Chapter Eleven:
Le Fantôme Unmasked
The house on the lake had fallen
silent when Erik escorted Madame Giry back up to her room. Christine, worried
about her strange reactions to her friend, had retreated to her room to mend
her boy’s outfit and think. When Erik stood in the doorway looking like some
kind of avenging angel, she had felt warm all over,
like she’d caught a fever. On top of that, she’d blushed when he looked at her.
She hadn't blushed in years! Snipping off the thread, Christine told herself
that it was simply because this was the first time she’d told anyone even part
of her story. Embarrassment and shame can both cause a person to blush. That
had to be it; what else could it possibly be? At least she had prevented Madame
Giry from learning of her shameful background.
Her mending finished, Christine held
up the garment and viewed it with distaste. How she hated masquerading as a
boy! She had little choice, though, if she wanted to eat without resorting to
even more unsavory careers. She shuddered at the memory of the first job she’d
been offered before taking on the guise of a boy. The lady had seemed so kind
and helpful when she’d stepped from the train in Paris
Christine thought of Erik’s eyes when
he’d stated he was going to kill Gachot. They’d been cold, predatory, like the big cat she associated him with. If he’d
said that about anyone else and in that tone of voice, she’d feel sorry for
them. Now, however, she wondered if he’d let her watch…or even help. She knew
she’d never rest easy until that man was dead and, though she knew it was
wrong, hoped it would be by her hand. She sent a prayer to her father out of
habit as she knew it was a sin to feel this way, to hate someone so much. There
was little real penance in her prayer, however, as she couldn't find it in her
to care much about a God who’d allow such atrocities to occur. Her
introspective musings were brought to an abrupt halt when she heard someone
knocking at the door.
Quietly, she stepped into the foyer
and looked around for something to use as a weapon. Spying the fireplace poker,
she eased it from the rack; she’d not be caught unarmed. The knocking grew
louder, echoing throughout the underground home, and was joined by an irritated
voice speaking in an unknown language. Christine heard Erik’s name once or
twice and was about to ask who it was when the door started to open slowly.
Feeling cornered, panic set in and she swung the poker at the first person to
walk through the door.
xxxxxx
The trip to return the ballet mistress
had taken longer than normal since he stayed to request a few more gowns for
his guest as well as outerwear and all the underthings a lady should need. He
had just reached the underground lake when the chime of the alarms sounded.
Erik stepped away from the faint light of the lantern at the prow of the
gondola and blended into the shadows to hunt for the unfortunate soul who’d
invaded his domain. Keeping his lasso at the ready, he silently circled the
lake to use the small bridge that crossed the main tributary that fed into the
lake. He was just about to loop the catgut around the intruder’s neck when the
man began pounding on the hidden door to his home. When he followed the racket
with several colorful Persian curses, Erik realized who had come a-calling.
“Daroga, you should know better than
to come to my home uninvited,” stepping forward until only his golden eyes
could be seen glowing in the darkness, the Opera Ghost threw his voice so that
the door appeared to be talking. “It isn't…healthy.”
“Uninvited? I was told you wanted to see me, old friend.”
“Regardless,” Erik made a gesture and
the lantern above the door flared to life, illuminating his guest. Although
he’d been in Paris
“Oh my God!” Christine dropped the
poker, covering her mouth in horror. “Erik! I’m sorry; I didn't know it was
you. There was someone banging on the door and then it stopped and then…who are
you?!” She shrieked at the sight of the strangely dressed man in the doorway
and reached for the poker again.
With a roar of pain and anger, Erik quickly
disarmed his house guest and pinned her against the wall, the poker at her
throat. His golden eyes glittered dangerously with a mix of fury and madness as
he watched his prey struggle futilely. Just a few minutes more and the
struggles would cease and the rats would have a banquet fit for royalty. But in
her struggles to push away the iron pole, Christine’s hand connected with his
face and knocked the mask to the floor. Recoiling, Erik relaxed the poker just
enough for her to slip beneath it and stumble away from the enraged ghost.
Slowly turning to face her, he advanced slowly on her cringing form, the poker
still clenched in his fist.
“So, you wanted to see, did you? You
wanted to see the monster?” His eyes betrayed no hint of recognition and his voice
was the deadly beauty of a cobra’s hypnotic dance. Christine backed away until
she was pinned against the sofa. “What do you think? Is Erik not a handsome
fellow?”
“Erik,” the oddly dressed man stepped
in front of his friend, “don’t do something you’ll regret later.” Without even
acknowledging that he heard, Erik roughly pushed the man aside and continued
his advance.
“Well?” He stopped mere inches from
Christine, looming over her like a dark, tormented wraith. “What’s wrong my
dear? Do you have nothing to say to your Erik?”
Mustering every ounce of courage she
had, she ignored the fury and tried to comfort his anguish. Raising a hand that
shook only slightly, she laid it against his ravaged cheek and caressed it
gently. “Does it…does it hurt, Erik?”
The poker fell from his numbed fingers
at the first contact of her fingers on his horrible mess of a face. Cringing
away from her, Erik fell to his knees to cover his face with his hands while a
moan of pure pain rose from his throat. His thoughts were jumbled and
tormented. Dear God, she touched it! She
touched my hideous face and didn't scream or faint or get ill. Surely she is an
angel and I, I am the monster who has hurt her once again. He didn't notice
that she’d knelt beside him until her fingers wrapped around his wrists to urge
his hands from his face. Warily, he watched her and waited for the screams, the
beatings, the cries of monster and demon. But she did none of these. Christine,
his angel, once more let her hands explore his mangled cheek, her touch feather
light. Unable to comprehend what was happening and control the overwhelming
emotions her light touch inspired, Erik crumpled to the floor and sobbed.
Christine’s small arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled his head
tenderly onto her lap, caressing his hair while he cried.
Nearly an hour later found the three
sitting by the fire, two pots of tea – one English, one Russian – set out
between them, and an awkward silence that refused to dissipate. Erik, mask in
place once more, could think of nothing beyond Christine’s unusual reaction to
his face. Perhaps she didn't get a good look? But no, that couldn't be it as
he’d faced her with the light from the lamps shining upon him. Even more
baffling was the fact that she touched it; not once, but twice! Never before
had he been touched on his grotesque face with such tenderness and kindness.
Her fingers had been soft and warm and oh so gentle that even now he could
still feel their touch with a sense of wonder. It was then that he knew he’d do
anything for his compassionate angel. He’d kill for her if that was what kept
her safe, and he’d die for her as well. The
world had monsters enough but far too few angels.
“Erik?” The Persian’s heavily accented
voice interrupted his brooding and Erik fixed him with a frown. “I was told you
wanted to see me?”
“Yes. I was wondering if you still had
contacts within the gendarmes who’d be willing to provide information for a
reasonable fee?” At the Persian’s nod, the masked man stole a glance at his
unusually quiet guest before giving the names of those he needed information
on. Leaving out some key details, he said only that Beauvais Le Havre
“Very well, anything else?” The
Persian glanced curiously at Christine but knew Erik would reveal only what he
wished and no more. When the masked man didn't respond and was, instead,
staring at the young lady with something akin to wonder, he repeated his
question. To ensure he captured his attention, the Persian rose from his seat
to stand between his friend and the lady.
“No, no, I think that’s all.” Erik
barely acknowledged his friend’s leaving the house.
xxxxxx
Once they were alone, Christine rose
from her chair and began to gather the tea things. Everything she could think
of to say seemed so inappropriate considering she’d nearly broken her host’s
ribs with a fireplace poker. In the kitchen, she washed up the cups and pots
and set them out to dry still frantically thinking of some way to apologize. As
she turned to escape to her room, she ran into Erik’s slim but muscular chest.
Their hands automatically grabbed the other to steady themselves and her every
thought fled at the feel of his firm body beneath her fingers. Warmth flooded
her body and her hands slid down his chest of their own accord to wrap around
his waist. When his arms hesitantly wrapped around her, Christine felt safe and
secure, like she’d come home at last.
“Christine.” Erik breathed her name as
a reverent prayer, knowing he’d done nothing to
deserve holding such an angel with his murderous hands. He gently ran his
fingers through her curls and dared to plant the lightest of kisses on the crown
of her head.
“Erik?” Her voice was muffled against
his chest but she made no effort to move. “I’m sorry I hit you with the poker.”
“What had frightened you so, mon ange?” His voice remained as soft
and gentle as the fingers in her hair.
“That man…he was banging on the door
and yelling something I couldn't understand.” Her arms tightened around him.
“And then the door opened and I didn't see anyone and you weren't here and I
thought… I thought…” She’d started to hyperventilate as she remembered that
panicked, cornered feeling and Erik scooped her up and carried her back into
the parlor. He sat on the sofa with her in his lap as he cradled her against
his chest.
“Hush now, mon ange, it’s over now. All is well.”
“But it’s not! I hit you with a poker,
Erik, and…”
“And I very nearly strangled you with
it.” He silenced her with a finger across her lips. “Neither of us was at our
best, my dear. I have a horrible temper, which
has kept me alive as often as it has gotten me into trouble. But that wasn't what I wished to speak with you about.”
“No?” Christine knew she should make
an effort to move off his lap but she hadn't felt so safe, so cherished since
before her papa died.
“I…well…” Surprised, she risked a
glance at his face; Erik was never less than perfectly eloquent. “I wished to
know why you touched…” His voice trailed off as he raised a hand to the mask
with a shudder.
“Why wouldn't I, Erik?” Christine
pulled back in surprised confusion that swiftly turned to concern. “Oh! Did I
hurt you?”
“Why wouldn't ?” His golden eyes were
full of shock. “Christine, no one has ever touched my hideous face! My mother couldn't stand to look at it, covering my face before wrapping my newborn body
in a blanket. Hurt me? My dear, you simply cannot imagine how your fingers felt
upon my grotesque skin.”
“Erik…” Tears filled her eyes as she
stared up at him in horror. Before he could comprehend what she was about to
do, Christine slipped the mask from his face and placed a gentle kiss against
the ruined skin of his cheek. “You are not hideous or grotesque, Monsieur le Fantôme. You are
simply…Erik.”
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