Microsoft Word - The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance.doc (65 page)

“Nope, but not for lack of try  –” I never got to say the rest  because his lips met mine, sucking the words right out of me.  Along with my breath.

When he finally pulled away, I frowned at him, as the commotion rose outside. “How did you find us?” I asked, my hand on his arm. I wasn’t willing to stop touching him. Ever.

“Police scanner,” he said, tossing his head over his shoulder  in the direction of his car. “I heard the address, and I guess I was  closer than the nearest units. So, what the hell happened?”

Luci tugged on my sleeve then, and we glanced down at her to see her looking up at Titus. “I bit him,” she said. “Just like the witch in Oscar’s story.”

And I’d cooked the son of a bitch, just like the witch in our

mother’s version.

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“That’s right, hon.” I stroked her hair back in spite of the  pain in my hands, streaking it with blood neither of us had lost.  “You did great.”

She smiled at us then, and her teeth were smeared with

blood, dainty little fangs and all.

Vestigial, my ass, I thought. Then I started to laugh, and

was still laughing when the first cops burst  through the door.

541

The Music of the

N ight

Am anda As hley

C
 
hristie Matthews couldn’t believe it, she was actually inside the 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.  Awesome came close, but still fell short.

She owed her fascination with the Paris Opera House solely to Andrew Lloyd Webber  –  or to be more exact  –  to her fascination with the 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 touched her every emotion  from joy to despair, and she had eagerly joined the ranks of those feeling emotionally drained when the Phantom’s last anguished cry faded away.

She had become obsessed with all things Phantom. She had collected everything she could find with that world-famous

542

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; snow globes and playing cards;  picture frames and jewellery; Christmas ornaments and collector plates; every version of the music on tape or CD that she could  find.

Before coming to Paris, she had researched the Opera  House online and found a wealth of information. The Opera  House had been built by Charles Garnier (at that time 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 theatre boasted 2,000 seats; the building’s seventeen storeys covered three acres of land. Seven levels were located underground,  among them chorus rooms and ballrooms, cellars for old props, closets and dressing rooms, as well as numerous gruesome objects from the various operas that had been produced there. It was rumoured 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 Phantom’s domain. Alone. Shortly after the final curtain, she had hidden in one of the bathrooms. If she got caught wandering around, she would simply say she had 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 she was.

Her footsteps echoed eerily in the darkness as she climbed aset of winding stairs and  then, to her relief, she found herself inside the theatre.

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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 sees Christine and Raoul pledging their love on the roof top; his heartbreaking plea  when he begs Christine to let him go wherever she went; his anguished cry as he takes her down to his lair; his rage and anger and the faint glimmer of hope when he demands she make her choice; the last haunting notes when he declares it is over.

There was a never-ending discussion on any number of web sites about whether Christine should have stayed with the  Phantom, and also surveys asking whether the listers themselves would have stayed with Erik (the Phantom) or gone with Raoul.  Poor Raoul, he seemed  to be disliked by one and all.

There had never been any doubt in Christie’s mind that she would have stayed with the Phantom. She knew what it was 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, but of course, it was only her imagination.

Still, it seemed so real. Opening her eyes, Christie stared at the stage, blinked and looked again. Was there a figure standing there? A figure wearing a hooded cloak and a red scarf? Christie rubbed her eyes. Not one figure, but two. A dark shape wearing a black hat with a long, curling black feather stood beside thecross on 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, Christie heard him sing ever so softly and sweetly to his wandering child.

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Christie sat up straighter and leaned forwards. 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 . . . She was 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 logical explanation, except it didn’t explain the ghostly Christine.

Suddenly, 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 disappeared. 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 favourite scenes, one that had 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 the  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 theatre 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 towards her. He moved with effortless grace, the long black cape billowing behind him. His feet made no sound; indeed, he seemed to be floating towards her.

545

And then, abruptly, he was leaning 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 eyes fixed on the mask that covered the right side of his face. No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t real. He didn’t exist.

He took a step closer, and then he frowned. “Forgive me,

you are not she.”

Christie 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, haunted,

tinged with pain and sorrow and a soul-deep loneliness.

Caught in his gaze, she could only stare up at  him, her heart pounding a staccato beat as he reached towards her, his knuckles sliding lightly over her cheek.

“Who?” Her voice was 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.”

546

Christie shook her head. No, it was impossible. She was dreaming. She had to be dreaming. 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 dark, haunted eyes and wondered if he had ever laughed. Wondered if she, herself, would ever laugh again.

“And your name?” he asked.

“Christie,” she said, and fainted dead away.

He caught her before she slid out of her chair.

She was quite lovely, he thought, 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 laugh escaped his lips as he carried her down the

aisle, turned left and disappeared through a secret door.

Down, down, down, he went, until he reached the boat by

the underground lake.

He placed her gently in the stern, then poled across  to the

other side.

“Christie.” He spoke the name softly  –  reverently  –  certain  it was short for Christine. He wondered if, this time, he might be  blessed with a happy ending.

547

Christie 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-covered bodies writhing on silken sheets. The notes poured over her, making her skin tingle.

She studied his profile, though she  could see little but the ghostly mask. Was he as hideous as he was portrayed on stage and in the movies? If she were Christine, she would rise from her bed and tiptoe towards 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 answer.

The music ended abruptly and she found herself staring into

his eyes.

He inclined his head in her direction. “Welcome to my abode, my lady.” His voice was like warm whisky, smooth and intoxicating. Would he sing for her if she asked?

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable at being in his bed, she threw the cloak  aside and gained her feet. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I must have fainted.”

“Would you care for breakfast?”

548

“What? Oh, no, thank you.” She forced a smile. “I really

must go.”

In a lithe motion, he rose from the bench and glided towards

her. “So soon?”

She nodded, struck by the beauty of the unmasked portion

of his face. And his eyes, they were dark, so dark.

He gestured towards 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.

Her stomach growled loudly. She hadn’t eaten since early last night, after all.  “Well, I guess it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”