A soft sigh escaped his lips as he carried her down the aisle. He didn’t really care what she was doing here. She was here, and that was all that mattered. He turned left when the aisle ended and disappeared through one of the building’s many secret doors.
Down, down, down he went, until he reached the boat moored alongside the underground lake.
He placed her gently in the stern, stepped in, and poled across to the other side.
“Cristie.” He spoke her name softly, reverently, certain it was short for Christine. Wondering if, this time, he might be blessed with a happy ending.
Chapter 2
Cristie woke to the sound of music. Sitting up, she glanced at her surroundings. She didn’t have to wonder where she was. She knew. She had seen it all before - the organ, the masked man sitting behind it with his head bowed over the keyboard, the boat rocking gently in the water beyond, the flickering candles.
She was in the Phantom’s lair.
He continued to play, seemingly unaware of her presence. The music was darkly sensual, invoking images of sweat-sheened bodies writhing on silken sheets. The notes poured over her, making her skin tingle with awareness.
She studied his profile, though she could see little but the ghostly mask. Was he as hideous as portrayed on stage and in the movies? If she were the real Christine, she would rise from her bed and tiptoe toward him. She would wait for the moment when he was so caught up in the music he was composing that he was oblivious to everything else, and then she would snatch the mask from his face.
But she wasn’t Christine and none of this was real. She had to be dreaming. It was the only explanation.
The music ended abruptly and she found herself staring into his eyes.
He inclined his head in her direction. “Welcome to my abode, fair lady.” His voice was like warm whiskey, smooth and intoxicating. Would he sing for her if she asked?
Feeling suddenly uncomfortable at being in his bed, she threw his cloak aside and gained her feet. “I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I must have fainted.”
“Would you care for breakfast?”
“What? Oh, no, thank you.” She forced a smile. “I really must go.”
In a lithe motion, he rose from the bench and glided toward her. “So soon?”
She nodded, struck by the beauty of the unmasked portion of his face. The mesmerizing glow of his eyes. They were very dark, and deep, like a well of dark water.
He gestured toward a small table. “You may as well eat.” He lifted a white cloth from a large silver tray, revealing plates of sliced ham, fried potatoes, and soft boiled eggs. The scent of coffee wafted from a silver carafe. A crystal pitcher held orange juice; a white basket held a variety of muffins and croissants.
Cristie’s stomach growled loudly. She hadn’t eaten since early last night, after all. “Well,” she said, her mouth watering. “I guess it would be a shame to let it all go to waste.”
“Indeed.”
He held out her chair. “Please,” he said, “help yourself.”
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
A faint smile played over his lips. “I’ve eaten. Please, enjoy your meal.”
And so saying, he went back to the organ.
It was the strangest meal she had ever eaten, her sitting at the table, him sitting at the organ, the air filled with music that soothed her soul, and excited her at the same time.
She studied him surreptitiously, noting the way he swayed ever so slightly to the music, the graceful play of his long, tapered fingers over the keys, the intense, yet faraway, expression on his face. His white shirt emphasized his broad shoulders. The ruffled front should have looked feminine but there was nothing feminine about this man. His black trousers hugged well-muscled thighs. And the mask…it drew her gaze again and again as she imagined what lay behind it.
Glancing at her watch, she took a last sip of coffee and pushed away from the table.
As though pulled by a string, he turned toward her, his fingers stilling on the keys.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she said, looking around for her handbag. “And for putting me up for the night.”
“My pleasure.”
In a fluid movement, he rose and moved toward her.
“You don’t really live down here, do you?” she asked. “I mean…do you?”
“It has been my home for many years.”
“Do you work for the opera?”
He laughed softly, the sound moving over her like silk warmed by a fire. “No.”
A sliver of fear trembled in the pit of her stomach. No one knew she was here. If she disappeared, no one would know where to look.
“Would you like a tour?” he asked.
“Some other time,” she said, backing away from him. “I really must go.”
He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. “Christine…”
His nearness played havoc with her senses. “It’s Cristiana, actually.”
“I’ll see you up,” he said.
She nodded, finding it suddenly hard to speak.
He plucked his cloak from the bed, settling it on his shoulders in an elegant flourish that would have made any Phantom worth his salt proud.
“My purse…?”
He found it on the floor and offered it to her with a slight bow. “Shall we?”
He handed her into the boat, poled effortlessly across the lake, escorted her up a long winding stone staircase and out a narrow wooden door into a dark alley.
Cristie gasped, surprised to find that it was night when she had thought it was morning.
“Will I see you again?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m leaving for home in a few weeks.”
“You don’t live here?”
“No, I live in the States.”
“Ah.”
“You don’t really think you’re The Phantom of the Opera, do you?”
“No, my fair lady, I don’t think it. I am indeed he.”
“But that’s impossible. You’d have to be…” She lifted one hand and let it fall. “I don’t know, over a hundred years old.”
He nodded, as if such a thing was perfectly natural.
“Very funny.” No doubt about it, she thought, he is quite mad.
A hint of anger sparked in the depths of his eyes. “You don’t believe me?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure the phantom was real.”
“I’m quite real, I assure you.”
“And you’re over a hundred years old? How do you explain that?”
“Quite easily.” He smiled, revealing very sharp, very white, fangs. “I’m a vampire.”
She stared at him, and then—for the second time in as many days—she fainted.
Chapter 3
Cristie woke in the Phantom’s lair again. It was becoming quite a habit, she mused. Only this time the organ sat silent and she was alone. She glanced at her watch. The hands read six o’clock, but she had no way of knowing if it was morning or evening.
Rising, her heart pounding, she found her purse and hurried toward the lake, only to find the boat gone. Chewing on the inside of her lower lip, she glanced at the water. How deep was it? Did she dare try to swim across? The water looked dark, forbidding. It was said that there were alligators in the New York sewers, and while she had never heard of any alligators in Paris, who knew what other dangers might lurk beneath the deceptively still surface of the lake?
Retracing her steps, she dropped her evening bag on the table then sat down, only then noticing the dirty dishes had been taken away. A clean cloth now covered the tray. Lifting it, she found a thick ham and cheese sandwich on sourdough bread, a bowl of onion soup, still warm, and a pot of tea.
Never one to let anything go to waste, she picked up the sandwich, wondering where her host had gone. No sooner did the thought cross her mind than she sprang to her feet. Good Lord, he was a vampire, an undead creature of the night! A monster who lived on blood. How had th
at bit of information slipped her mind? She had to get out of there now, before he returned!
And then a new thought reared its ugly head. Had he bitten her while she slept? She lifted a frantic hand to her neck, relieved when she felt only smooth skin. No bites, thank goodness. But she didn’t intend to stick around long enough to give him another chance.
Grabbing her evening bag, she ran to the water’s edge, her fear of the man who called himself The Phantom of the Opera stronger than her fear of the water. She removed her shoes with a sharp stab of regret at the thought of leaving them behind. Manolo’s were hard to come by, especially on a teacher’s salary, but her life was worth more than a pair of shoes. Stuffing her purse inside her blouse, she waded into the water. It was dark and cold. She walked only a few feet when she realized she had made a horrible, perhaps fatal, mistake. Not only was the lake deeper than she thought, but a swift current ran under the water’s calm surface. She shrieked as it caught her, carrying her away from the Phantom’s lair, sweeping her along like a cork caught in a riptide. Helpless, she flailed her arms as the waterway grew narrower; darker as the light from the Phantom’s lair grew faint, and then disappeared.
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 Cristie’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 not? 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, fulfill her every wish. If she would love him… He laughed bitterly. There was little chance of that. A woman like Cristie, 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 toward the lake with preternatural speed. He had no need of illumination 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, Erik 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, he held her close, his hands massaging her back, her arms, and legs.
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 Cristie a layer at a time. She felt warm. It was quiet, save for the soft music that filled the air. A gentle hand stroked her brow…
With a start, Cristie came fully awake to find herself cradled in the Phantom’s arms, staring up into 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 turning her back on the Phantom and going away with Raoul. Cristie frowned. Hadn’t she always said if given a choice, she would stay with the Phantom? But this wasn’t a play, and this Phantom was a vampire.
His voice rumbled against 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 theater where I found you.”
Relief washed through 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, turn her into a vampire too? The mere idea filled her with revulsion.
“I will take nothing you do not freely give,” Erik said quietly. “I want only your company for a time.”
Cristie glanced at her surroundings. She came 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, and she knew she would promise him anything to see that smile again.
* * * * *
They were sitting side by side on the bench in front of the organ. At Cristie’s request, Erik played the Phantom’s score for her, played it with such fervor that she saw 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 hand to his smooth, left 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 my life, if I was willing, and when I agreed, she carried me out of the hospital and made me what she was. It saved my life, but it could not heal the damage done by the fire. 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 years ago. I found it easy to convince the owners of the theater 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.”
“So, she never had to choose between you and Raoul?”
“No. I made that 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.
His mind brushed hers. “I am not a monk,” he said, answering the questions she dared not ask. “The managers pay me quite well. On occasion, I have entertained courtesans. As for those I prey upon, I pay them handsomely.”
“It’s none of my business, really.”
“Ask me what you will. I will hide nothing from you.”
“Do I look very much like her?”
He smiled wistfully. “Yes—and no.”
“What happened to the child you rescued?”
“He survived with only a few minor burns.”
Later that night, as Cristie lay in his bed, she thought of all Erik had told her. Only
then, as sleep crept in, 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,” Erik replied. “And while it is not quite so elegantly appointed 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 ease his pain, his loneliness? She scarcely knew him, yet, waking or sleeping, he consumed her thoughts. There was much she still wanted to see in Paris, but she was strangely content to stay down here, in this twilight world. To bask in the love shining 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 passed by, Cristie found herself yearning for Erik’s touch, and with that yearning came an increased 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, Cristie saw it all through his eyes. She felt her Phantom’s hurt, the pain of Christine’s betrayal, the loneliness living inside him, the anger residing deep in his soul. She cringed when the onstage Phantom killed Piangi, and wondered if the actor’s death was based on fact, as were some of the other parts of the story.
But fearing the answer, it was a question she did not ask.
Later, returning to Erik’s underground lair, she thought how sad that the people in the audience saw only the actor’s performance. Never knowing the real Phantom hid within their midst. Never hearing the haunting clarity of his voice, the very real anguish that could not be imitated; no matter how gifted the singer on stage.
Cristie quickly aligned her waking hours to Erik’s. In his underground lair, time lost all meaning, since she could not tell if it was morning or night. She didn’t know where he obtained her meals and, still reluctant to hear the answer, she never asked how or where he found those he preyed upon.
Tales of Western Romance Page 26