The Music of the Night (3 page)

“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 death 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.