Chapter 1
Cristie Matthews couldn’t believe it, she was actually inside the famed Paris Opera House. It was everything she had ever imagined, and more. Try as she might, she couldn’t find words to describe it. Beautiful seemed woefully inadequate. Totally awesome came close, but still fell short.
She owed her fascination with the Paris Opera House solely to the brilliance of Andrew Lloyd Webber, or, to be more exact, to her fascination with his amazing production, The Phantom of the Opera. She had seen the movie, of course, but it didn’t hold a candle to the stage play. She had seen the play once, and once had not been enough. The music had enthralled her; the plight of the Phantom had plucked every emotion from joy to sorrow to despair. She had eagerly joined the ranks of the thousands of people who flocked to see the play again and again, never tiring of it, always finding something new, always feeling emotionally drained by the time the Phantom’s last anguished cry faded away.
She quickly became obsessed with all things Phantom. She collected everything she could find with that world-famous logo: music boxes and posters, ads in the paper, books, and magazine articles. If it related to the Phantom, she simply had to have it. Dolls and figurines crowded her bookshelves, along with snow globes, collector plates, and picture frames. She wore Phantom-related jewelry; decorated her Christmas tree with Phantom ornaments. She bought every tape and CD of the music she could find, including several in languages she didn’t understand, but the language didn’t matter. The music was everything.
Before coming to Paris, she researched the Opera House online and found a wealth of information. The Opera House had been built by Charles Garnier who, at that time, had been a young, unknown architect. Completed in 1876, the Palais Garnier was considered by many to be one of the most beautiful buildings on earth. The theater boasted two thousand seats; the building’s seventeen stories covered three acres of land. Seven levels were located underground, among them chorus rooms and ball rooms, cellars for old props, closets and dressing rooms, as well as numerous gruesome objects from the various other operas that had been produced there. It was rumored that these grisly effects had sparked the idea behind Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera.
And now, after scrimping and saving for three years, she was there, in the midst of the Phantom’s domain.
Alone.
Shortly after the final curtain, she hid in one of the bathrooms. Had she been caught wandering around, she would simply have said she lost her way. Which would not be a lie, because she really was lost. There were so many hallways, so many doors; she no longer knew where to find the exit.
Her footsteps echoed eerily in the darkness as she climbed a winding staircase and then, to her relief, she found herself inside the theater.
She sank into a seat near the back of the house and gazed around, wondering if this had been such a good idea, after all. It was dark and quiet, and a little bit spooky sitting there, all alone.
Resting her head on the back of the seat, she closed her eyes, and music filled her mind…the haunting lyrics of “The Music of the Night”, the Phantom’s tortured cry when he spied Christine and Raoul pledging their love on the roof top. Even more heartbreaking was the Phantom’s plea when he begged Christine to let him go wherever she went, his anguished cry as he took her down to his lair one last time. And who could forget his rage and anger – and the faint glimmer of hope – when he demanded she make her choice, or the last haunting notes that always moved Cristie to tears when he declared it was over.
There was a never-ending discussion on any number of websites about whether Christine should have stayed with the Phantom, and polls asking whether the listers themselves would have stayed with Erik or gone with Raoul. Poor Raoul, he seemed to be disliked by one and all.
There had never been any doubt in Cristie’s mind that she would have stayed with the Phantom. She knew what it felt like to be left for another, knew the pain and the heartache of unrequited love, knew there was more to life than sweet words and a pretty face.
Sitting there, with her eyes closed, she seemed to hear Christine’s voice. Of course, it was only the echo of her imagination.
Still, it seemed so real. Opening her eyes, Cristie stared at the stage, blinked, and looked again. Was there a figure standing there? A slender figure wearing a hooded cloak, and a bright red scarf?
Cristie rubbed her eyes. Not one figure, but two. A dark shape wearing a black hat with a long curling black feather stood beside the cross atop the cemetery wall. A long black cloak covered him from neck to heels. Was that a staff in his hand? Canting her head to one side, Cristie heard him sing ever so softly and sweetly to his wandering child.
Cristie sat up straighter, leaning forward. It wasn’t possible. She had to be dreaming. She rubbed her eyes again. The figure of Christine seemed transparent, ghost-like, but the Phantom… Cristie felt certain he was real.
Fear sat like a lump of ice in her belly, and then she realized that what she was seeing was probably just some star-struck member of the cleaning crew, or a night watchman wearing one of the Phantom’s costumes. Or … of course, it was an understudy who had stayed late to rehearse. It was the only logical answer, except it didn’t explain the ghostly Christine.
And then, echoing through the empty building, came the Phantom’s cry of rage as Christine turned her back on him and left with Raoul. Fireballs spit from the Phantom’s staff to light the stage and the image of Christine faded away like smoke. But the figure of the Phantom remained standing near the cross, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his head bowed.
It had always been one of her favorite scenes, one that never failed to move her to tears. This performance, by some unknown actor, was no different. With a sniff, she wiped the dampness from her cheeks.
And found herself pinned by the gaze of the man on stage. Even through the darkness, she could feel those black eyes burning into her own.
Her mind screamed at her to leave, to run from the theater as quickly as possible, but try as she might, she couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her gaze from his.
It took her a moment to realize he had left the stage and was walking rapidly toward her. He moved with effortless grace, the long black cape billowing behind him. His feet made no sound; indeed, he seemed to be floating over the floor.
He covered the distance between them more quickly than she would have thought possible. She cowered back in her chair when he loomed over her. The half-mask gleamed a ghostly white in the darkness.
“Christine?”
His voice, filled with hope, tugged at her heart.
She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the mask covering the right side of his face. No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t real. He didn’t exist.
He took a step closer, then frowned. “Forgive me, you are not she.”
Cristie tried to speak, but fear trapped the words in her throat.
“You are very like her,” he remarked, a note of wonder in his voice.
His voice was mesmerizing, a deep, rich baritone laced with pain and sorrow, and a soul-deep loneliness.
Caught in the web of his gaze, she could only stare up at him, her heart pounding a staccato beat as he reached toward her, his knuckles sliding lightly over her cheek.
“Who—?” Her voice emerged as no more than a whisper. “Who are you?”
“Forgive me,” he said with a courtly bow. “I am Erik.”
She swallowed hard. “Erik?”
A slight nod, filled with arrogance. One dark brow arched in wry amusement. “Some people know me as The Phantom of the Opera.”
Cristie shook her head. No, it was impossible. She must be dreaming. He couldn’t be real. Soon, her alarm clock would go off and she would wake up in her room at the hotel. And she would laugh…
She looked up into his eyes, dark haunted eyes, and wondered if he had ever laughed. Wondered if, after sensing his pain, she would ever laugh again.
“And your name?” he asked.
“Cr
istie,” she replied, and fainted dead away.
He caught her before she slid out of her chair.
She was quite lovely, light as a feather in his arms. Her hair was a rich auburn, soft beneath his hand. What was she doing here, in the Opera House, long after everyone else had gone?
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, s
till 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 that 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 water-way 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.
Masquerade and Other Tales Page 9