Tales of Western Romance (37 page)

“
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.

Erik proved to be 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 had an
impressive library, there, in the bowels of the theater, and he
often 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 ran swiftly by, and with
each passing hour, her affection for Erik grew stronger, deeper, as
she came to know him better. How sad, that he was forced to live in
this wretched place, shunned by humanity because of his dreadful
scars—scars attained while saving the life of a child.

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 here and there were weapons—a rusty
sword, an old pistol, several knives and daggers. A jewelry 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 descending
into a pit of blackness.

Heart pounding, she tiptoed down the stairs.
The candle cast dancing shadows on the damp, stone walls as she
descended the uneven stairway. At first, she saw nothing but an
empty room. And then, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw
it, a shiny black coffin resting on a raised platform in a far
corner. The thought of Erik lying inside, his hands folded on his
chest, his long black hair spread across the white satin, sent a
chill down her spine.

She stared at the casket for a long moment
then she turned on her heels and ran swiftly up the stairs, any
lingering doubts she might have had about what he was vanquished by
the sight of that solitary coffin.

Chapter 4

She could tell, by the look in Erik’s eyes
when she saw him that night, he knew she had seen where he took his
rest. Though he didn’t speak of it, the knowledge hung heavily
between them.

Does it matter?
He didn’t speak the
words aloud, but she heard them clearly in her mind.

Did it matter? To Cristie’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 flew by, Cristie found
herself increasingly reluctant to leave. How could she leave him
there, alone, in his dark underground lair? But, of course, she
couldn’t stay. Her old life, her friends and family, awaited her at
home. She and Erik 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, Cristie asked Erik 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. It was inconceivable that
he should have lived so long, spent so many centuries alone. “I
should like to do it again, if you don’t mind.”

He stared at her in profound disbelief.
“I…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?” he
asked, his voice almost a snarl.

It looked horrible, worse than anything she
had imagined. The skin on the right side of his face, and down his
neck, was hideously puckered where the fire ravaged it. Did the
rest of his body look the same? She couldn’t imagine the terrible
agony he must have endured, the anguish of watching people turn
away from him in horror and revulsion. No wonder he hid in this
place!

“
Are you satisfied?” he asked
brusquely.

“
Did you think I’d run screaming from
your presence?” she asked.

“
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 toward 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, before
and after the fire, but never had a woman come to him 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 could not 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 his scars and puckered flesh, but if she
found him repugnant, she hid it well. She kissed each ugly scar,
and as she did so, they no longer seemed important. She explored
his body as he explored hers. When she was breathless with need,
hungry for his touch, 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 with
uncertainty. “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 canted
her head to the side.

Erik gazed at the smooth skin of her throat,
humbled by her willingness to trust him, to grant him a taste of
her sweetness. 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 exquisite
taste! Warm and sweet, her blood flowed over his tongue like the
finest nectar, filling him with the very essence of life.

Cristie sighed as pleasure flowed through
her. Why had she been afraid of this? She knew a moment of regret
when he drew away, but only a moment as he took her in his arms
again. In spite of his scars, his body was beautiful. Long and lean
and well-muscled, his skin felt 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 moaned as
his body merged with hers. She had never known such pleasure, such
wonder. He was a gentle lover, his touch almost reverent, his words
of love, 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.