Sitting down, he held her close, his hands massaging her back, her arms and her legs. The scent of her hair and skin filled his senses, the throbbing of the pulse in the hollow of her throat called to his hunger, tempting him almost beyond his power to resist. But he would not take advantage of her, not now, when she was helpless. Nor, he realized, could he let her go – not when fate had been kind enough to send her to him; not when she knew what he was (though if she told the tale, he doubted anyone would believe her).

  Awareness returned to Christie a layer at a time. She was warm. It was quiet. Soft music filled the air. A gentle hand was stroking her brow –

  With a start, Christie came fully awake to find herself cradled in the Phantom’s arms, staring upinto his dark eyes.

  Vampire.

  “Please,” she murmured tremulously. “Please, let me go.”

  His knuckles caressed her cheek. “Please stay,” he urged softly. “Be my Christine, if only for a little while.”

  Fear made her mouth go dry. What would he do if she refused to stay? She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering how she had always hated Christine for leaving the Phantom and going away with Raoul. Christie frowned. Hadn’t she always said that if she had a choice, she would have stayed with the Phantom? But this wasn’t a play, and this Phantom was a vampire.

  His voice rumbled in her ear. “A month, my Christine. Won’t you stay with me that long? The world you know will still be there when you return.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  He had meant to keep her against her will, if necessary, but looking at her now, seeing the fear in her eyes, he knew he would not. “No harm will come to you,” he said. “I will take you back to the theatre where I found you.”

  Relief washed over her, but only for a moment. How could she refuse him? Never before had she seen such pain, such utter loneliness, reflected in anyone’s eyes. And yet, how could she stay? How did she know she could trust him to keep his word? What if he only wanted to drink her blood, or worse, make her what he was? The mere idea filled her with revulsion.

  “I will take nothing you do not wish to freely give,” he said quietly. “I want only your company for a time.”

  Christie glanced at her surroundings. She had come to Paris looking for excitement. Was she going to turn her back on it now? She was in a place no one else had ever been, with a man no one believed existed. Think of the stories you’ll have to tell, she thought, ignoring the little voice in the back of her mind that warned her she was being a fool to accept the word of a vampire.

  “Will you stay?”

  “Yes.” The word seemed to form of its own volition. “Yes I’ll stay.”

  He smiled at her then, and she thought she would promise him anything if he would only smile at her like that again.

  They were sitting side by side on the bench in front of the organ. At Christie’s request, Erik had played The Phantom’s score for her; played it with such fervour that she had seen it all clearly on the stage of her mind.

  Such a beautiful, bittersweet story. With a sigh, she glanced at Erik. “How did you come to be here?” She lifted her had to his smooth cheek. “What happened to you?”

  “Three hundred years ago, when I was a young man. I ran into a burning building to save a child. A wall fell on me. It burned the right side of my face and most of that side of my body. They took me to the hospital where the physician said there was nothing they could do. I was dying. Late that night, a woman came into my room. She said she could save me, if I was willing, and when I agreed, she carried me out of the hospital and made me what she was. Years later, I came to this place while it was in the last stages of construction. It has been my home ever since.

  “But the Phantom. He’s not real.”

  “Men were more willing to believe in ghosts a hundred or so years ago. It was easy to convince the owners of the theatre that the Opera Ghost lived, easy to convince them to do my bidding.”

  “But the play –”

  “– is based in part on my life.”

  “And Christine? Was she real?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She married Raoul, lived to a good old age and passed away.”

  “You loved her.”

  “Yes.” He lifted a hand to his mask. “But after this, I never saw her again.”

  “So she never had to choose between you and Raoul?”

  “No. I made the choice for her.”

  “And you’ve lived alone ever since?”

  He nodded.

  “But –” A rush of heat warmed her cheeks. She wanted to ask if there had been other women, but couldn’t quite summon the nerve, any more than she could ask how and when he fed, and what became of those he preyed upon.

  “I am not a monk,” he said, surmising the cause of her flushed cheeks. “The managers pay me quite well. On occasion I have entertained courtesans. As for those I prey upon, I pay them handsomely.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Ask me what you will. I will hide nothing from you.”

  “Do I look very much like her?”

  He smiled wistfully. “Yes. And no.”

  Later that night as she lay in his bed, she thought of all he had told her. Only then, as sleep crept up on her, did she stop to wonder where he took his rest.

  It was the first thing she asked him the following night.

  “I have another lair, deeper underground,” he replied. “And while it is not quite so elegant as this one, it serves its purpose.”

  “I’ve put you out of your bed,” she murmured.

  “I will find comfort in your scent when you are gone.”

  “Erik –” Why did his voice have such power over her? Why did she long to take him in her arms and comfort him? She scarcely knew him, yet waking or sleeping, he was in her thoughts. There was much she still wanted to see of Paris but she was content to stay down here, in this twilight world, to bask in the love that shone in the depths of his dark eyes, to lose herself in the music he played for her each night, to listen to his voice as he sang the hauntingly beautiful songs of the Phantom.

  As the days went by, Christie found herself yearning for his touch and with that yearning came a growing curiosity to see what lay beneath the mask. But each time she started to ask, her courage deserted her.

  One night, he took her up through the tunnels to watch the play. Close to his side, Christie saw it all through his eyes. She felt the Phantom’s hurt, the pain of Christine’s betrayal, the loneliness that lived inside him, the anger that resided deep within him. She cringed when the Phantom killed Piangi and wondered if his de
ath was based on the truth, as were some other parts of the story.

  But, fearing the answer, it was a question she did not ask.

  She quickly accustomed her waking hours to his. In his underground lair, time lost all meaning since there was no way to tell if it was morning or night. She didn’t know where he obtained her meals and, reluctant to heat the answer, she never asked how or where he found those he preyed upon.

  He was an intelligent and interesting companion. He spoke several languages and entertained her for hours with tales of his travels around the world. He had seen it all: the wonders of the Old World and the New. He read to her from the classics, his beautiful voice bringing the stories to life. They spent hours discussing the works of Bronte and Shakespeare, as well as the horror novels of Stephen King and Dean Koontz.

  The days and weeks went by swiftly and with each passing day her affection for Erik grew deeper as she came to know him better. How sad that he was forced to live in this horrible place, shunned by humanity because of his appearance, when he had so much to offer.

  One day, while she was wandering around his lair, she discovered a small door at the far end of the room. Driven by boredom and curiosity, she plucked a candle from one of the sconces. When she opened the door, she found herself in a large cavernous room filled with a veritable treasure trove of paintings and works of art. Scattered her and there were weapons – a rusty sword, an old pistol, several knives and daggers. A jewellery box held a number of exquisite pieces – a diamond necklace, a ruby pendant, a bracelet set with emeralds.

  Moving deeper into the room, she found another, smaller door. This one opened onto a stairway that descended into a pit of blackness.

  Heart pounding, she tiptoed down the stairs. The candle cast dancing shadows on the walls as she descended the stairway. At first, she saw nothing but an empty room. And then she saw it: a black coffin sitting on a raised platform. The thought of Erik lying inside, his hands folded on his chest, his long black hair spread across white satin, sent a shiver down her spine.

  She stared at the casket for a long moment, then she turned on her heels and ran up the stairs, any lingering doubts she might have had about what he was vanquished by the sight of the solitary coffin.

  She could tell by the look in Erik’s eyes when she saw him that night that he knew she had seen where he took his rest. Though he didn’t speak of it, the knowledge hung between them.

  Does it matter? He didn’t speak the words aloud, but she heard them clearly in her mind.

  Did it matter? To Christie’s surprise, she realized it changed nothing between them. At any rate, it was of no consequence now. Her time in this dark, almost magical world was almost at an end.

  As the last few days went by, Christie found herself increasingly reluctant to go. How could she leave him there, alone, in his dark underground lair? But, of course, she couldn’t stay. Her old life, friends and family, awaited her at home. They did not speak of the fact that their time together was almost over, but she saw the awareness in his eyes.

  Their last night together came all too soon. After dinner, Christie asked him to play for her, and as he did so she sat down on the bench beside him and kissed his cheek.

  Startled, his hands fell away from the keys. “What are you doing?”

  “I . . . nothing. It was only a kiss.”

  “Only a kiss.” He repeated her words slowly, distinctly. “No woman has willingly touched me in over three hundred years.”

  She blinked at him. Three hundred years? It was inconceivable that he should have lived so long. “I should like to do it again, if you don’t mind.”

  He stared at her in profound disbelief. “You don’t mean it?”

  “But I do.” She kissed his cheek again, and then, very lightly, she kissed him on the lips. They were warm and soft, untouched by the fire. Her gaze searched his. “Let me see your face.”

  “No!” He drew back as if she had slapped him. “Why would you ask such a thing? No one, No one, should have to see it.”

  “You said you would grant me anything I wished. I wish to see your face before I go.”

  He stared at her, his eyes narrowed, his breathing suddenly erratic. “Very well.” He ripped the mask from his face and tossed it aside. “Is this what you wanted to see? His voice was almost a snarl.

  It was horrible. The skin on the right side of his face and down his neck was hideously puckered where it had been ravaged by the fire. Did the rest of his body look the same? She couldn’t imagine the pain he must have suffered, the anguish of seeing people turn away from him in revulsion. No wonder he hid in this place.

  “Are you satisfied?” he asked brusquely.

  “Do you want me to run screaming from your presence?” she questioned him.

  “You would not be the first to do so,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness.

  Cupping his face in her hands, she kissed him again. “I expected you to be a monster, but you’ve treated me with the utmost kindness and respect. You could have taken me at your pleasure, yet you did not.” Rising, she took his hand in hers. “This is our last night together. Let us have something to remember.” Pulling him to his feet, she led him towards the bed.

  He followed her as if in a trance, unable to believe that any woman would willingly give herself to him. He was no stranger to women. He had bedded many in his lifetime, but never had a woman come to him so willingly, or made love to him so tenderly. Never had he allowed any of them to see him without the mask, nor did he let them caress him. His lovemaking had been one-sided and accomplished in total darkness, assuring that the women couldn’t see his ruined flesh.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, they undressed each other. Erik held his breath, certain she would be repulsed when she saw him, but if she found him repugnant, she hid it well. She kissed each scar and, as she did so, they no longer seemed important. She explored his body as he explored hers and, when they were poised on the edge of fulfilment, he asked for that which he craved.

  “A taste,” he whispered, his voice husky with longing. “Let me taste you.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes wide. “Will it hurt?”

  “No. It will only heighten each touch, each sensation.” She wanted to refuse, he could see it in her eyes. “Please my sweet,” he begged softly. “One taste, freely given.”

  With a sigh, she closed her eyes and offered him her throat.

  It was the most generous thing anyone had ever done for him. Whispering endearments, he trailed kisses along the length of her neck before his fangs gently pierced her tender flesh. Ah, the joy, the ecstasy, the wonder of that first taste! Warm and sweet, it flowed over his tongue like the finest nectar, filling him with the very essence of life.

  Christie sighed as pleasure flowed through her. In spite of his scars, his body was beautiful. Long and lean and well muscled. His skin was warm and taut beneath her questing fingertips. She ran her hands over his broad shoulders, his chest, his belly, loving the way he quivered at her touch. She had never known such pleasure, such wonder. She moaned as his body merged with hers. He was a gentle lover, his touch almost reverent, his words soft, poetic, filled with an aching tenderness that tugged at her heart. She prayed he would not ask her to stay longer, knew she could not bear to tell him no.

  Sated and content, she fell asleep in his arms.

  He watched her all through the night. Their last night. And as he did so, he knew he could not bear to tell her goodbye, could not abide the pain of parting, of watching her walk out of his life. So, in the dark of the night, while she slept, he dressed her, then carried her out of the theatre, his heart aching with every step.

  Christie woke to the warmth of the sun shining on her face. Opening her eyes, she squinted against the brightness she had not seen in weeks.

  Sitting up, she glanced round, surprised to fins herself lying on her bed in her hotel room with no recollection of how she had got there. Had it all been a dream?

  She lifted
her hand to her neck and felt the sring of tears when her fingertips encountered two tiny wounds. It hadn’t been a dream.

  “Oh, Erik,” she murmured, “couldn’t you at least have let me say goodbye?”

  She had her answer with the asking. He had left her before she could leave him.

  She grieved to leave him, but how could she stay? Her life was in the States. She taught kinder garden in an upscale school in Boston, she had a family in the city, lifelong friends, a home of her own. Erik had no life outside the bowels of the Opera House. He had no friends or family, no home other than his underground lair. How could they have a life together? She could not live in his world and he could not live in hers.

  With a sigh, she went into the bathroom to shower and dress. Thank goodness she had paid for her room in advance, she thought, and then frowned. How had Erik known where she was staying?