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Chapter Text

New Paris ~ 1865

Christine couldn’t sleep. The other dancers in the dormitory were not unkind, but neither were they particularly welcoming. As the newest member of the company, she was simply another face in the crowd. After being shown to a narrow cot by the strict ballet mistress, the lamps were quickly extinguished. Her neighbors quietly chattered amongst themselves as they settled into bed. Before long, their whispered conversations gave way to soft breathing and snores.

Her head ached as she stared blankly up into the darkness. The chronic throbbing behind her eyes was always worse after dark, especially when the moon was new. Slipping out of her cot, Christine noiselessly crept out of the dormitory and into the dim corridors of the old opera house. It was all too easy to fall back into old habits. On silent feet, she made her way through the twisting passages—mentally noting all exits, windows, and dead ends that she came across.

Once the initial hallways were explored, she made her way down to the sub level. Christine froze at the sound of crying, clutching the silver cross around her neck in alarm. She turned her head, attempting to locate the source of the sound as it echoed faintly around her. There! It was coming from a dim passage on her left.

As the stuttering wail continued, Christine was quickly satisfied that the sound was human in origin. She descended the short staircase and was rewarded with golden lines of warm candlelight streaming through an old wooden door. The ache behind her eyes lessened as she neared the room. In the dim light, she could just make out the word ‘chapel’ written in Latin script along the stone lintel. 

Christine pressed her hand to the door, and the hinges groaned softly as she entered the small room. A young girl near her own age sat on the bare floor, rocking back and forth as she cried into the folds of her white nightdress.

“Is something the matter?” Christine asked softly, afraid to startle her.

The girl jumped, her arms and legs spidering out as she jolted away from Christine.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Christine said as soothingly as she could. “I was just passing, and I heard someone crying.”

The girl hurriedly swiped at her face, doing nothing more than smear the tears that leaked from her swollen eyes. “I just…couldn’t sleep, is all,” she croaked. Her voice was rough and dry. 

Christine nodded, lowering herself to sit opposite the girl on the uneven floor. “I wasn’t able to sleep either,” she admitted in a conspiratorial tone. “How about we tell each other stories? My papa would always tell me stories whenever I couldn’t sleep.”

The girl shook her head, pulling her knees to her chest. “I don’t know any stories,” she said sullenly. “And my Pa is dead,” she added, fresh tears welling up. “I saw it. Mama doesn’t know, but I saw it when she had to…” Her words trailed off into new sobs. 

Understanding dawned on Christine. “Was he turned?” she asked quietly. “Had he been bitten?”

The girl nodded, her shoulders heaving. “I am sure he would not have hurt us,” she insisted. “But mama said that we had no other choice.”

Images of her harrowing journey to New Paris rose unwanted in Christine’s mind. She quickly shoved them back down. 

“It was my fault, really,” the girl said, letting a choked laugh gurgle out. “She tried to make me leave—but I was smaller then. I hid at the back of the woodshed where she couldn’t see me.”

She turned away from Christine, fixing her eyes on the flame of the candle that streamed tall and silent on the votive stand. 

“I watched her do it. Stab pa—” she flinched, “stab it through the heart. There was so much blood. . .”

The girl crumpled into herself, her hands clawing at her dark hair as if to pull it out by the roots. 

Christine slid forward, pulling the girl’s hands away from the tangled mess she was making before wrapping her in a tight embrace. She shook so hard Christine worried that the pitiable thing would come apart, like one of the cheap wooden toys the street vendors peddled. She tried to think of something comforting to say, but the empty words died on her lips. 

She herself had been the recipient of the trivial condolences that were even now on the tip of her tongue—had it only been a year ago? Nothing those people said had eased the pain she felt upon losing her papa. There was only one thing that truly brought comfort to her in any meaningful way. 

Closing her eyes, Christine opened her mouth and sang. She did not sing any words at first, she simply let the music pour out of its own accord. It wrapped them both in its strong embrace, warm and gentle like the wings of a guardian angel. Christine reached deeper, the music inside her growing stronger with every breath. Finally the words came. 

“Let the hour become soon,

When it pours over you.

Let the rough become smooth.

Let redemption follow through.

Open up your mind,

Leaving fear behind.

Let your passion flow and write,

Words that bring life.

Give yourself some time,

To grow wings and fly.

Watch the heavens open wide,

Right before your eyes.

Let the hour become soon

When peace pours over you

Let the rough become smooth

Let redemption follow through.” [1]

As Christine sang the simple ballad, she infused the words with all the hope and comfort she could muster. By the final chorus, the girl had stilled in her arms, her breathing returning to a more natural cadence. 

“Thank you,” the she whispered. “I’ve never heard someone sing like that before. What language were you singing in?”

“Swedish,” Christine answered.

“Swedish,” the girl mused, nestling her head into Christine’s shoulder. “Would you sing me another—oh!” She glanced up at Christine. “I don’t know your name.”

“Christine,” she answered. “My name is Christine Daaé. What’s yours?”

“Meg Giry,” the girl answered with a small smile of her own. “Would you sing me another song, Christine?”

“Of course,” Christine said, stroking Meg’s back like she would a small child. Thinking for a moment, she launched into one of her father’s favorite folk songs about the small town where he had grown up. Christine did not stop singing until she noticed the girl’s even breathing. Meg had fallen asleep. 

Christine was also quite tired, but she did not dare move for fear of waking her friend. The candle on the votive stand sputtered briefly as it reached the end of its wick. With a faint hiss, it drowned in the puddle of candle wax surrounding it, plunging the room into darkness. Once her eyes adjusted, Christine could just make out the faint glow of morning light beginning to filter through the lone stained glass window. 

Christine followed the gleam of light with her eyes. The shifting beam rested on the stylized portrait above the altar and votive stand. In the strange half-light, the painted eyes of the Christ figure seemed to blink as it watched over her and Meg.

“My papa went up to be with You in Heaven,” she whispered, wondering if she had slipped into a dream. “He promised that he’d ask the Angel of Music to watch over me.” A few hot tears welled up in Christine’s eyes. “And my papa never goes back on a promise.”

The words choked in Christine’s throat as a fresh wave of emotion rolled over her.

“Do not cry, my child,” a soft voice called. 

Christine blinked and snapped her head around. Despite the gloomy conditions within the chapel, Christine was sure that she and Meg were alone.

“Do not be afraid,” the disembodied voice spoke again, seeming to drift around her from everywhere and nowhere.

“Where…? Why can’t I see you? Who speaks?”

“Have no fear,” the voice insisted gently. “I am here to watch over you.”

Christine froze. “Watch over me?” 

“Yes,” the voice said. “I am your Angel of Music.”

Christine shook her head in disbelief and reached over to pinch her arm. At her movement, Meg shifted in her sleep with a soft moan.

“I’m not dreaming?” Christine wondered aloud. 

“No, dear child. You are not dreaming.” 

The voice began humming softly, the melody more beautiful than anything Christine had ever heard before.

“Angel of Music?” she whispered, awed but still incredulous.

“I am your angel, Christine,” the voice assured. “And I will teach you to sing as you have never sung before.”

New Paris ~ 1870

“Christine!” Meg hissed.

Snapping out of her reverie, Christine followed her friend to their mark as the entire stage suddenly fell silent. The whole cast had taken their final positions and filled their lungs to sing out the final line of the act. 

“ Hannibal cooooooomes! ” 

Just in time, Christine lifted her arms with the other dancers to form the tableau, wishing that she could add her voice to the chorus. However, the maestro, Mssr. Reyer, was very particular. If he caught a dancing girl singing with the chorus members without permission, she would most likely be reprimanded in front of everyone—or even sacked.  

Christine was glad that she had remained silent as the maestro huffed and imperiously called for a rest, his tone more peeved than usual. He was not pleased with the scene, and he was always extra critical when it came to new productions. 

Before he could truly tear into the cast members, the seldom-seen Opera Manager, Mssr. Lefevre, strode onto the stage. He signaled for everyone’s attention as two well dressed gentlemen trailed behind him. One was tall, his graying hair pomaded in the current fashion, while the other, a much shorter and balding man, had dark eyes which darted around the auditorium, taking inventory of everyone and everything around him.

“Ladies and gentlemen! A moment please!”

“Mssr. Lefevre, we are in the middle of rehearsal!” the maestro complained, snapping his baton against the music stand with a sharp crack. 

Carlotta ignored the manager, calling loudly for her maid, Imogen, to attend her.

“My apologies, Mssr. Reyer—but this cannot wait.” Mssr. Lefevre fluttered his hands, gesturing for silence, as if such the tremulous motion would actually gain the attention of such a large crew. 

Madame Giry took pity on him and tapped her cane on the hardwood floor of the stage. After the resounding boom, the silence was immediate.

Mssr. Lefevre sketched a brief bow to Madame Giry before facing the assembled group of now quiet cast members. 

“I have an important announcement to make,” he began, clasping his gloved hands gleefully. “I am sure most of you have heard rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these rumors were all true. It is my great privilege to introduce to you the new owners of the Opera Populaire, Mssr. Richard Firmin…” 

The shorter one nodded at the present company, the mustache on his lips twitching as he seemed to hold back a grimace.

“—and Mssr. Gile Andre.”

 The taller gentleman bowed gracefully, all smiles. 

“You may have read about these gentlemen before in the Gazette . They made quite a fortune for themselves in the junk business—”

“Oh no, dear fellow!” Mssr. Andre interjected with a light laugh. “Not junk. Scrap metal. Mssr. Firmin and myself contribute to the safety of the entire city by repurposing discarded materials into state-of-the-art armaments.”

“Quite right, quite right,” Mssr. Lefevre agreed, nervously tracing the sign of the cross over his heart. “Gentlemen, may I introduce you to our leading lady for eight seasons, Carlotta Giudicelli.”

Flicking a perfectly coiled ringlet over her shoulder, Carlotta held out her hand to the two new managers. The taller one, Andre, rushed over to take her hand in both of his.

“I have witnessed all of your greatest roles, señiora !” he effervesced.

“Pleasure,” Firmin said without leaving his original position.

Carlotta gladly turned all of her attention to Andre, basking in the adoration.

“I did hear that Alissa has a rather fine aria in act III of Hannibal . I wonder if you would consider gracing us with a personal rendition?” He raised his eyebrows, his smile showing rather too many teeth in Christine’s opinion.

“That is unless Mssr. Reyer objects,” he added as an afterthought.

From the red hue to Mssr. Reyer’s face, he seemed poised to object strenuously, but Carlotta held up a peremptory hand. 

“As my manager commands,” she purred. “Mssr. Reyer!” At the sharp address, the maestro deflated.

“As my diva commands,” he grumbled, turning to the appropriate place in the music. Tapping his wand, he gestured to the accompanying musicians. 

As the pianist began playing the opening notes, Carlotta’s maid quickly handed the prima donna a vibrant red scarf. Christine flinched as the diva flicked the fabric carelessly.

“ Think of me, think of me fondly, before we say goodbye !” she crooned, sashaying off to stand center stage. 

Each rehearsal, Christine attempted to imagine how Carlotta Giudicelli might have sounded in her prime. However, the undertaking increased in difficulty with each passing year. Carlotta focused on fighting her advancing age with all the passion her regular performance lacked. Christine had often heard the other dancers whisper about the great lady’s spending habits. Luxuries such as hair dye, makeup, perfume, and even the newest fashionable corsetry which gave her waist the slimness of a much younger woman, were purchased no matter the cost. However, dropping two dress sizes also decreased Carlotta’s vocal power. Notes that often wavered erratically in pitch died away before they could reach the last rows of the opera house’s auditorium seating. Christine fought the impulse to grimace or squint as the notes wobbled precariously with each of the diva’s flouncing steps. Even Mssr. Andre’s too wide smile appeared a little strained as he watched the prima donna perform. His partner made no effort to hide his dislike, going so far as to remove a silver flask from his waistcoat and take a long swallow. 

Mssr. Lefevre appeared too preoccupied to pay much attention, as he spoke in low tones with Madame Giry.

Snap!

From the corner of her eye Christine thought she glimpsed a blurred movement in the rafters and rigging above the stage. She glanced up an instant before everyone else, just in time to see one of the huge painted backdrops begin to fall. 

“Watch out!” she cried. 

Dancers, singers, and other cast members quickly flung themselves to safety, but Carlotta remained fixed in place. Her ire at being interrupted preventing her from noticing the imminent danger. Christine leaped out and clutched at the prima donna’s hand, pulling her forward.

“ Basta! ” Carlotta screeched, rearing back. “Unhand me!” But it was too late. 

The heavy mass of thick, painted canvas narrowly missed the prima donna’s head, slamming into her back instead. Thankfully, her reinforced corset kept her from being crushed under the weight of the heavy fly. She made ample use of the limited air in her lungs by screaming for Piangi and her maid to help her, slapping her hands against the stage for added emphasis. 

The auditorium erupted into complete chaos. Meg flung herself onto Christine, crying, “He’s here! The Phantom of the Opera!” 

Christine shook out of Meg’s grasp to help some of the other cast and crew members pull the heavy backdrop off of the struggling prima donna. 

“Hush now, Meg!” Christine said over her shoulder. “You really must stop listening to Buquet’s scary stories before bed.”

Meg quickly knelt at her side to help lift. “But what if he is real?” she hissed, her expressive eyes scanning the rafters. “There have been far too many accidents .”

Christine looked down, unable to deny the truth of Meg’s observation. Someone had been targeting the prima donna for the past year and a half. However, the relatively harmless pranks and jokes played upon her had definitely taken a more serious turn of late.

With the hysterical Carlotta freed, Mssr. Lefevre cried for Buquet to be brought forward. No one seemed to hear him over the babble of the dancers or the wail of the prima donna in Piangi’s arms. Madame Giry rapped her cane once more, and the two nearest stage hands turned to face her.

“Find Buquet,” she said, in a low but firm voice. 

The young men fled instantly to retrieve the man.

“What the devil is going on?” Mssr. Andre demanded.

“Buquet will know!” Mssr. Lefevre repeated to the gentlemen. “He is the chief of the flies. He must answer for this.”

A short time later, Joseph Buquet was brought forward by the two stagehands.

“Monsieurs, do not look at me!” he said, fiddling with a frayed length of rope in his thick calloused hands. “As God is my witness, I was not at my post.”

Christine frowned. It was true. He had come far too quickly. The stagehands had only searched for a few moments. 

“Good monsieurs, there was no one up there,” he insisted. “Unless…unless it was a ghost.”

“Enough of your drivel, Buquet!” Madame Giry snapped. “Find the cause of the malfunction and fix it. Do not try to excuse your failings with foolish ghost stories.”

“Yes, madame,” he mumbled, shuffling away.

“Well, then...” Mssr. Andre said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I suppose these sorts of things do happen.”

Carlotta bolted up from her dramatic fit of weeping, pure rage etched on her face.

“These a t’ings do ‘appen?” she demanded, her accent growing stronger with such high emotion. “For d’past t’ree years d’ese a t’ings do ‘appen!” 

Christine frowned. Had the harassment been going on longer than she realized or had the leading lady simply exaggerated the time for emphasis?

“An’ do you do any’ting to a stopa d’em from ‘appening? No!” she cried, pointing a well manicured finger at Mssr. Lefevre. 

“And you!” She whirled to face Mssr. Andre. “You are as bad as ‘im!”

At a loss for words, Mssr. Andre gaped at Carlotta in surprise.

“Until you a’stop d’ese t’ings from ‘appening, this t’ing does not ‘appen,” she said, dramatically holding the scarf to her chest. Turning, she signaled her beau with a nod. “ Ubaldo, mio caro, andiamo. ”

The smiling Piangi quickly tucked her arm in his, and together they swept off the stage. Imogen hurriedly gathered Carlotta’s supplies and followed after them.

“She’ll be back,” Mssr. Andre asserted, although his voice was laced with uncertainty.

“You think so?” Mssr. Lefevre asked with genuine curiosity. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned and bowed to the two new managers. “I am sure you gentlemen have much to attend to, and I really must be going.”

“Going! Going where?” Firmin demanded. “You would leave us with this mess?”

“Indeed!” Lefevre beamed. “If you need anything from me, I shall be in the Vatican City. Feel free to post me a letter. Good day!”

Mssr. Lefevre all but bolted from the auditorium, leaving the two new opera managers to share worried glances. 

“What are we to do?” Andre murmured. 

“Carlotta must come back,” Firmin said, slapping his gloves into the palm of his hand over and over as he began pacing. “We cannot cancel. Absolutely not. Our first night and we would have to refund a full house, Andre. A full House!”

“Madame Giry,” Andre said, sidling up to Meg’s mother. “Do you think Carlotta will return?”

Madame Giry subtly shifted, placing both hands on the head of her cane. The elegant motion almost completely hid the fact that she was using the sturdy wooden implement to bear her weight as she changed positions. 

“I think not,” she said in her usual low tone.

“Oh dear. Then perhaps there is an alternate singer available. An—an understudy for the role!”

“Understudy!” Mssr. Reyer groused from where he had perched himself on the edge of the orchestra pit. “There is no understudy for La Carlotta. She would never have tolerated one,” he added under his breath.

“The production is a new one for the company, monsieur,” Madame Giry added. “A new soprano would have to learn the entire thing in less than a day.”

Andre’s face went very pale at the pronouncement. “Oh, this is a problem.”

Firmin stopped pacing altogether. “A full house, Andre! Think of the deficit.”

“Think of the embarrassment!” Andre countered. “The Viscount was to attend this evening. I had hoped that we could convince him to become a patron of the arts, but if we have nothing to show for tonight. . .”

Christine felt sorry for the two gentlemen, as well as disappointed that the production had to be canceled. The whole company had been rehearsing for over two months. Now it seemed that all their hard work would go to waste.

“Perhaps Christine could sing it?” Meg chimed in, her voice cutting through the somber atmosphere with absolute clarity.

Christine felt the blood drain from her face. “ Meg ,” she whispered, grasping her friend’s hand with an iron grip. “What are you doing?”

“Christine Daaé could sing it, sir!” Meg insisted, waving at Mssr. Andre with her free arm.

Madame Giry raised a dark brow in Christine and Meg’s direction, her expression unreadable.

“Daaé!” Mssr. Andre said, beckoning Christine forward. There seemed to be a manic glint in his eyes, as he looked her up and down. “I seem to have heard that name before. Ah yes! Are you perhaps a relation to the famous violinist?”

 “Gustave Daaé was my father, sir,” Christine admitted, her steps resisting as Meg guided her forward.

“You should let her sing for you, monsieur,” Meg insisted. “She has been taking lessons from a great teacher.” 

Christine shot a warning look at her friend. Meg was the only one she had ever told about being visited by the Angel of Music.

 “Oh?” Mssr. Andre’s eyes brightened even more. “And who might that be?”

Christine clenched her hands in the tassel-like strips of her skirt. “I—I do not know his name,” she said lamely, unable to come up with a better answer.

 Both Firmin and Andre looked nonplussed.

“May as well let her sing,” Madame Giry said, her voice holding a note of finality. “What have we to lose?”

Mssr. Firmin nodded dejectedly at her observation, while Mssr. Andre called the maestro to begin the aria again.

Meg darted away from Christine to snatch up a small remnant of tarp from just offstage. She rushed back and shoved the makeshift prop into Christine’s limp hands while simultaneously dragging her to stand center stage.

As the music began, Christine felt her breath catch in her throat. Only in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined performing a solo piece, and never under circumstances like these. “ Think of me… ” she began, her voice coming out a bit strained. “Think of me fondly, when we’ve said goodbye .”

“Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves,” Firmin stated, pulling out his flask again.

“Fear not, Firmin,” Andre insisted, plastering his hideous too-wide smile on his face.

Christine clenched the ridiculous piece of tarp in a death grip, shoving down the wave of burning humiliation. Now was not the time to surrender to panic. Looking over the rows of empty chairs, Christine pictured a horde of undead descending upon her.

With a grim smile, her nerves settled and she launched into the second line with new resolve. “ Remember me, once in a while. Please promise me you’ll try… ” 

The music swelled within her, the simple accompaniment fading away as the song took over.

“ When you find that once again you long, 

To take your heart back and be free,

If you ever find a moment,

Spare a thought for me . . .” 

The rest of the aria seemed to pass by in blur. Her being blended into the song in a perfect sort of harmony, or almost perfect. Near the end of the piece, she could feel the song wander dangerously close to the darkness she kept locked away in the deepest parts of her heart. Pulling the music back was like trying to stop a runaway horse, yet she dared not unleash such raw emotions nor expose so much of herself to anyone. Not even during her lessons with the Angel of Music. 

The effort of restraining the music left her feeling hollow and tired. As she sang out the last few notes, she let the scrap of cloth fall from her hands in the manner she had seen Mssr. Reyer instruct Carlotta to do in previous rehearsals. 

A vicious but familiar stab of pain bloomed behind Christine’s eyes. The chronic headache that dogged nearly every waking moment of her life flared with renewed vigor. She fell to her knees, covering her face for a moment to hide a grimace of pain.

“Incredible!” Mssr. Andre’s excited voice instantly shattered the silence.

“A natural! A true natural!” Mssr. Reyer gasped, running a hand over what little hair he had left on his head. “Falling to her knees to add emotion to the scene!”

“Well done indeed, Miss Daaé,” Madame Giry remarked, a faint smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

“Did I not tell you?” Meg shouted, dancing over to Christine’s side to help her up. “She is perfect for the role!” 

Christine smiled shakily, grateful for Meg’s hand up, as well as her lucky escape from having to explain her moment of faintness.

“Firmin! We must have new billots printed!”

“But the expense, Andre…”

“Hang the expense, my good fellow. We have a new star!”

Chapter Text

None of the evening that followed seemed real. Christine almost felt as if she were watching everything happen to someone else rather than experiencing it herself. This feeling was only magnified by the fact that she could wear none of Carlotta’s too-large costumes. The head of the wardrobe department nearly had a fit while combing the racks for suitable replacement pieces. Ultimately, he was forced to enlist his apprentices and the few stage hands who were available to check the storage level below. The dim vault beneath the opera was not often frequented and the old props, faded backgrounds, and sturdy trunks were all covered in a layer of fine dust. 

The frazzled tailor flung open every trunk that was hauled up, rummaging briskly through the contents of each. His desperation visibly grew as he flitted from trunk to trunk, until he got to the large black one that had been brought up last. It appeared to have only recently been stored in the vault as it was not yet covered in dust. Yet it contained a large assortment of high quality costumes that were all roughly Christine’s size. The Wardrobe Head briefly lamented over the inconsistency in style compared to his original designs, but Christine was privately relieved. She greatly preferred the simpler designs of the stored pieces to the plethora of cut glass and heavy embroidery Carlotta’s costumes sported. 

However, the Wardrobe Head still insisted on dressing Christine in the most extravagant dresses he could find within the trunk. For Alissa’s big aria, he reserved the massive white ball gown which had been discovered near the bottom of the trunk. Tucked in with the beautiful silk gown was a small case containing a surprising number of delicate silver brooches. The woman in charge of helping Christine change took one glance at the brooches glittering like tiny stars in the velvet lined case and insisted on pinning them in Christine’s hair to complete the look.

By the time the performance began, Christine was too worn out to be nervous. She arrived in the wings just as the thick red curtain rose, watching as Meg and the other dancers glided onto the stage. Her friend’s movements appeared effortless as she danced in perfect time with the soft music. Years spent dancing under Madame Giry’s exacting instruction yielded superlative results. Unfortunately, Christine was unable to admire her friend and fellow dancers for very long, as it was soon her cue to enter the stage.

The alternate tenor replacing Piangi was a little old for his role, but he made a point to gently guide Christine through their scenes together. With so little time to rehearse, Christine had not been able to learn every piece of choreography. Thankfully, the crowd did not seem to notice her brief moments of hesitation throughout the opera. By the third act, even the gentry who usually attended the opera only for social purposes seemed to be genuinely interested in the performance. 

As the night wore on, Christine’s perception of time distorted like a reflection in a warped mirror. The night seemed to stretch on for ages—yet in the blink of an eye, the whole cast was assembling on stage for their final bows. Stepping forward when signaled by Mssr. Reyer, Christine swept into a brief curtsy. She breathed a sigh of relief, her thoughts drifting away from the crowded auditorium and thundering applause. 

The night had gone far better than she could ever have hoped for. I only wish you were here to see it, Papa, Christine thought to herself, reaching up to touch her cross necklace. Her fingers touched bare skin.

As the cast filed off stage, Christine struggled to keep her expression neutral. Where could it be? I do not recall taking it off myself. . . It must have been removed by someone in the wardrobe department. Yes, that must have been what happened.

“You were wonderful!” Meg cried, bounding suddenly over to Christine’s side. “They loved you!”

Christine shook her head at Meg’s assertion, but found herself smiling at her friend’s enthusiasm. “Let us come away, Meg,” she insisted, “It is so loud here that I can hardly think.”

“I know just the place. To your dressing room!” Meg said, laughing giddily.

Christine nodded, but internally wished she could go to the quiet stone chapel instead. The dressing room had formerly been Carlotta’s personal retreat, and Christine had felt ill-at-ease in the mirror-filled room. What she craved most was a quiet place to herself where she could tell her angel about everything that had happened. She hoped he would be pleased.

As soon as they left the wings, Christine realized that her desire was unlikely to be fulfilled. Her fellow castmates swirled around the two girls, sharing their congratulations and clogging up the backstage area, which was already crowded with props and set dressing. It took them some time to make it to the main back hallway, reserved for the dressing rooms of the leading cast members. This wide hallway doubled as a sort of reception area for important guests of the opera who were invited backstage. Now, instead of fellow castmates, ushers in smart uniforms and bright red caps rushed past Christine and Meg, carrying champagne, sweet treats, and urns of flowers. From the double doors at the end of the hall, the distinct smell of perfume and tobacco smoke wafted toward them, as the babble of excited voices grew louder. The gentry were making their way down from their private boxes.

“Quick, Meg! Help me get changed,” Christine called over her shoulder. all but running toward the door of what was formerly Carlotta’s room. “I should be able to slip away unnoticed as long as I am not wearing this costume.”

“I highly doubt that,” Meg snorted, but quickly followed Christine into the dressing room, shutting the door behind them. 

“Does this mean that you intend to forgo the honor of attending such a prestigious after party, Christine?” Meg asked, raising a dark brow sardonically.

Christine rolled her eyes. “You almost look like your mother when you make that face,” she teased in return, pivoting so that her friend could reach the laces of her dress more easily.

“Ugh! Perish the thought!” Meg shuddered, her nimble fingers swiftly undoing the knots and pulling to loosen the ties. 

“Besides, I cannot say that I have any wish to repeat the after party experience,” Christine added with a quiet laugh. “I have had my fill of enduring the drunken advances of lecherous old gentlemen who reek of garlic.”

“True,” Meg admitted. “But to be fair, Christine, everyone reeked of garlic after eating the food Mssr. Leferve provided for the New Year’s gala,” she pointed out.

Christine wrinkled her nose at the memory. The food was so heavily seasoned with the noxious herb that she had elected to forgo partaking of the provided meal and gone to bed hungry. “Well, in any case, that night was enough to last me a lifetime.”

Meg laughed softly as she continued to work at the lacings. It took the two of them several minutes to get Christine out of the multi-layer dress. However, it was only once she was standing in her underthings that Christine realized that she had nothing to change into. Her normal day dress was still sitting in its usual place in the ballerina’s communal dressing suite.

“Oh no. Meg! What shall we do?”

Meg bit her lip as she scanned the dim room. “Oh, the vanity!” she said, her dark eyes locking on one of the few pieces of furniture Carlotta had seen fit to leave behind.  After checking a few of the drawers, Meg cried out in satisfaction. “Here! I found a dressing gown.” 

Christine quickly pulled on the soft white robe, only to stare dumbfounded at the limp fabric dangling over her hands. “This will never do,” she lamented, suppressing a fit of unsteady laughter. 

“No need to panic,” Meg assured her, beginning to giggle herself as Christine wrestled with the too large gown. She had had to tuck in the ends as well as double tie the belt just to keep the loose fabric from revealing too much of her chemise and corset. 

“Just wait here for me, and I will go fetch your dress.”

“You are a godsend!” 

As her friend made her way to the door, Christine remembered her other pressing matter of business. “Oh, Meg. Would you also see if they put my necklace with my things?”

“Your silver cross necklace?” she asked. 

Christine nodded. “It seems it was removed at some point when I was getting changed.” 

Meg nodded solemnly. “I will take a quick look around, but I doubt it's there,” she said, cautiously opening the door and checking the hallway. “I will return as soon as I can.” 

“Right,” Christine whispered to herself, as the door closed behind Meg. Clenching her dressing gown tighter, Christine shoved down her concerns to deal with at a later point in time. She grimaced as her movements were reflected in every single mirror hung throughout the suite, including a particularly large floor-length one at the very back. Shaking her head, Christine felt a twinge of pain as her hair got caught in something.

“The brooches,” she said softly, making her way to the vanity. “I should take them out.” 

As she approached the vanity, her eyes fell on a piece of paper lying on the polished wood. The note was so precisely written it almost looked as if it had been type-printed. It was short. On the thick paper only two lines were written.

“ Brava, brava! Bravissima! 

Well done, Christine.”  

Christine turned the note over to check for a signature but found none. Who should wish to congratulate her anonymously?

Christine felt her confusion growing as she re-read the first line. It was written in Italian. Perhaps the jovial tenor, Piangi, had left it for his lady? But then why had her name been written at the bottom? 

As she puzzled over the note, a short but firm knock sounded on the dressing room door. 

“Come in,” Christine responded, momentarily distracted. An instant later she recalled her state of undress and turned to take back her invitation, but it was too late.

A tall man with sandy brown hair entered the dressing room. As he looked up, his amber eyes met Christine’s slightly horrified gaze and brightened. 

“Can it be…? It must be. Christine!” 

Christine blinked in confusion. “Monsieur?” she managed to croak out, her mind scrambling frantically to place the handsome gentleman. 

He grinned, a faint white scar running along his lip catching the candle light. “It seems so long ago now. How young—how innocent we both were.”

Christine tilted her head, her eyes widening as a new realization slowly dawned on her.

“I suppose you do not remember me,” he stated, in a hurt tone. “But I remember you.”

“Raoul?” she whispered, struggling to reconcile her memory of her boisterous childhood friend with the refined gentleman who was standing before her. “Is that truly you?”

His face lit up. “Little Lottie let her mind wander,” he recited, clasping his hand behind his back. “Little Lottie thought, am I fonder of dolls or of shoes? Or of riddles or frocks?”

“Raoul!” Overcome with emotion, Christine flung her arms around her dear friend. 

Raoul returned her embrace, resting his cheek on top of her head. “My little Lottie. I am so glad to see you again,” he murmured into her hair. 

“I cannot believe you still remember Papa’s old nursery rhyme,” she said, smiling into the soft fabric of his coat, his embrace banishing the cold hollowness she had carried around for so many years.

“I heard your father recite it so often, I doubt I could forget it even if I tried,” he said laughing. “Although it appears you have grown rather fond of frocks,” he teased, glancing at the mound of silk Meg and Christine had left draped on the gaudy pink sofa.

Christine felt her face flush with embarrassment as she pulled back. “It was the one of the few costumes available in my size,” she hurried to explain, clutching the edges of the dressing gown tighter around her. “My friend Meg just left to fetch me a dress I could change into.”

Raoul shook his head, a slight frown creased his forehead as he reached up to stroke one of the brooches in her hair.

“It is strange, but I feel that I have seen such a costume before,” he said, letting his hand fall back to his side. “In Austria, I think it was. I saw something much like it in one of the former empresses’ portraits.”

“Austria?” Christine asked in surprise. “Have you traveled a great deal then? I have heard that the roads have grown much more dangerous of late.”

Raoul’s expression hardened. “Indeed. The roads around New Paris are some of the worst I have seen. For some reason, the land around this city is unusually blighted. Truth be told, that is the reason I am here.” 

“Really?” Christine tilted her head, puzzled.

Raoul nodded. “I am a Hunter, knighted by the church.”

Christine froze, feeling as if she had been kicked in the chest. “Has the church ordered a Purge in New Paris?” she asked softly, struggling to keep the mounting fear from showing in her voice.

Raoul shook his head. “No, nothing of the sort. New Paris is one of the least plagued cities in Europe. And despite the condition of the surrounding land, New Paris has become quite a wealthy city-state. My family received a private contract from the merchant’s guild here, which I have been sent to execute.”  

Christine relaxed her strangle-hold on her robe. “I see. How long will you be staying, then?”

Raoul stepped forward to take her hands. “My plans have changed,” he said with assurance. “I did not expect to find you here, Christine. In an opera house of all places—” he laughed, the sound warm and, though deeper than it had been as a child, still familiar. “I suppose I should not be surprised. You always did sing like an angel.”

Christine felt her cheeks flush at the compliment, even as her stomach churned with anxiety. 

“We should celebrate. I’ll take you out to supper.”

Christine pulled her suddenly clammy hands out of his warm grip. “Oh! I’m sorry, Raoul. I-I cannot go.”

“Whyever not?” He stiffened abruptly, his expression going blank. “Is there someone else…someone you are seeing?” 

Christine shook her head vehemently. “No! Nothing like that.” She twisted one of the overly long sleeves of the dressing gown in her hand. “How to explain?” she muttered to herself. 

I cannot tell him about the Angel of Music. He would probably think me mad. But I don’t wish to lie to him. Christine sighed. “It’s my teacher. The one who refined my voice. He…well, he is very strict.”

“Is that all?” Raoul laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Then you need not worry. I shan’t keep you out late. And there is no safer person to travel with at night than a Hunter.”

Christine tried not to shudder. “You don’t understand,” she tried again. “I am supposed to meet with him tonight. If I do not come to my lesson—”

Raoul waved his hand, batting away her concern like smoke in the air. “No need to worry,” he insisted. “I will go fetch my hat and tell my coachmen to ready the horses. We can visit your teacher together. I am sure I can persuade him to give you the night off, especially after your fantastic performance.”

Christine shook her head at the thought of Raoul meeting her angel.

“Give me two minutes!” Raoul chirped, pulling Christine into a brief hug. “My dear little Lottie. I am so glad that I have found you again.”

He quickly bolted from the dressing room, his long legs carrying him out of the door in seconds.

 I am glad to have found you again too. Christine thought to herself. “But things have changed, Raoul,” she said aloud. She slowly sank down to the floor, her mind numb with shock. She did not even realize that she was crying until the first tear hit the floor.

Chapter Text

Christine shivered as a sudden gust of cold air blew past her. The strong draft caused the candles to sputter in their sconces, extinguishing all but a few meager flames. 

“ Insolent boy,” the voice of her mentor spoke, filling the dim room with his familiar presence.

Christine quickly stood. She had never heard the angel sound so angry before.

“This slave of fashion basks in your glory,” he said, disapproval dripping from every word. “Such an ignorant fool!”

Christine shook her head. “Please, angel. He does not understand.”

“Such a brave young suitor,” the voice continued, the fury in his tone only rising, “who dares to share in my triumph! ”

“No.” Christine felt fear constricting her throat. 

The room only grew colder in the stillness that followed, as if the angel’s disapproval was manifesting in the air around her.

 “Angel, forgive me,” Christine said, breaking the painful silence. “Do not leave me, Master. Stay by my side—guide me.”   

The angel sighed. “Flattery, my child, shall get you nowhere.” 

However, Christine was relieved to hear his tone softening.

“Perhaps it is time,” the voice mused. “Time for you to truly know me—see why in the shadows I hide.”

Know you? Christine thought, freezing in place. Are you not my angel?

“Look at your face in the mirror,” the voice instructed.

Reluctantly, Christine faced the floor length mirror, her pale features reflected in its depths.

“Behold! I am there inside.”

 She watched as her reflection vanished. In its place stood a tall figure, thrown into deep shadow from the brightly illuminated corridor stretching behind it.

“Angel?” 

A gloved hand extended from the shadows. “I am your angel, Christine,” the figure said, his voice deepening. “Come to me. Come to the Angel of Music. ”

Christine’s body moved, responding to the hypnotic pull of his voice, despite her mind’s insistence that the thing standing before her was no true angel.

“ Come to me… ” He sang softly, taking her hand and drawing her inexplicably through the space where the mirror should have been.

What is this? The rational part of Christine’s mind wondered, her eyes dazzled by the strings of shining glass bulbs lining the stone walls. The strange decorations hummed faintly as they bathed the stone hallway in warm orange light. They also revealed more of the being standing beside her.

He was no angel, yet Christine feared that he was not a man either. His face was partially obscured by a white domino mask, but what skin she could see was as pale as that of a corpse. 

“Sing for me, Christine.” His words were soft, but his grip on her hand turned vice-like. 

It was a familiar request. For the five years he had acted as a distant friend and angelic mentor, he had often asked her to make up songs on the spot.

“ In sleep he sang to me ,” she began with reluctance, betrayal piercing through her like a knife. “ In dreams he came. That voice which calls to me and speaks my name. ”

 Nodding in approval, he escorted Christine firmly down the narrow hall. 

She inched forward, the instinct to turn and run growing stronger with every step. However, the strength of his grip banished all hope of release. Concern for her own safety abruptly sank as the realization dawned upon her that her misplaced trust may have also put her friends in terrible danger. Christine steeled her resolve. 

“ And do I dream again? ” she continued, her voice gaining new strength. “ For now I find that the Phantom of the Opera is there — Inside my mind? ”

The man shook his head at the title Joseph Buquet had coined. “ Sing once again with me ,” he commanded, his sonorous voice tugging her forward as if to hurry her along, “— our strange duet. My power over you grows stronger yet .”

Christine clenched her fist, angry at her body for following his command. They exited the narrow hall in favor of much wider passage which led deeper underground. The passage was lined with identical doorways, much like the one they had just left. Christine tried to mark the bright corridor in her memory, but she worried that she might not be able to find it again even if she managed to get away. 

“ Though you turn from me to glance behind… ” Gloved fingers gently took hold of her chin. Christine fought not to shudder at his touch as he turned her to face him.

“ The Phantom of the Opera is always there ,” he sang, his gaze boring into hers. “ Inside your mind .”

Her heart caught in her throat. Can he read my thoughts of escape so easily?  

“ In this labyrinth ,” he sang, abruptly releasing her. “ Where night is blind ...”

With a sharp click, the entire corridor went completely dark. All light seemed to have been snuffed out in the blink of an eye, leaving Christine standing alone in absolute darkness.

“ The Phantom of the Opera is here !” His voice reverberated through the pitch black chamber, making it sound like he was everywhere around her at once.

“Inside your mind,” he suddenly whispered, so close to her that his breath brushed her ear.

Christine fought the urge to bolt in blind panic. 

Whatever you do, you must never run, Christine.  

The memory of her father’s patient instruction rose to the forefront of her mind. 

If you become disoriented, find a point of reference. They can sense your fear, so do your best to remain calm.

Christine edged to the side of the corridor, stretching out her hands to feel for the wall that she knew to be there. She bit back a scream as she tripped over the hem of her too-long dressing gown, narrowly avoiding a nasty fall. 

A gloved hand brushed her cheek. “ Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation ,” the voice sang, still far too close. She felt another hand settle at her waist and draw her forward.

She struggled to regain her footing, putting what strength she had left into squirming out of his grip. He responded by simply pinning her to his side and pulling her along even faster. She reached out her one free hand, and let out a faint sigh of relief when she encountered the wall of the corridor. The feeling of rough stones scraping across her palm steadied her. 

“ Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. . . ” 

Christine felt the stones give way to a door. The air from the doorway felt damp. Perhaps it led out of this dark prison? She strained her eyes to see in the dim light.

No.

She had no idea that there was an underground cave system located beneath the opera house. Condensation dripped from stalactites on the ceiling, illuminated by the glowing water flowing beneath them. Bobbing on the surface of the strange water was a long black gondola. Christine rallied herself enough to dig in her heels, but the Phantom simply lifted her off her feet and deposited her in the boat.

He took up a long rod and swiftly pushed the boat away from the shore. “ Silently, the senses abandon their defenses… ” 

His voice echoed on the water, gentle and sweet. He sang so beautifully that Christine almost wanted to believe that she had been wrong. Perhaps she was simply having a bad dream. Everything would be well again if only she could wake up. 

Perhaps I am dead, and he is Charon, come to ferry me into the afterlife. Christine’s mind swam with disjointed memories of the stories her father used to read to her and Roaul at night as children. 

Raoul. He is all grown up now. He came to see me today. Or did I dream that too?   

“ Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor.”  

The cavern opened up further, revealing a wide underground lake that stretched as far as she could see in every direction. However, her vision was somewhat obscured by the layer of silver mist covering the surface of the water. 

“ Grasp it, sense it… ” 

Christine leaned over the side of the boat. Her body moved slowly, as if in a fever haze, dipping her hand into the water. Bluish-green light trailed from her fingers, sparkling in the ripples she created before being swallowed in mist.

“ Turn your face away from the garish light of day. Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light. ”

Christine drew back from the water, letting the light she had stirred up fade back into only the faintest glow. Sleepily, she wondered why she must bid the light farewell. It was so pretty.  

“ Listen... to the music of the night .” 

Over the water drifted the eerily beautiful sound of some sort of organ. The notes were majestic, but also incredibly melancholy.

“ Close your eyes and surrender…”

Christine obediently shut her eyes, letting the deep, throbbing music wash over her.

“ Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before. ”

Floating on the underground lake was so peaceful. She had never been this relaxed in her entire life. Leaning back in the boat, she found a comfortable position to go to sleep. She was so tired. 

As she turned on her side, something sharp jabbed her skull. Christine’s eyes flew open as all the pain and fear came rushing back in a flash. Mentally, she thanked Heaven that she had not removed the silver brooches from her hair. She had almost lost herself completely.

“ Close your eyes ,” the voice repeated. “ Let your spirit start to soar! ”

Christine quickly shut her eyelids, pretending that she was still completely under his control. However, she shoved her head down harder on the small ornament, the stabbing pain keeping her mind from being pulled away.

“ And you will live as you have never lived before ,” he promised. “ Let your soul take you where you long to be… ”

 Christine made a show of taking even breaths, willing him to believe that she had completely fallen asleep.

“ Only then can you belong to me .”

Christine’s skin crawled at his words. How could she ever have trusted him—loved him as a second father?

The boat came to stop, bumping softly against a dock or shore. There was a soft splash and then the crunching sound of the gondola being hauled over pebbles. He had beached the boat, then. 

Suddenly, something soft was draped over her. His cloak, perhaps?

“ Floating, falling, sweet intoxication… ” He seemed to be singing to himself rather than to her now, his fingers gently brushing her hair to the side. “ Touch me, trust me. Savor each sensation .”

Revulsion twisted in her gut, but Christine stubbornly remained still, desperately wishing him to believe her asleep.

“ Now let the dream begin ,” he breathed in growing fervor, his voice moving away. “ Let your darker side give in…”  

Christine jolted at his words. Thankfully, he did not seem to notice her reaction as he walked further away from the skiff, his footsteps fading away.

“—to the power of the music that I write.”

The lonely tune the organ had been playing died away. “ The power of the music of the night .” 

 The new melody that began was heart-breakingly beautiful. It sounded like nothing Christine had ever heard before. 

“ You alone can make my song take flight.” His far away voice wavered briefly, overcome with emotion. “ Help me make the music of the night .” 

Christine felt tears rise against her closed eyelids at his pleading cry. He sounded so sincere that she wanted to go to him and promise her help. With a sharp twist, Christine rocked her head, letting the silver brooch’s unyielding presence remind her of her current circumstances. No matter how entrancing his music and voice were, there was no good reason for him to lie to her about his identity.

I have to discover his plan, Christine resolved mentally, opening her eyes a crack. She seemed to have been brought into an offshoot of the main cavern. Two pillar-like statues twice the height of a man guarded the passage leading out into the main body of the lake. One the stone guardians seemed to be a representation of the god Poseidon holding a fishing net. The other was a hooded figure clenching a scythe in skeletal hands. The god of the underworld perhaps?

Christine cautiously sat up. The Phantom was nowhere to be seen. The boat had been drawn up onto a narrow, rocky beach just to the side of a set of stone steps leading deeper into the cavern above and behind her.

Christine was tempted to push the boat back in the water and try to navigate her way out of the cavern, but quickly put aside the notion. To have left her alone meant that he was confident that she would not—or perhaps could not—leave. She worried that it was the latter.

With a huff, she pushed off the cloak he had covered her with and exited the boat. She had little choice but to follow the music. Christine resolutely began climbing the broad stone steps. The music swelled around her, gaining speed and volume the further up she went. As she reached the top of the stairs, Christine stared in amazement at the sprawling castle-like structure standing before her. 

Intricately carved arches and ornate towers rose majestically to the rough cave ceiling, reminding Christine eerily of the ruins she had seen when passing through the old city. Perhaps this is what the abandoned cathedral in the middle of the old city would have looked like 400 years ago. 

Christine edged forward, her mind returning to the task at hand. The interior of the building was brightly lit by the strange glass bulbs. Thanks to their strong light, she could appreciate the size of the truly massive organ at the back, its carefully polished pipes nearly brushing the vaulted ceiling in some areas. She could also clearly see the Phantom where he sat before the beautiful instrument. His whole body swayed in time with the melody, completely absorbed in his music. 

This is my chance to find out the truth. Christine hesitated in the arched doorway. Alone and unarmed, there was almost no chance that she would make it out alive if things went poorly. There had to be something that she could use as a means of defense.

The hair ornaments! She realized. The brooches are made of silver. Quickly unpinning one, she held the sharp stem outward between her thumb and finger like the blade of a knife. It seemed an incredibly pitiful weapon now that she held it out, but it was better than nothing at all. 

Time seemed to slow as Christine entered the sanctuary-esque hall. Her hands shook slightly as she clutched the hair pin, feeling oddly like a bride walking down a wedding aisle. She shook her head to dispel the unwanted impression and increased her pace. 

I must get this over with.

The Phantom continued to hum to himself, his hands sweeping across the keyboards, completely oblivious to Christine’s presence behind him.

“ Past the point…” he sang, his fingers moving deftly in accompaniment. “… of no return .”

Christine braced herself. Reaching out, she carefully pulled on one of the ties of his white domino mask. The Phantom startled out of his reverie, creating a terrible discordant noise on the organ.

No turning back now . Christine desperately tugged on the string she had grasped, pulling the mask away.  

“NO!” His deafening cry echoed throughout the hall. Too late, he turned away, hands flying up to shove the mask back into place.

She had already seen the blood-red light flash in his eyes. It was no phantom that haunted the Opera. It was a vampire.

Chapter Text

“You prying Pandora!” the undead creature shrieked, his canines flashing as he grimaced. “You little demoness. Is this what you wanted to see?”

 He let his mask fall. 

Christine fought the urge to shrink back under the wrathful gaze of his burning blood-red eyes. His features were fine, unnaturally so for one of the cursed undead. Nevertheless his brow was branded with the livid mark of a cross. 

“Are you happy, little viper?” he hissed. 

“Of course not! Why would I be happy?” she cried, no longer able to hold back the emotions raging inside of her. “You lied to me—and have been lying for five years!” 

The vampire seemed taken aback for a moment. 

“I thought you were my friend.” Her voice wavered dangerously close to tears. “But you are not my angel—you are a monster!”

He flinched as if she had struck him. “You cannot bear to think of me as anything else, can you?” he asked in a low voice. “This repulsive carcass,” he gestured to himself. “Forever trapped in a living hell, must never dare to yearn for something better.”

Christine pulled back, stung by his words. “I do not understand. If you long to be better, then why did you bring me down here against my will?”

“Oh Christine,” he sighed. With an elegant motion he replaced his mask, his disturbing eyes disappearing behind the lenses built into the fabric.

 “Eventually you will see. You can learn to find the man behind the monster. Fear can turn to love. . .”

“ What? ” Christine backed away, brandishing her pin defensively. “Are you mad?” 

The vampire tilted his head, a cruel smile on his lips. “Can you not see, Christine? You belong down here. With me. ” 

She shook her head in disbelief. “No!” 

In the blink of an eye, he crossed the distance between them, taking hold of her.

“Let me go!” she shrieked, stabbing the pin into his chest with all her might.

He howled in pain, wrenching her wrist back with enough strength to almost break it. The brooch fell from her hand, the metal smoldering and corroded where it had touched him.

With an inhuman growl, he pinned her to his chest, baring his fangs.

“Stop!”

His teeth sunk into the soft flesh of her neck. 

“No! Please,” she begged, her cry fading into a sob of anguish. Her body went limp as the searing venom in his bite spread through her veins like liquid fire. Every panicked heartbeat sent the poison further, until the burning pain filling her body gave way to numbness.

Finally, he pulled back, his pale lips spattered with her blood.

“I wish it did not have to be this way, Christine,” he said. “But once you saw my face. . . you could never go free.”

Christine feebly shoved him away, silent tears streaming down her face. He hovered at her side, watching as she stumbled in the direction of the exit on unsteady legs.

“You and I are the same, Christine.”

“I am nothing like you!” she cried, rage giving her a new wave of energy. Weaving drunkenly, she ran through the wide doorway. 

“We are destined to be together, Christine,” he persisted, keeping pace with her. “I knew it from the first moment we met.”

Christine flung herself down the wide stairs, not really caring if she stumbled. 

“What I did was for the best.”

For the best? Christine seethed, scrambling over the rocky surface of the beach towards the boat.

“You intend to return to the Opera?” he asked, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “There is no sense in going back. The humans will never accept you now.”

“I do not. Care.” Christine set her shoulder to the prow of the black gondola, shoving it back into the luminous water. “I’m leaving. You will not stop me.”

Recklessly, Christine scooped up the long steering pole, reeling as she attempted to point the end at the vampire. “I would rather burn to ashes in the morning light than remain here as your prisoner.” 

In a flash of movement, he snatched the pole out of her hands. “You are exhausted,” he said, grimacing at her resolve. “Your thoughts and emotions will be unsettled until your transformation is completed.”

So the transformation was not instantaneous. A faint spark of hope warmed in Christine’s chest. Perhaps there was a way to combat the terrible curse he had inflicted upon her.

“Very well. I shall return you to the human world.”

Striding into the water, he held the boat steady and indicated that Christine should get in. Now that he ordered it, she wished to do no such thing. But what choice did she have? She reluctantly stepped into the vessel, her arms and legs shaking with fatigue.

  “You will not burn in the light as common vampires do,” he said, gracefully swinging up into the prow and pushing them out through the narrow passage. “But you must still be careful. Do not attempt to leave the city unless you wish to fall into the hands of beings worse than myself.”

Christine started shivering uncontrollably as the chill of the lake surrounded her. “What do you mean?”

“Your scent has grown too strong to be disguised with silver any longer,” he stated matter of factly. “The moment you step outside of New Paris, every elder will know where you are and all of your father’s hard work will have been for nothing.”

“You know nothing of my father’s sacrifice!” Christine said harshly. “And you have no right to evoke his memory after everything you have done.”

The vampire sighed. “Everything I have done, I did for you.” 

Christine turned away from him, her neck aching at the motion. She gingerly reached up to feel the wound. Her skin was sticky with clotted blood, making it difficult to determine the extent of the damage. Reaching over the side of the boat, she dipped the edge of her sleeve in the water. She placed the icy wet cloth to her neck and began scrubbing the blood off. Her frenzied movements only made it bleed anew.

“We are here.”

Christine looked up. They entered another cavern, similar to the one the vampire called home. He leaped onto a slab of rock jutting out into the water, which acted like a dock. As he tied down the boat Christine heaved herself onto the jutting slab, her limbs leaden with fatigue.

The vampire was instantly at her side, taking hold of her elbow as if to steady her.

“Let go!” Christine yanked her arm from his grasp, but the motion caused her to sway dangerously on the thin walkway. 

“ Be still !” the vampire commanded, adjusting his hold on her.

Her body stilled, compelled by his voice. Christine clenched her jaw, anger, humiliation, and exhaustion warring inside of her.

The vampire guided her to a small alcove. He found a metal panel set into the stone and flipped a large switch. In an instant, the strange glass bulbs that lined the walls filled with light. Christine blinked blearily in the sudden brightness. By the time her eyes had refocused properly, they were standing in the narrow hallway behind the mirror of Carlotta’s dressing room.

“Soon you will understand, Christine,” the vampire said in a low voice. “The human world is a cruel, unforgiving place. There is no room in it for beings like us.” 

“Let me go,” Christine demanded sullenly.

“You will return to me,” he insisted. 

“Never!” she vowed. “Monster. Let me go.”

His grip tightened for an instant. “My name is Erik.”

Christine fixed him with a look of cold hatred. “I do not care what your name is.”

With an angry huff, he released his hold. Christine seized her chance, darting out of the mirror into the dark dressing room.

“You will return to me!” he called, his voice echoing through the small room. “You will understand. And when you beg forgiveness for the harsh words you have spoken, I will give it.”

Christine ran. Her breath came in unsteady gasps as she sprinted through one strangely empty hallway after another. Her vision blurred and she began bumping into the walls as she moved, barely staying upright. At the end of her strength, she finally reached the small room she and Meg shared, just off to the side of the main dormitory.

“Christine!” Meg sat up as Christine burst into the room. “What happened to you? I looked every—saints alive! You’re bleeding!” 

Christine collapsed on the floor, unable to speak coherently through the great gasping sobs that wracked her body.

“Christine! Tell me what happened,” Meg begged, her dark eyes wide. “You’re frightening me.”

“I am so sorry Meg,” she croaked, finally able to form words. “I have no idea what to do. He lied to me—he’s not an angel. He’s a monster.” 

“What? Who’s a monster? Was it that man Raoul who was asking after you?” Meg asked, her eyes flashing. “He said he was your childhood friend.”

“What? No. . .” Christine felt both relief and new worry collide, only to be crushed by an overwhelming wave of pain. She shook her head dully. “Not him. The one who I thought was the Angel of Music.”

Meg stilled her brows furrowing. “Your teacher?”

“He came to me after the performance. Took me below the Opera across a lake to his castle of stone.”

Meg looked more confused the longer Christine rambled. Christine fought back the drowsiness that pulled at her eyelids.

“He is a cursed undead—unlike any I have seen before, outside of the city. He has fangs…blood red eyes, but his body is not decaying. And he is in full control of his mind.”

Meg’s voice was barely a whisper. “Surely he cannot be. . .” 

A vampire? With far too much effort, Christine drew back her hair from her neck. “He bit me.”

Meg pulled back the edge of Christine’s tattered dressing gown, her face going pale. “Yet you do not seem changed.”

Christine blinked, her mind moving sluggishly through the night’s events. “He said something about. . .  my transformation. That it was not yet complete.”

“Then there is still time,” Meg said, a manic gleam in her eyes. “We can prevent you from turning.”

It was too much to hope for. Christine shook her head, then instantly regretted it when the world swam before her eyes. 

“I can do it,” Meg cried, her voice sounding far away. “I can save you!”

Christine blinked slowly. Her eyes burned like they were filled with sand. “S’it. . . possible?”

“We must try!” Meg insisted, grasping Christine’s cold hands in her own. The sensation sent an unpleasant jolt through her raw nerves. “Please,” said Meg. “Let me help you.”

Christine wavered. Her body felt so heavy, like it was more than she could bear to hold herself up. “Very well. . . But should I turn—you must. . . promise to end me.”

Meg went still as stone. “H-how could you ask such a thing of me, Christine?”

“There’s no one else.” Her eyes watered as she struggled to keep them open. “I am so sorry, Meg.”

The last thing she remembered was being pulled into Meg’s arms in a fierce hug. She succumbed to sleep as soon as her head fell onto Meg’s shoulder.

Chapter Text

Meg was used to hard work. One could not become a professional dancer without being able to withstand a great deal of physical exertion. Yet as she ran across the cobbled streets of New Paris, her arms and legs ached. It had taken much effort to get Christine’s limp body cleaned, bandaged, and wrestled into a cocoon of the warmest bedding Meg could find. She had tucked a rosary and a silver hand mirror in between the layers, but her friend’s ashen complexion and continually dropping body temperature did not bode well.

Meg pushed herself to run faster. She had never been to the black market before, but she had pieced together its general location over time from the descriptions of fellow dancers. While Meg was forbidden from going herself, her mother went regularly on account of the trouble with her leg. She even had a contact in the market whom Meg had met once. The sprightly Madame V. had seemed a harmless old woman, if a bit eccentric—but she was well known in the underworld of New Paris if rumors on the street were to be believed. 

Meg sighed. She had no choice but to trust in the rumors regarding Madame V.’s reputation. She had no alternative. There was no telling what her mother would do if she found out about Christine’s situation. Meg’s sweat turned cold at the thought. 

As she entered the lower market, Meg slowed her pace to examine the vendors behind each of the cramped stalls. Her search was met with strange looks as she darted from stall to stall. She desperately hoped that she would be able to pick out the woman she was looking for on sight. 

“My! Is that Antionette’s daughter? The little girl who dances ballet?”

Meg spun around, finding herself face to face with a plump old woman. 

“Madame V.!” she cried out in relief.

“Now, now, deary,” Madame V. chastised gently. “Your mother and I have been friends for years now. You should really call me Mama Valerius. All my regulars do.”

Meg nodded uncertainly. “C-Certainly. I am so glad to have found you, Mad—Mama Valerius.”

“Oh?” The woman’s bright blue eyes twinkled knowingly. “Are you in a spot of trouble, then? Took a tumble and found out that you have a little one on the way?”

Meg reeled back in shock. “What? Heavens, no!”

Mama Valerius shrugged. “The way you rushed down here without your mother, I just assumed. . .”

“Nothing like that,” Meg said quickly, waving her hands in denial. “I came on behalf of a friend.” Looking around, she leaned forward to whisper, “She was attacked last night.”

Mama Valerius’s gaze darkened with concern. “I see. Let us go talk somewhere more private.”

Linking her soft arm through Meg’s, Mama Valerius led them through a narrow alley and into a section of the market where shabby shops were sandwiched next to each other in a long brick building. They entered one of the dark doorways, into what was a surprisingly homey space. Several mismatched chairs were arranged towards the front of the room separated by a high counter from the wall which was crowded with different medicinal herbs hanging from strings or tucked away into wooden cubbies. Mama Valerius disappeared behind an old curtain into the back room, before re-emerging with a tray in her hands.

“Some tea, deary?”

Meg blinked in confusion. “Thank you no,” she said, attempting to remain polite. “We have no time to lose, Mama Valerius. We must save Christine before it is too late.”

“Sit down, dear.” 

Mama Valerius waited until Meg huffed and did as she requested before setting the tray down on the counter. “A spot of tea will help settle your nerves,” she insisted, pouring the fruity smelling liquid into a cup and placing the fine china into Meg’s hands. “Now. Sip that slowly. The calmer we are, the faster we shall get through this.”

Meg fidgeted, burning with impatience as Mama Valerius took a seat opposite her in a battered chair just behind the counter.

“My friend Christine,” Meg began in a rush, “She is a dancer at the Opera like me. Or at least she was until last night when the two new managers took over for Mssr. Lefevre and the backdrop fell on Carlotta. She stormed out and I suggested that they let Christine sing the lead part, because I knew that she was an excellent singer and—”

Mama Valerius sipped her tea noisily, causing Meg to pause.

Taking a deep breath, she tried again, doing her best to summarize. “Christine had a mentor. A man she never saw in person, but who gave her singing lessons for the past four or five years. She finally met him last night.”
Mama Valerius nodded, her white eyebrows drawing together. 

“Somehow he kidnapped her under everyone’s noses. I left to fetch her a change of clothes and when I came back she was missing. Everything was in chaos.”

“Where was she taken?” Mama Valerius asked quietly. 

“I am not sure. She was raving about castles and lakes underground, but I could hardly understand what she was saying. All I know for certain is that when she found me, her dressing gown was covered in blood and she had a bite wound on her neck.”

Mama Valerius nodded soberly. “On her neck?”

“Yes,” Meg nodded slowly. “I cleaned it with antiseptic and holy water and bandaged it before I left.”

Madame Valerius set her tea cup on the counter with a rattle. “I am very much afraid your friend is beyond my help, my dear. You must call on a church officiate to perform the. . . last rites.” 

“No!” Meg practically spilled the tea in her cup as she set it aside. “I am certain there is a chance for her. The vampire who bit her—he said something about her transformation not being complete yet.”

The older woman froze, her eyes fastening on Meg. “He spoke clearly? He was in full control of his mind and body?”

Meg blinked, startled by the sudden change. “Yes. Christine said in that respect he was unlike any of the other undead she had ever encountered before. She said that he still had red eyes and fangs, but his flesh was not rotten and he was in control of his mind.”

 Mama Valerius shot to her feet, pacing back and forth in rapid circles. “Could it be possible?” her words broke off into an indistinct murmur as she walked back and forth.

“Well, deary!” she said, turning abruptly. “Take me to see your friend. I need to ask her some questions.”

Meg frowned, but quickly rose to her feet. “Can you help her?”

“I shall try,” Mama Valerius answered. “But I make no promises.”

Meg nodded, recognizing that this was the best offer she could hope for. “Very well. Let us be off!” 

Mama Valerius briefly retreated to the back room to fetch a large carpet bag, then followed Meg out the door. After locking it behind her, the two of them set off in the direction of the Opera House. Mama Valerius seemed to have no difficulty keeping up with Meg’s brisk pace despite lugging the full-to-bursting carpet bag with her.

“What is that for?” Meg asked, looking at the bag curiously.

“My supplies,” Mama Valerius answered cryptically. “In my line of work, it is best to travel prepared.”

Meg nodded, wondering if it would offend Mama Valerius to ask her to share some specifics about her work. Her own knowledge was limited to what went into treating her mother’s ailment. An ailment that could not be shown to a regular physician for fear of being excommunicated. . . or worse, purged by the church. Meg shuddered, deciding that it was best to keep her questions to herself.

Finally they reached the Opera, only to find a large crowd gathered outside of the main entrance.

“What is this commotion?” Meg wondered aloud. 

A man in a brown bowler hat turned around upon hearing her question. “Have you not heard? It is all over the papers.”

Meg felt her stomach drop to her feet. “Heard what?” Please not Christine!

“Here!” he handed Meg a copy of the Gazette . The title read, Mystery of Soprano's Flight ! And in slightly smaller lettering beneath: “We are mystified by the disappearance of sensational Swedish soprano, Christine Daaé. . . We suspect foul play.”

Meg’s fingers spasmed, nearly tearing the paper. She managed to restrain her facial expression as she handed the paper back to the man in the bowler. “Thank you, monsieur.”

He nodded and returned his attention to the front entrance. “Can you see anything, Jacques?”

“No, they are not allowing anyone in.” 

“Oh, someone’s carriage is pulling around!”

The crowd shifted at the arrival of the carriage, causing Meg and Mama Valerius to be pushed back even further. 

“Follow me,” Meg hissed to her compatriot. “I know of a side entrance that usually remains unlocked. We can probably sneak in from that side.”

Mama Valerius nodded, following Meg past the perimeter of the crowd into the alley beside the Opera House. Meg was relieved to find the side door open and quickly entered the building. The door led into the kitchen. Most days, the cooks and waiters who served refreshments in the lounge would sneak out for smoke breaks through the side door. They usually forgot to lock it after the night was over. 

Meg quietly made her way through the empty lounge, Mama Valerius in tow. She paused at the sound of raised voices, carefully peeking her head around the doorway to see the two new managers having a heated conversation in the grand foyer.

“At least the seats are getting sold, Richard,” Mssr. Andre said placatingly. “Gossip’s worth its weight in gold.”

“What a way to run a business!” Mssr. Firmin cried, nearly choking on his words in frustration. “What have I done to deserve these unending trials? Half of our cast disappears, Andre, yet these blithering idiots still cheer for more Opera!”

He dramatically flung the paper he had been holding to the floor.

“It is free publicity, Firmin. Have you seen the queue?” Mssr. Andre gestured in the direction of the front doors.

Mssr. Firmin seemed to settle down slightly. “I have not yet had a chance to look. I got a strange note I have been puzzling over.”

“You got one too?” Mssr. Andre actually sounded concerned.

Mssr. Firmin dug into his coat pocket for the mentioned piece of correspondence. Once he had it out, he read in a clear voice:

“Dear Firmin, Just a brief reminder. My salary of 20,000 francs has not yet been paid. Remember that it is in your best interest to ensure that all of my orders are obeyed. Signed, OG.”

Mssr. Andre crossed his arms. “Both of our notes were sent by this OG person. O. G. Opera Ghost?” 

“Absurd! There is no such being.”

“But who would have the gall to play such an elaborate practical joke on us?”

“Someone with a puerile brain!” Mssr. Firmin exclaimed harshly. “What possible use could an apparition have with such a large retainer? Obviously whoever is behind this ruse is certifiably insane.”

Meg jumped at the sound of booted footsteps making their way from the front doors into the main foyer. A tall young man, the one who claimed to be Christine’s old friend when Meg had met him the night before, swept into the room. He wore a long blue duster with a crossbow strapped across his back. A quiver of silver tipped bolts hung at this side. 

So he is a Hunter for the Church then? Meg felt her stomach convulse at this new development.

The young man halted just before the two Opera managers where they stood in front of the stairs. “Where is she?” he asked in a deathly serious voice.

“I beg your pardon?” Mssr. Andre babbled in confusion.

“Miss Daaé,” the man cut in. “Where is she?”

“How should we know?” Mssr. Firmin snapped.

“I want a straight answer. Do you have anything to do with this note?”

Mssr. Andre and Mssr. Firmin both exchanged uneasy looks as the man held up a piece of paper that looked eerily similar to the one they had been reading just moments before.

Mssr. Andre scuttled forward to take the note from the man’s hand. 

“Do not concern yourself with Miss Daaé,” he read aloud, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “The Angel of Music has taken her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again.”

“This prankster cannot seem to make up his mind. Is he a ghost or an angel?” Mssr. Firmin remarked angrily as he compared the two notes side by side.

“Where is she?!” cried the shrill voice of Carlotta as she swept into the main foyer. “I will a’scratch ‘er eyes out!”

“Oh! Welcome back,” Mssr. Andre attempted to cut in, but the irate prima donna did not appear to hear him.

“I will not’a be treated t’is a’way!” she sobbed dramatically, waving yet another note in the manager’s faces. “I ‘ave your letter. A letter I rather resent!”

The young man eyed the two managers suspiciously. “Did you send it?”

“No! Of course not!” Mssr. Andre said quickly. “We are just as much in the dark about this as you are.”

Reaching out, the young man quickly pulled the note from the hysterical singer’s hand and began reading aloud.

“Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Christine Daaé will be singing all the leading roles from now on. Be prepared for a great misfortune should you attempt to take her rightful place.”

Both managers exchanged worried glances. “Far too many notes for my taste,” Mssr. Andre murmured.

“And most of them about this Christine girl,” Mssr. Firmin said, nodding. “It seems all we have heard since this morning is Miss Daaé's name.”

“But where is she?” the young man asked again.

“Yes! Where is she?” Carlotta demanded, dabbing her eyes with a delicate lace handkerchief. 

The opera managers shared worried glances. 

From where she watched, Meg could feel her anxiety reach new heights. If the Hunter decided to search for Christine in the opera house, everything would be for naught. With a panicked gesture at Madame V. to stay put, Meg leaped into action.

“Christine Daaé has returned!” Meg shouted, running out into the main foyer.

All four people turned to stare at her as she slid to a stop. 

“No worse for wear, I hope,” Mssr. Andre said, flashing his too-wide smile. “Where precisely is she now?”

“I thought it best that she be left alone,” Meg said, scrambling to come up with a suitable lie. “She needed rest after her performance.”

The young man stepped forward. “My name is Viscount Raoul de Chagny. I believe we met briefly last night.”

Meg nodded slowly, struggling to hide her trembling. He was a nobleman on top of working for the church. Things were becoming worse by the minute.

“Would you take me to see Christine?”

“No monsieur, I am afraid she will see no one.”

“But will she sing’a tonight?” Carlotta demanded.

Meg swallowed trying to decide on what to say. The extended pause was rapidly becoming painful, yet Meg could not come up with a suitable reply. 

“My goodness!” exclaimed Madame V., suddenly entering the foyer. “I seem to be a bit turned around.”

Everyone turned to look at the sprightly old woman. 

“My dear,” she said, fixing Meg with her twinkling blue eyes. “Would you be so kind as to direct me backstage? I was asked to come treat a young dancer, but I do believe I came in through the wrong entrance.”

Meg almost sighed in relief at the woman’s clever distraction. “Of course! I am one of the dancers here at the ballet. I can certainly direct you.”

Turning, Meg curtsied briefly toward the group. “Good day gentleman. Carlotta.”

As she and Mama Valerius exited the grand foyer, the managers and Carlotta began shouting again. However, Meg could feel the silent Viscount’s eyes burning into the back of her head.

“Things are not looking favorable for your friend,” Mama Valerius whispered.

Meg fought to keep her posture natural as she guided the older woman out of the main hall. “Perhaps not, but I have to try all the same.” 

I failed to save my father all those years ago. I will not allow the same thing to happen again by giving up on Christine.

“Never again,” she whispered under her breath.

Mama Valerius patted her hand as the two of them entered the back hallways.  

Chapter Text

It was far too warm. Every inch of Christine’s skin ached, including her eyelids, which felt too swollen and heavy to lift. She was so thirsty. With a soft moan, she attempted to adjust her position, but found her limbs pinned by fabric. Her heartbeat began to pound in her ears as she struggled to get free. Her movements were clumsy as she shivered and perspired at the same time. 

“Christine?” Meg’s voice floated over her.

“Thirsty,” Christine croaked out through cracked lips. “So thirsty.”

“Drink this.” The second voice did not belong to Meg, but Christine felt the rim of a glass bottle pressed against her bottom lip. Christine opened her mouth only to choke on what felt like liquid fire being poured into her mouth.

She would have spat the offending liquid out, but the stranger gripped her firmly, covering her mouth with a calloused hand. 

“I am sorry, deary. I know it is very unpleasant, but you must swallow.”

Christine thrashed, the pain only building the longer the liquid remained in her mouth, but the stranger’s grip was unyielding. 

With great effort, Christine finally managed to choke down the fiery draft. She could feel it burn unpleasantly through her shuddering chest and down into her belly where it faded to a dull throb.

“Are you all right, Christine?” Meg asked, her voice wavering. 

Christine blearily opened her eyes, only for a beam of sunlight to stab straight into her skull like a white hot poker. 

“Wh-what was that awful drink?” she gasped, managing to curl an arm around her throbbing middle despite her tight swaddling.  

“A special preparation of my own invention. The best one available on the black market for keeping vampiric symptoms under control.”

Despite the pain in her throbbing head, Christine forced her eyes open again. Thankfully, she was able to handle the light much better this second time around and was able to focus her gaze on the elderly woman looking down at her. 

“You need not fear, Christine. Mama Valerius is trustworthy,” Meg insisted, flitting closer to Christine’s side. “She has been helping my mother for years.” 

“Your mother?” Christine asked, utterly bewildered.

Meg nodded solemnly. “You remember when we first met? How I was sad because my father. . .” Meg hesitated, her breath hitching. “Well, at that time my mother suffered a wound that became tainted with vampire blood. We could not show it to a regular physician for fear of the church.”

Suddenly, Madame Giry’s reliance on the sturdy black cane made a great deal more sense to Christine.

“I never realized—”

“A testament to my skill,” Mama Valerius interjected, shooting Meg a warning look. “But if I am to help you , I need to know exactly what happened.” 

Christine fought the urge to wretch as the horrific memories came rushing back. 

“Here. Let me help you.” Meg bent down to help Christine sit up.

As she leaned closer, Christine’s senses were hit with the most amazing aroma she had ever smelled. The insatiable thirst she had felt upon waking surged through her with frightening intensity. 

“No.” The stranger quickly pulled Meg back. “It is unsafe to be near her until I have fully examined her.” 

Too late. I have already succumbed, Christine thought, slowly shuffling herself into a seated position. The darkness has already begun to take me over, the only question is how long I have until the thirst for blood drives me to madness.  

Christine shivered once her arms were finally free of the bedding. Compared to the throbbing heat in her stomach, her entire body felt incredibly cold. 

The stranger, Mama Valerius, shifted her guarded stance and pointedly held out a dark glass bottle. 

Bracing herself, Christine accepted the bottle with a shaking hand. Squeezing her eyes closed, she tilted her head back and took the largest swallow she could manage. However, the fiery pain could not completely erase the disturbing memory of Meg’s fragrant blood pulsing so invitingly just beneath her skin. 

“I need to check your wound,” the older woman began in a gentler tone.

Christine nodded, too exhausted to do more than turn her head to the side and expose her neck. She carefully held her breath as the woman leaned forward and tugged down the fabric bandage Meg must have wrapped her neck with while she slept. Christine winced as the woman prodded the wound with hot fingers. The area was tender, but almost seemed to be healing over already. 

“Tell me about the one that bit you,” the woman commanded as she examined the bite wound. “What did he look like?”

Christine grimaced. “He appeared young. He might even be considered handsome except for the brand on his forehead,” she answered.

“A brand?” The woman leaned back.

Christine nodded slightly, finally daring to breathe again. “In the shape of the Holy cross. I only saw it once his mask was removed.”

“Mask? Why would he wear a mask?” Meg asked incredulously, nervously rubbing her arms as she shifted from foot to foot.

“To pass as one of the living no doubt,” Mama Valerius said, her words clipped. 

“That would be impossible,” Meg insisted. “Such monsters cannot hide their true nature.”

“You think not? Then how is it possible that this one entered the Opera House and stole your friend away without detection?” Mama Valerius challenged.

Christine shook her head, clenching the medicine bottle so hard her knuckles turned white. “I met with him almost every night for the past five years for music lessons without discovery. He did not sneak in. He lives beneath the opera house.” 

Meg and Mama Valerius both turned to look at Christine with shocked expressions.

“I saw it with my own eyes,” Christine insisted. “There are dozens of hidden passages that lead down to a cavern system below. He lives across a lake in a cathedral of stone.”

“But how is it possible? How could a vampire have lived among us for so long without anyone noticing? Unless—” Suddenly Meg’s face went ashy gray. “The Opera Ghost.”

Christine nodded. “Mssr. Buquet’s ridiculous stories, all those ‘accidents’. . . it was him.”

With a tired sigh, Mama Valerius took a seat on the edge of Meg’s clothes chest. “This is a difficult situation,” she said, nudging aside a large carpet bag with the toe of her boot. “We must consider our next steps carefully.”

“How do you mean?” Christine asked, turning to face the older woman. “You are all in danger, and not just from the vampire.”

Mama Valerius held Christine’s stare for a moment before shaking her head. “You surprise me, little singer. You have managed to hold onto your humanity far longer than I thought possible.”

Christine felt hope swell in her chest.

“There is a chance that the transformation can be stopped.”

Meg burst out into sobs of relief. 

“Are you sure?” Christine asked, worry gnawing at her insides. 

The woman nodded slowly. “You remain remarkably unaffected despite the nature of your wound. I have a theory. . .” she trailed off, her countenance becoming guarded. “Nonetheless, as it appears that your thirst can still be suppressed, there is hope.”

Heedless of Mama Valerius's earlier warnings, Meg rushed over to hug Christine. “Thank goodness! You are going to be alright.”

Christine choked at the overwhelming aroma that once again engulfed her. 

“Make sure to take the medicine at regular intervals,” Mama Valerius cautioned. “You will likely still feel compelled to drink blood. Unfortunately, the winter solstice is only a few weeks away, and it coincides with a new moon.”

Christine heaved a sigh of relief as Meg backed away and the smell dampened to a more manageable level.

“The desire will be at its strongest that night. So, you must withstand the temptation, or your life will be forfeit.”

Christine nodded solemnly. “I understand. And what will we do about the vampire?”

Mama Valerius’s expression once again closed off. “Nothing. We shall do nothing for the moment.”

“But everyone could be in grave danger. They should be warned.”

Mama Valerius frowned. “How would warning them help? The moment you so much as hint at a vampire attack within the city, the church would order an Inquisition, if not a full on Purge of New Paris.”

Christine froze at her words, glancing over at Meg. After what she had just learned about Madame Giry, there was a good chance that she would be sentencing her best friend’s mother to death if she so much as breathed a word about the attack.

“In your current state, you would likely be targeted and killed. No, it is better to remain quiet about this matter for now,” the woman insisted, quickly rising to her feet. “I will send for my colleague, a trustworthy man who can handle such a delicate matter with discretion. Never fear. We shall get to the bottom of this.”

Christine nodded slowly. There was something Mama Valerius was not telling her. She had some personal reason for wanting to handle the matter quietly.

“Then it is settled,” Meg quickly chimed in. “You need to rest, Christine. I am not sure if the managers expect you to sing again tonight, or if they will call off the performance.”

Christine sighed, sinking back into her cocoon. The last thing she felt like doing was performing on stage, but could she refuse without arousing suspicion?

The three of them stilled at the sound of muffled thumping drawing near. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

“Meg? Christine?” Madame Giry called through the door.

Meg ran to the closed door. “Christine is sleeping,” she lied swiftly in a rough whisper. “What is it?”

Madame Giry huffed, but answered in a lowered tone, “The managers have re-engaged Carlotta as the leading soprano, and she refuses to sing the part of Alissa in the wake of Christine’s success. We will begin rehearsals for a different production tomorrow.”

Christine sagged in relief. She would not be asked to sing again. 

“Make sure you and Christine are prepared. We will begin at the usual time.”

“I will tell her as soon as she wakes up. We will be ready.”

“Good.” 

The muffled thumping of Madame Giry’s cane on the floor moved away. The three women in the room exchanged relieved glances. 

“I must be on my way. There is much to prepare,” Mama Valerius said in a hushed tone.

Meg nodded sharply. “Wait here a moment and I will make sure the way is clear. We cannot risk my mother seeing you.” 

With practiced movements, Meg swiftly undid the lock on the door and swept out into the hallway. Her slippered feet barely made a sound as she crept down the hall.

“I am in your debt,” Christine said quietly. “How can I ever repay you, Mama Valerius?” 

The elderly woman bent down to collect the large carpet bag. “There is no debt in this case,” she insisted. Sorrow glinting in her bright blue eyes as stepped forward to place a wrinkled hand on Christine’s shoulder. “I will not deny that I have my own reasons for helping you, but even so, Antionette and her daughter are good people. You are lucky to have such friends who would help you.”

Christine nodded solemnly.

“Do not lose hope, and speak of this matter to no one,” she warned. “There is a Hunter of the church sniffing about the Opera. Avoid him at all costs.”

Tears stung at the back of Christine’s eyes. “I understand,” she said, the words coming out a choked whisper.

“Good. I will come see you again.”

Meg quickly slipped back into the room. “The way is clear. Come now.”

Mama Valerius hefted up her bag and quickly followed Meg into the hallway, leaving Christine alone with her thoughts, the most painful of which was that of never being able to see Raoul again.

Chapter Text

Christine blinked hard, attempting to ignore the terrible nausea building inside of her. She had managed to choke down the medicine Mama Valerius had been supplying her for the past two weeks, but the liquid seemed to be growing less effective as the days grew shorter and the moon waned in the sky. Christine couldn't remember the last time she had been able to keep down solid food. She tried to hide her worsening pain, but Meg seemed to see right through her façade, growing more grimly protective by the day.

 Mama Valerius had visited several times to monitor Christine’s condition, but had warned them that it was unlikely that there would be improvement until after the winter solstice was complete and the night of crisis had passed.

Why did they have to open the production on the longest and darkest night of the year? Christine lamented internally, hunching as her stomach clenched painfully once more. 

“Sit up a’straight,” Carlotta snapped, smacking Christine’s shoulder with her closed fan. “ Stupida. Do not’a crowd me.” 

Christine’s senses were assaulted with the diva’s sour aroma all over again. Despite the heavy perfume the prima donna wore, Christine could still detect the distinct scent of the woman’s blood pulsing beneath the thick layer of stage makeup on her neck and face. 

Fighting the urge to vomit, Christine straightened, glad that her own white face paint would hide the obvious sickly pallor she was sporting.

Suddenly the steady buzz from the audience—invisible behind the stage curtains—quieted. The opening notes were played by the orchestra and Carlotta snapped open her fan. Holding up the plumy feathers, she covered their faces with it as Mssr. Reyer had commanded during rehearsals. 

The main curtain swept open and three of the chorus members trotted out on stage, singing their lines. However, Christine’s view was obscured by the smaller curtain shielding the two of them from sight. 

Right on cue, a stage hand pulled back their small curtain and Christine mimed surprise as Carlotta lowered the fan and swept out onto the main stage. 

“ Serafimo—your disguise is perfect ,” she sang, barely glancing back at Christine, who picked up and brandished a wand of dusting feathers with feigned incompetence.

At the sound of a knock, provided by the orchestra, Meg swept past them and “admitted” the horrifically costumed Piangi.

“ Gentle wife, admit your loving husband ,” he sang. 

Christine followed her assigned choreography and bent to begin “dusting” one of the prop pieces of furniture. Her head swam, and it was all she could do to stay in character and shake her rear end as she moved in the humiliating fashion that was required of her. 

“ My love—I am called to England on affairs of State. And must leave you with your new maid .” He paused before speaking aside to the crowd, “Though I would happily take the maid with me.”

The audience laughed along with the joke as Christine straightened, frowning and miming extreme offense to his comment.

Carlotta closed her fan with a sharp snap. “The old fool is leaving!” she stated with more volume than was necessary, redirecting the crowd’s attention back to herself.

Piangi retreated and Christine quickly made her way to stand next to Carlotta.

“ Serafimo—away with this pretense !” She roughly pulled away Christine’s prop skirt, revealing a pair of men’s trousers beneath. “ You cannot speak—but kiss me in my husband's absence! ”

Christine hesitated, her stomach roiling at the idea of leaning closer to Carlotta for the feigned kiss. 

“Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?” a familiar and ominous voice suddenly echoed throughout the auditorium.

“The Phantom of the Opera!” Meg gasped, sprinting to Christine’s side. “He’s here!” 

At her panicked cry, the crowd began to shift and murmur in concern and the cast members on stage froze. 

Christine worriedly looked around the auditorium, her eyes drawn to the box seat that had been given to Raoul after he agreed to become a patron of the Opera House. Had he chosen box five? Had the managers, in their avarice, placed him in such danger?

Raoul’s expression was serious but not unduly concerned. She was relieved to see him subtly reach into his breast pocket and withdraw a pistol, as he scanned the auditorium.

Releasing a breath of relief, Christine forced herself to continue looking around. Finally her eyes caught a subtle movement from far above. She could just make out a cloaked figure standing on a walkway cleverly hidden near the ceiling of the building. She took Meg’s trembling hands in her own, her gaze fixed on her former mentor. 

“It’s him,” she stated with absolute certainty.

Carlotta turned sharply. “Your part is silent, little toad!” 

Her harsh words carried far too easily through the muted murmur filling the air. 

“A toad, Madame?” the vampire called down, his voice going dangerously soft. “Perhaps it is you who are the toad.”

Carlotta huffed and swept off into the wings where her maid Imogen waited with a crystal decanter of throat spray. “ Sbrigati! ” she snapped, opening her mouth wide so that Imogen could spray the back of her throat. Doing a few half-hearted vocal warm-ups, she sashayed back to the center stage and signaled Mssr. Reyer to continue. 

Christine felt the cold fingers of fear run down her spine as the vampire remained motionless where he stood. He looked on silently as the orchestra struck up the music once more.

“ Serafimo—away with this pretense ,” Carlotta sang, batting at Meg, who was still standing frozen next to Christine.

Reluctantly, Meg let go and backed away.

“ You cannot a’speak ,” Carlotta trilled, glaring pointedly at Christine, “ But kiss me in my –uurrp!” 

Carlotta’s eyes suddenly turned glassy, her chest beginning to heave. “Kiss me,” she gasped in a much weaker tone. “In my–urrrrrp! Hurrrgh!” She clutched at her throat and began to violently cough. 

The music died away as Carlotta gagged and heaved, sinking to her knees. “ Aiutami ,” she choked out between ragged gasps.

Suddenly all Christine could see was the blood pooling at the corners of Carlotta’s mouth. She stood frozen, wrestling with the all-consuming urge to throw away her humanity and finally slake her thirst. 

“God help us!” 

Christine broke out of her stupor at the cry of one of the audience members. 

Piangi and Imogen rushed out to the prima donna’s side, even as the crowd began crying out in confusion. A swarm of bats swooped down, causing several women to scream and faint, before flying straight towards the stage. The tiny creatures screamed as they flapped around the faces of those who were closest to the prima donna. Several stage hands ran out with fabric and nets, but it was already too late. The air filled with the smell of blood as the furry creatures scraped Piangi and Imogen’s hands and faces with their sharp nails. 

It was more than Christine could bear. She bolted. 

Meg called out after her, but Christine could barely hear her over the pounding in her ears. The thirst for human blood burned inside of her, a need too great to be denied.

I have to end this! I cannot control it any longer. Christine sobbed as she charged up flight after flight of stairs. Her breath came in heaving gasps by the time she reached the roof. Thankfully, the small maintenance door which opened out onto the stone balcony was unlocked. Christine flung herself out into the freezing night air, feeling a light layer of snow squelch under her shoes. Some of the panic finally dissipated now that she was truly isolated.

Slowly, she made her way towards the edge of the balcony. Large stone sculptures were perched at even intervals along the thick stone railing. The one nearest her was that of a winged horse, its raised hooves hovering over empty space. The only thing she could see as she looked down were tiny flakes of snow dancing in the air as they fell, highlighted by the soft glow leaking from the windows of the Opera House below.

It would be better for everyone if I ended it all. Her mind seemed to split at the thought. One half was resigned almost to the point of numbness, however the other half kept her rooted in place, her self-preservation instincts fighting the urge to climb onto the stone balustrade and simply step out into the nothingness .

There is no other way to keep everyone safe. . . is there?  

In her divided state of mind, she could not decide on an answer. Her face itched as the snowflakes melted on her skin. Using her sleeve, Christine scrubbed violently, wiping away the stage makeup which was by now hopelessly smeared with sweat, tears, and snow.

“Christine!” 

Startled at the sound, Christine turned to face the door she had left open in her rush to escape. “Raoul?” Her heart rose at the sound of his voice for a moment before fear returned with full force. “No! Raoul stay where you are!”

At the frantic tone of her voice, he hesitated in the doorway. Confusion and concern flickering across his handsome face which was flushed with the exertion of climbing so many stairs. “Christine? What’s going on?” 

Christine struggled to speak past the knot in her throat. “Oh, Raoul. I–I’m so sorry.”

His amber eyes softened even as he took a step out onto the snowy balcony. “What brought you to the roof, Christine? It is freezing out here. Come. Let me get you out of this cold.”

Christine shook her head. “I cannot go back. There is no escape from this waking nightmare. . . not for me.”

“Christine, don’t say such things.” His voice was filled with genuine concern, as he moved to close the gap between them.

“No, stop!” she cried, backing up until she was pressed against the stone balustrade. “You mustn’t come any closer.”

Raoul froze, his face paling. “Christine, come away from the edge. I promise not to come near you, but you are in danger.”

No, my dear Raoul. I am the danger, Christine thought, biting back a choked laugh as she clutched the thick stone railing to steady herself. “I am so sorry,” she repeated. “I cannot bear it any longer.”

“What is it that you cannot bear, Christine?” Raoul asked, his voice straining as he attempted to speak calmly. “Speak to me. Let me help you.”

Christine shook her head sadly. “You cannot help me, Raoul. I am beyond saving.” 

“ No one is beyond saving,” he declared earnestly. “I know you, Christine. We grew up together. I know that there is something or someone doing this to you.”

Christine trembled, the snow-covered stone causing her feet and hands to go slowly numb as she stood silent.

“This all has to do with the Opera Ghost, doesn’t it?” Raoul asked softly.

Christine started in surprise.

“What hold does this ghost have over you, Christine?” Raoul demanded, pushing his advantage. “Or rather, this ‘Angel of Music’?”

With a stifled sob, Christine fell forward onto her knees, unable to keep her ragged emotions in check. “I was so blind,” she gasped. “I should have known better than to trust him—but it’s too late now.”

Suddenly, Raoul was kneeling before her, careless of his fine clothing being soaked in snow. He quickly removed his sturdy duster coat and draped the warm fabric over her shoulders.

“Oh, Raoul,” Christine said, her voice thick with tears. “How can you be so kind to me? You would hate me if only you knew.”

“I could never hate you, Christine,” he insisted solemnly. “I love you.”

It was only three words, but the moment he uttered them the world seemed to freeze in place.

She hardly dared to breathe as she glanced up into his face. “What?”

Raoul held her gaze with a look that was filled with burning intensity. “I am not sure who or what it is that you fear, but as long as I am here beside you, I will never let anything harm you again.”

He reached out and slowly gathered her icy hands between his own. “Christine, say you will share with me one love, one lifetime!” He spoke in a rush, as if he worried that she would stop him if he did not finish quickly. “Let me lead you from your solitude. Simply say that you need me with you, here beside you.”

She loved him. She knew it without a shadow of a doubt. It was a love far more powerful than anything she had ever experienced before. Yet to love him was to put him in danger, to be in danger herself.

“All I want is freedom,” she said softly. “A world with no more night.”

Raoul’s face fell, his eyes misting as he began to withdraw. In that moment, Christine’s heart turned traitor.

“I want to always have you here beside me.” She clung to his warm hands, pulling them to her chest as if somehow that would steady her frantic heartbeat. “I want you to hold me when I am hurting and to hide me when I am scared. The greatest treasure I could ask for would be to share the rest of my life with you, Raoul.” 

Fine lips parted in shock, his countenance transforming with a look of pure elation. He shot to his feet, pulling her to stand along with him. 

“Then say you love me, Christine,” he said ardently. “That is all I ask of you.”

She did not hesitate. “I love you, Raoul.”

He leaned down and Christine’s senses were overwhelmed by his heady scent. His blood sang out to her, its siren call awakening her thirst and sending it into a frenzy. She resisted the instinct to bury her teeth into his flesh with all the strength she had left, every nerve in her body burning as if lit on fire.

Please, she begged, not even sure who she was crying out to in her mental anguish . Save me.

Suddenly, Raoul’s lips met hers in a kiss. In that instant something inside her shifted. The burning pain surging through every vein was quenched in an instant, like a fire doused in cold water. She would have collapsed if not for Raoul breaking their kiss to steady her. 

“Christine?”

Rusty laughter bubbled up from deep inside of her as she swayed in his grip. Raoul smiled even as his brows knit in confusion. Before he could question her, she reached up and pulled his face down to kiss him again. 

His arms twined around her, deepening their kiss as he drew her close. After what felt like only a moment yet also an eternity, she pulled back, her head spinning. 

“We should go back,” she said, reluctant to leave his comforting embrace. “They will be wondering where we are.”

“Christine, I love you,” Roaul said softly, reaching one of his hands up to stroke a fly away hair behind her ear.

Christine leaned into his open palm as he stroked her cheek with his thumb. 

“Whatever lies ahead. We will face it together.”

Christine nodded solemnly. “Say the word, and I will follow you to the ends of the earth.”

For a moment they remained lost in each other's eyes, until a faint cry filled the night air.

“Christine! Christine!” The voice sounded like Meg’s.

“ Christine… ” a far more haunting voice floated through the air.

Raoul stiffened next to Christine. “Did you hear that?”

Christine froze for a moment before facing Raoul. “You must not go back to your box,” she warned. “You need to leave at once.”

Raoul frowned. “I promised to keep you safe, Christine, and I will. Just tell me the dangers you face.”

Christine hesitated. Could she trust Raoul completely?

“Christine!” Meg’s shout was closer.

“Why do you fear him?” Raoul said, his voice rumbling dangerously. “The Opera Ghost. What has he done?

Christine fidgeted in the cold. “He is incredibly dangerous,” she whispered. “He lives in a labyrinth below the Opera House, a world of unending night.”

“What?” Raoul looked incredulous at her statement. “Below the Opera House? How is that possible?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, but he took me there. I have seen it.”

Raoul’s eyes blazed. “He took you? Christine, did he—if he dared harm you—”

“No!” Panic seized her. “No. . . I am fine,” she insisted hollowly, crippling doubt worming its way through her thoughts. Could his love for her withstand the truth? 

“Christine.” Raoul took her face in his hands. “What did he do?”

She stood, paralyzed with indecision. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes as she looked up at him. 

His gaze grew hard as his hands dropped to his sides. “I will kill him.”

“No, Raoul—” 

Her plea was interrupted as Meg rushed out onto the roof. “Christine!”

Meg skidded to a stop at the sight of them standing together, her maid’s cap flapping almost comically the icy breeze. “What is going on?” she asked breathlessly, her panic growing visibly as her dark eyes darted between them. “What is he doing up here?”

“All is well, Meg,” Christine said, holding out her hands as she attempted to reassure her friend. “He saved me,” she added softly, her relief leaking into her voice.

Raoul’s posture relaxed slightly, as he stepped forward and took one of Christine’s hands in his own. “I came to ask Christine to marry me,” he stated.

Christine’s heart skipped a beat at hearing the result of their promises, so recently spoken, repeated for Meg so absolutely.  

“What?!” Meg’s shriek of horrified surprise echoed across the rooftop. 

Christine flinched, stung by her friend’s reaction, despite knowing that she had valid reasons for concern. At the same time, Raoul’s fingers tightened. His grip on her hand verged on painful.  

Meg bit her lip. “I am sorry,” she said quickly. “I was just–surprised. Christine, are you sure about this?”

No. I am not sure about anything, she thought to herself but out loud she answered with absolute certainty, “I love him, Meg.” 

Her friend went still, her expression resigned. “Very well.” She turned slightly to glare at Raoul. “But if you ever betray her trust, Hunter, I will end you myself.” 

Raoul’s grip eased as he chuckled softly. “Understood, Miss Giry.”

Meg nodded grimly. “We need to go back,” she said, swiveling back to Christine. “Carlotta has been taken to the hospital, and the intermission the manager’s called is almost finished. They want you to take her place.”

Christine’s shoulders slumped. She was already exhausted from her previous ordeal. 

Raoul let go of her hand and squeezed her shoulder through the fabric of his thick duster she still wore. “Don’t be afraid. I will stay close beside you. No harm will come to you.”

“Hurry! We must go!” Meg called, already making her way back through the door. 

Raoul took Christine’s hand again and pulled her forward. Taking a deep breath, Christine walked with him. Together they entered the dark doorway. Christine determined to leave her fears behind in the snow and to focus on new hopes for a bright future ahead.

Chapter Text

Erik stared at the stone gargoyle statues guarding the rooftop of the opera. A small part of him wished that he too were made of unfeeling stone. It had been decades since he had last endured the pain of such loss. 

How did it all go so wrong?

Even now his heightened senses could distinguish Christine’s voice, her breathing, even her heartbeat from the other two humans as they descended staircase after staircase. A heartbeat that should have stopped earlier that night with her first swallow of human blood. His thoughts turned back, examining the events leading up to the moment it had all tumbled down around him.

Erik had made sure that she had ample opportunities to feed over the past two weeks. Yet even poisoning the prima donna with doctored throat spray had not been enough. He had gone so far as to risk revealing his presence by taking on the form of a swarm of bats. In his altered state, he had scratched the pig-like face of Piangi as well as that of the mousy maid that served the diva. 

To his surprise, Christine fled. It had taken him longer than he would have liked to gather himself and escape the feeble entrapments of the humans. It was due to this delay that the Hunter arrived on the rooftop first. Erik chose to hide behind one of the large stone statues. After all, it would be poetic justice for the young suitor to seal Christine’s fate and bind her to Erik forever with his own life blood.

He shifted impatiently at their prolonged conversation. How could the insignificant boy even think to insult Christine’s dignity by offering to spend a paltry human lifetime with her? She was obviously destined for so much more than what that miserable creature could offer her. Erik held his breath, listening carefully for Christine’s response. Despite their past five years together as teacher and student, Erik found that he could never fully anticipate what Christine would do. A fact that both delighted and aggravated him in equal measure.

 “All I want is freedom,” she said softly. “A world with no more night.”

Erik grit his teeth, his fangs extending in response to his frustration. Her unwillingness to accept the situation was becoming ridiculous.

“I want to always have you here beside me,” she said, her heart rate spiking.

Erik froze, stunned by her sudden confession.  

“I want you to hold me when I am hurting and to hide me when I am scared. The greatest treasure I could ask for would be to share the rest of my life with you, Raoul.” 

Suddenly the two were standing as the viscount begged for confirmation of her love. The dense human could not hear the pounding of her heart or heaving of her lungs, or else he would already have his proof. How Erik longed to bolt from his hiding place and cut off those disgusting appendages that dared touch what did not belong to him. 

“I love you, Raoul,” Christine said.

The words hurt. Moreso because there was no doubt that she was telling the truth. Erik forced down the anger that welled up in his chest as the human leaned down. Finally, the pivotal moment had come. Christine was in the perfect position to feed. He could hear the change in her vital organs as she struggled with the overwhelming desire to satisfy her thirst.

Do it now, he longed to cry out. Embrace all that you were meant to be.

Instead Christine allowed the man to kiss her. The sight was maddening. However, the haze of anger that briefly clouded his vision passed when he detected a change in her heartbeat. Somehow, Christine’s body was resisting his venom. 

No! How is this possible?  

Christine laughed as the two of them broke apart, her voice filling with relief. 

His other senses confirmed what his eyes could clearly see. Against all odds, Christine had managed to cling to her humanity. Erik’s plan had failed. 

Suddenly, Christine pulled the viscount down to kiss her. It was more than Erik could bear. He flung himself behind the statue, but it was too late. The sight of Christine kissing the viscount was burned in his eyes. He clawed at his ears, wishing he could block out the sound of their mingled breath. But there was no escape from his heightened senses. No relief from the curse he would continue to bear forever. . . alone.

“Christine! Christine!” The shrill voice of the small ballet dancer pulled him out of his agonized huddle. He forced himself to turn and face them once more.

He could not help the anguished groan that fell from his lips. “ Christine… ” 

The Hunter suddenly became more alert, glancing around the rooftop. 

Christine stiffened upon hearing Erik’s voice. Her beautifully expressive eyes widened with recognition—some might have thought it fear, but he knew better. She warned the foppish noble not to return to his box seat. 

Little good such a warning would do. Hatred for the stupid, handsome young man clinging to Christine welled up inside of Erik, as bitter as the venom in his fangs. 

“Why do you fear him?” the viscount asked in his usual strident tone. “The Opera Ghost. What has he done?”

Erik shook his head in exasperation. It was unsurprising that the viscount should be unable to understand the complex relationship Erik had with his muse.

Christine was beginning to shiver uncontrollably, her fragile human body succumbing to prolonged exposure to the cold night air. 

“He is incredibly dangerous,” she whispered. “He lives in a labyrinth below the Opera House, a world of unending night.”

Erik smirked as he evaluated the viscount. He was far more dangerous than anything the viscount had ever faced in his paltry lifetime. It would be a simple matter to end the meddling boy’s life and dispose of the body underground. Yet, he was currently unprepared to deal with the inevitable intrusion of the Church in New Paris upon the hunter’s death. With Christine still vulnerable, and his plans thus in a delicate state, Erik could not risk killing the viscount just yet. The boy’s death would require careful planning.

His calculating thoughts were suddenly broken by the sudden leap in Christine’s heart beat.   

“Christine. What did he do?” the viscount demanded harshly.

Christine was panicking. Even from where he stood, Erik could smell the fear souring her blood and see the glint of tears forming in her eyes. Yes, fear. Of the viscount.

Would she tell her precious beau of what had transpired below? Would she trust him with the truth, or allow him to come to his own erroneous conclusions?

The viscount’s countenance twitched quickly through pain and disgust before settling on overwhelming fury. “I will kill him.”

Erik grinned savagely. How he longed to see the feeble human try. 

“No, Raoul—” 

Christine’s plea was interrupted by her friend rushing out onto the rooftop. 

“Christine! What is going on? What is he doing up here?”

Erik was surprised by the open hostility the ballerina showed for the viscount. He knew that his protege and the dancer were close friends, but he had perhaps underestimated the dancing girl’s loyalty to Christine. From her tense posture and guarded expression, she seemed all but ready to fight the hunter. Perhaps that could be of use later.

“All is well, Meg,” Christine said, holding out her hands as she attempted to reassure her friend. “He saved me.” 

The viscount stepped forward at Christine’s soft words. “I came to ask Christine to marry me.”

Erik covered his mouth to choke down an involuntary hiss of anger.

“What?!” the girl’s naturally piercing voice rose to a screech.

Christine flinched at the sound.

“I am sorry,” the dancer mumbled, regaining her lost composure. “I was just—surprised. Christine, are you sure about this?” 

Christine nodded. “I love him, Meg.” 

Erik clutched his chest, surprised by the pain radiating from just under his collarbone. His breath caught as he fought against particularly vivid memories of a wooden stake being driven through his chest all those years ago in Persia. 

“Very well,” the dancer said, her expression resigned. “But if you ever betray her trust, Hunter, I will kill you myself.” 

The viscount acknowledged her comment lightly, his grating laugh filling the night air.

The little dancer nodded, before returning to her pressing business. “We need to go back,” she said to Christine. “Carlotta has been taken to the hospital, and the intermission the manager’s called is almost finished. They want you to take her place.”

Erik frowned. He had almost forgotten the performance being held floors below. They should have given Christine the lead role in the first place, but even with the situation corrected, there was no hope of putting his plan into action tonight. Not with Christine in her current condition. 

His young student seemed to shrink into herself, her eyes betraying her exhaustion.

The viscount reached out a grubby paw to grip her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. I will stay close beside you. No harm will come to you.”

Erik bristled at the youth’s arrogance. The foolish boy could not hope to protect her from the dangers that lay ahead. The only thing about him that would have been beneficial to Christine was the blood circulating through his veins, but now even that was useless. 

“Hurry! We must go!” the dancer called, already making her way back through the door. Christine and the viscount followed her through the dark opening, closing the door behind them.

Erik’s gaze slowly refocused on the barrier between him and Christine. There was no way he could have predicted that Christine would find a way to make herself immune to his venom. Yet her act of defiance had effectively sealed her doom. 

“I gave you my music,” he whispered into the night air, his breath leaving no trace in the cold, so unlike the humans who had occupied the space not long ago. “Made your song take wing. And now, how you have repaid me. . . denied me and betrayed me.”

Just on the edge of his hearing, Erik caught the sound of the viscount’s grating voice, speaking to Christine. It was all his fault.

“He was bound to love you when he heard you sing . . .” Erik slumped to the snow covered ground, burying his face in his hands. 

If only he had protected her better. “Oh Christine… Christine …” Erik was surprised at the sensation of something wet trailing down his face. A tear? He had thought it impossible for his body to cry anymore. Perhaps it was an omen, a sign that there was still a chance to do the impossible and save Christine from what lay ahead. 

Letting his hands fall away, Erik steeled himself. He did not have time to wallow in emotions. His highest priority was to keep Christine from leaving the Opera. It was the only way to ensure that she would be safe. That the viscount would not attempt to remove her from the city and allow her to fall into their hands. Erik shuddered at the thought. With his mind made up, Erik stood and ran straight to the edge of the rooftop. He leaped over the edge, allowing the magic to tear him apart, splitting his mind and body into a swarm of bats. A plan was forming in his disparate consciousness. A plan that involved paying a long overdue visit to the meddling stagehand Joseph Buquet.

“You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!” he cried, his voice devolving into a crescendo of inhuman shrieks on the icy air.

Chapter Text

Christine did her best to give a good performance despite her exhaustion and general dislike for this particular production. It was Raoul’s steadying presence in the wings that kept her grounded. Rather than sing to the lead, she turned slightly past him and sang to Raoul, pouring her emotions into the songs so that Raoul would know how much she loved and needed him. How she longed to get off the stage and tell him everything he needed to know, before her courage gave way again.

Finally the production reached its climax. The majority of the cast was on stage. Ballerinas dressed as shepherdesses with beribboned wreaths or wooly sheep on leashes made up the background as Christine and her leading man met mid-stage for the revelation of her identity that would mark the end of the act. Just as the music fell into silence for Christine to sing her part, a girl from the chorus screamed.

Suddenly the entire room was filled with screams and cries of terror and surprise. Christine turned around to look at what the frightened audience members were pointing at. 

A limp body swung just over the heads of the dancers. Somehow, Joseph Buquet had fallen from his scaffolding high above the stage. One of the thick ropes that he used to raise and lower the giant backdrops had gotten caught around his neck in such a way that he had hung himself when he fell. 

How could such an accident have happened?

“It was no accident.” 

Christine startled at the haunting voice that reverberated around her. Was the phantom truly inside her mind? She twisted around, going still at the sight of the tall figure standing beside her. He was cloaked in a shepherd’s outfit, including a wide hat which obscured the upper half of his face. She fought the urge to cower away from him.

“Do as I say, Christine, unless you wish for your viscount to share Buquet’s fate.”

She felt her knees buckle, her heart all but stopping. “No–no you can’t.”

“You must continue to reside in the opera house, perform when requested, and you will not leave the city under any circumstances. Fail to obey me, and I will ensure that your beau’s death is not as quick and painless as Buquet’s.”

Christine’s breaths turned shallow as tears filled her eyes. “I beg you,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm. “You must not harm him. I cannot bear to lose him—!” 

He pulled back as if her touch burned him. “Heed my warning, Christine. His fate is in your hands.”

The vampire was gone by the time her knees hit the stage. Raoul was shoving his way through the panicked crowd. She could faintly hear him and Meg calling her name. But the two managers were shouting loudly from their box about the whole situation being a terrible accident, and suddenly everything was just too loud, too crowded, too much for her to handle.

Christine crumpled into herself. The all too familiar roar of ocean waves filled her ears. She tried closing her eyes, but she could not escape the site of the tide pulling a vibrant red scarf further and further away from her. The aching, overwhelming grief pressed down on her chest with so much force that she could not seem to draw breath. 

I cannot escape from him. I never will.

“Christine! Christine!” Meg cried in a panicked voice. “Do you need more medicine?”

Christine barely managed to shake her head in the negative. The movement made her dizzy. Or was it the lack of air?

“Christine,” Raoul called to her, sliding his steady arms beneath her and scooping her up against his chest. “Everything will be all right. I’m here. You are safe.”

Without thinking, Christine wrapped her arms around Raoul’s neck, grounding herself with his steadying presence. Wrapped in his warm embrace, Christine felt her panic shift. The pain in her heart began to ease, as she finally drew in a shaky breath. 

The church would surely retaliate if he dares to harm Raoul. They would stop at nothing to protect one of their Hunters. 

A moment later, she was suspended in the air. Raoul was carrying her off stage with Meg following closely beside him. Christine shifted her head, turning to look over his shoulder at the gruesome corpse the stage hands were attempting to bring down. 

Raoul said something. She could feel the words rumble in his chest, but for some reason she could not make sense of them. She could only see the look of terror transfixed upon Buquet’s lifeless face. 

No. The church cannot stop him. Even if it meant killing a thousand men, the Phantom would only kill and kill. . . and kill again.

Someone was tugging at her arm. Raoul was rumbling again, faster this time. Almost as if he were concerned about something. 

This masked creature of death cannot be allowed to live, Christine decided with a sense of finality. 

“Christine? Christine!” 

At Meg’s distraught tone, Christine finally snapped back into full awareness.

“Yes, Meg. I hear you. Set me down please, Raoul.” 

The viscount hesitated, looking down at her. “Christine, are you sure that’s a g—?”

Christine squirmed, cutting off his question with her struggles.

With a frustrated sigh, Raoul slowly lowered her legs to the ground but kept a firm grip on her shoulders, tucking her into his side.

“I am feeling much better now,” she tried to say reassuringly. “I’m sorry to have worried you both.”

Meg grabbed onto her arm, her grip painfully tight. “Worried! You have no idea,” she hissed, darting a look at the viscount before focusing her dark eyes back on Christine. “What happened?”

Christine shuddered involuntarily.

Raoul pulled her tighter against him. “I think it best that we save our questions until we have moved Christine to a more secure location.” 

Raoul’s concerned eyes darted around, probably watching for danger amidst the chaotic swirl of cast members running past them. They focused on the door as the shrill sound of a policeman’s whistle filled the auditorium, accompanied by a swarm of blue coated officers.

“Who called the sûreté ?” Meg wondered aloud, stiffening as the uniformed men took over the stage and surrounding areas. “An accident should not warrant this many.”

“Unless it was not an accident,” Raoul said in a low voice, his expression grave. 

Christine hesitated for an instant, feeling a slight change in the air behind her. She whirled around, her body shifting into the fighting stance her father had drilled into her long ago.

A tall, dark man wearing an unusual cap emerged from the shadows so smoothly, he seemed to have appeared from thin air. His lips turned up in a faint smile at Christine’s quick reaction to his presence.

"Mademoiselles and monsieur,” he greeted, his tone polite and professional, if faintly accented.

Meg jumped, startled at his sudden appearance, but Raoul simply turned to face the stranger, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“My apologies for having startled you,” the strange man intoned, with a slight bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Inspector Nadir Khan. As eyewitnesses, I hope you would not be opposed to answering a few questions.”

Christine forced herself to relax her posture, keeping her face carefully neutral.

“Of Course not, Inspector,” Raoul answered. “I am happy to answer any question you may have, and—” Reaching into his breast pocket, he retrieved a small silver badge which he presented to the strange man. “I would like to offer my services in investigating this incident.”

“Chevalier deChagney,” the man read solemnly before returning the badge. “It is kind of you to offer your assistance to us, venerable Hunter. Is there a reason that you wish to be made a part of this investigation?” He tilted his head. “Does the Church suspect the deceased of heresy?”

Christine’s breath caught in her throat, at the Inspector’s direct question. Meg started shaking ever so slightly.

“No, Inspector. However, I am concerned that this incident may be connected to another matter that I am currently investigating.”  

The man nodded. “Very well.” Snapping his fingers, he quickly gained the attention of a young officer who rushed over to his side. “Notify Inspector Ledoux that Hunter deChagney will be assisting with the investigation.”  

The young man saluted briefly before rushing back the way he came. 

“I assume you wish to examine the body?” 

Raoul nodded. “Yes. I appreciate your cooperation, Inspector. If I might make one further request?”

The man lifted a dark eyebrow, but nodded easily enough.

“I am concerned for the safety of my fiancee, Mlle. Daaé. I would like to have her escorted by your men to my family home in the upper ring.”

Christine felt the blood drain from her face. “No!” At the surprised look Raoul gave her, she struggled to return her voice to a reasonable volume. “No, Raoul. I am afraid that I cannot leave.”

Raoul frowned and Meg’s expression went blank.

“I shall be glad to provide an escort for Mlle. Daaé, should she require one,” the strange Inspector interjected, “ after I have asked her and her companion a few questions.”

Raoul seemed torn, but nodded in agreement. “We shall talk about what arrangements need to be made when I return.” He turned to take Christine’s hands in his own. “Wait for me.”

Raoul remained firmly in place until she made full eye contact and nodded. He smiled softly before making his way back toward the stage.

Meg quickly stepped forward and looped a protective arm through Christine’s. However, Christine could feel the tremors running through her friend’s body as the Inspector turned his sharp gaze upon them.

“Come. Let us adjourn to a more comfortable setting,” he said, his professional manner relaxing into something softer. “We have little time and much to discuss.”

“Discuss?” Meg asked frowning. “What do you mean?”

The Inspector shook his head, his dark eyes carefully searching the shadows above them. “Not here,” he said softly. “Come. Madame V. should be awaiting us near the dormitories.”

Christine and Meg exchanged surprised looks but quickly followed the Inspector as he began making his way toward the back of the opera house.

Sure enough, Christine spotted Mama Valerius’ familiar figure waiting near their chambers. She looked up at the sound of their footsteps, her gaze flitting from Meg to the Inspector before settling on Christine. A flash of relief passed over her.

“I am pleased to see that you are holding up so well,” she said, with a soft smile before turning to the Inspector. “He’s made his move. We need to act quickly.”

Meg herded them into the small white-washed room she and Christine shared, locking the door behind her.

“ Who made his move?” she demanded, her voice wavering slightly. “Do you mean the Phantom? D–did he kill Buquet?”

The Inspector nodded solemnly. “I am afraid so. He appears to be making a statement through the unfortunate man’s demise. Or perhaps it is a warning.”

A wave of dizziness passed over Christine at the Inspector’s words, causing her to sink down on her narrow bed. 

“Christine?” Meg flitted to her, hovering just beside her.

“Inspector Kahn is right. He–he told me that Buquet’s death was a promise of what he would do to Raoul if I attempt to flee.”

The silence in the room was deafening.

“Oh Christine,” Meg sank down next to Christine pulling her into a hug even as she tried to suppress her own shuddering breaths. “There has to be something we can do?”

“Well, Daroga?” Mama Valerius demanded. “What is your plan?”

“This kind of operation cannot be rushed into blindly,” the Inspector replied, a hint of irritation lacing his tone. “There are many variables to consider, especially now with this Hunter involved. Why was I not informed of his engagement with Mlle. Daaé?”

Mama Valerius stiffened. “Engagement? What engagement?”

Christine straightened her posture, attempting to hide the lingering knot of worry in the pit of her stomach. “Raoul followed me up to the roof after the attack on Carlotta. He asked me to marry him, and I accepted.”

“You what? ” 

“What is done is done.” The Inspector’s clipped tone cut firmly through the flurry of Mama Valerius and Meg’s questions that followed. 

“I must return before the others—including Mlle. Daaé’s fiance—become suspicious of my absence. Now, mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to render as detailed an account as you can of the Phantom.” With precise movements, he pulled a small notebook and a nub of a pencil from his breast pocket, ready to take notes. 

Christine paused, attempting to swallow down the feeling of nausea rising up in her throat. With a deep breath, she spoke, forcing herself to relive the night she was betrayed by her mentor in order to recall every last detail. 

Both Mama Valerius and Meg remained silent through her description of the vampire and the events of her abduction. Neither had heard the whole account in coherent detail before. 

By the time Christine had finished, she felt painfully raw and hollow inside. It was reminiscent of the weariness she experienced when fleeing with her father to New Paris. The hoards of undead they faced every night forced them to fight until their hands were blistered and bloody, only to go to sleep in the morning with empty bellies once the last of their rations ran out. However, while raw hands could be wrapped and hollow bellies could be filled, nothing could soothe the throbbing ache inside. Christine closed her eyes for a moment attempting to pull herself together. She would trade anything to turn back time and see her father once more–to feel safe again.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle.” The Inspector said, softly pulling her out of her stupor. 

“I can begin cataloging the entrances and exploring the underground passages tonight.”

“Mapping out the tunnels will take time,” Mama Valerius said, her tone somber. “And time is the one thing we do not have.” 

“What about Christine?” Meg asked, hugging her tighter. “We have to get her out before he tries to snatch her away again.”

Christine shook her head, ready to protest that she could not risk Raoul’s safety, however the Inspector spoke first.

“That would be inadvisable at this time,” he said gently. “The Phantom seems strangely fixated upon Mlle. Daaé. I believe that removing her would provoke him into further acts of violence, especially upon the viscount. And the death of a Hunter would surely bring the Church down upon New Paris.”

Numbness settled over Christine at the Inspector’s cool pronouncement of facts. Strangely, she almost welcomed it. It was a relief to bury her pain and any other remnants of emotion under the cool nothingness. 

“Until we can determine the Phantom’s agenda, mapping his domain is our best option.” 

“Then you had better get started,” said Mama Valerius solemnly. “Come by my shop for whatever supplies you need.”

The Inspector mumbled his thanks.

“In the meantime, dearies,” she continued, bending over to rummage around in her carpet bag, “I have a few things to help keep you safer in this lion’s den.”

She quickly pressed what almost looked like a toy pistol into Christine’s hand, and a sheathed dagger into Meg’s.

“It is difficult to find weapons of the quality we need without raising suspicion. I have my contacts searching for more, but in the meantime this is the best that I can provide. These you can carry about your person without drawing undue attention.”

Meg unsheathed her dagger in a swift motion, watching the light from the gas lamp on the wall play on the gleaming silver blade. “Thank you,” she said softly, her eyes shining with determination.

Mama Valerius nodded. “I am afraid that your pistol has but one shot, Christine. I have a smith working on creating more, but the blend of materials is difficult to get right. So if you are ever presented with the opportunity, make the shot count and aim for the creature’s heart. Send him back to Hell where he belongs!”

The Inspector grew very still at the spirited remark. Worry, anger, and strangely fear passed over his face in quick succession before he managed to cover them in a mask of indifference. 

“A single shot, even to the heart, is unlikely to finish the job,” he said, turning to fix Christine with his keen stare. “Please do not make any rash decisions. If possible, I would greatly prefer that you leave the task of subduing this vampire to me.”

Christine tilted her head slightly. He phrased his request so carefully. Subdue…  

“You mean to take him alive?” she asked, her tone devoid of emotion.

Mama Valerius and Meg both turned to stare incredulously at the the Inspector. His blank expression remained steadfast under the scrutiny as he considered Christine’s question.

“Yes.”

His simple statement plunged the room into icy silence.

Christine clenched her fists around the pistol, careful to keep her fingers away from the trigger. 

“Why?” 

“He has information that I need.”

“Information?” Meg hissed, bristling like an angry cat. “What information could be so important that—”

“Information that is crucial for the survival of the human race as we know it!” the Inspector cut in. “Madame V. Is correct. Time is running out. Not just for Mlle. Daaé, or the people of New Paris, but for all of humanity.”

Mama Valerius crossed her pillowy arms over her chest. “Humanity has managed to survive despite the curse of the Black Death for well over 400 years, Daroga. What has you so panicked that you would turn to this murdering vampire for help?”

The Inspector pinched the bridge of his nose. “There is a great danger rising in the East. We are on the brink of a war, the likes of which no one has ever seen or comprehended until now. A war to end all other wars.”

His words echoed hollowly in Christine’s brain. A war to end all wars . Father said this day would come . She had never fully believed it. 

“Are you certain that he has the information you need?” Christine asked quietly.

The Inspector sagged a little, suddenly looking many years older. “No. I am not certain. But you have my word. If he refuses to cooperate, I will end him. I swear it upon the grave of my son.”

Christine nodded, tension leaking out of her tired muscles at this earnest tone. “Very well. I will refrain from shooting unless I have no other choice.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle. That is all I can ask.” He straightened himself, carefully tucking away his notebook and pencil. “I should return. After I give my report, I will meet you at your place of business, Madame V. Then I can begin my search of the tunnels under the opera house.”

“Do not think you can escape me so easily, Daroga,” Mama Valerius hissed, as the man swiftly unlocked the door and exited the room. Shoving an extra bottle of medicine toward Meg, Mama Valerius quickly gathered up her carpet bag and darted after him. The sound of her angry grumbling faded as she trailed the Inspector down the hall. Meg carefully tucked her dagger back into its sheath and got up to close the door after them. Turning, she leaned her head back against the wooden boards.

“How could this night get any worse?” she mumbled.

At her words, someone knocked on the door.

“Christine? Are you in there?”

Meg tensed at the sound of Raoul’s voice even as a small part of Christine relaxed at his gentle tone.

“One moment, Raoul,” Christine called, quickly shoving the pistol under her pillow. Meg darted across the room to do the same with her dagger. 

Once the weapons were out of sight, Christine went to open the door. Meg crossed her arms but settled herself by leaning against the wall at the back of the room, giving Christine and Raoul the illusion of privacy, despite the fact that she would probably be able to hear every word they spoke to each other.

Carefully pulling the door open, Christine let out a relieved breath at the sight of Raoul standing unharmed before her in the hall.

“I was worried when I could not find you backstage,” he muttered softly. “You promised to wait for me, so that we could make arrangements.”

His expression was carefully neutral, but Christine could tell by the tension in his shoulders that he was worried about her answer.

“Inspector Kahn thought it would be easier for us to concentrate and give our statements in a less crowded area,” Christine quickly explained. “I did not mean to worry you, Raoul,” she said with heartfelt emotion. “I do apologize.”

Raoul frowned, his gaze flicking back towards the hallway that the Inspector and Mama Valerius had traveled down, even though neither were in sight anymore.

“Did the old woman have a statement for him as well?” he asked casually.

Christine forced her stance to remain loose and open. 

“Oh, no. Mama Valerius provides medical aid to many of the dancers at the opera. She simply had some questions to ask the Inspector which he did not wish to answer.”

Raoul’s gaze slid over Christine’s head to assess Meg. The ballerina simply glared back at him, her annoyed expression at odds with her bright stage makeup and shepherdess outfit.  

“How did she know to find him in your apartments? Unless… she was already here?” 

Christine’s mind went blank as she began to silently panic.

“Last time I saw this Madame Valerius, Mlle. Giry was assisting her in finding her way to the dancer’s dormitories.” 

Meg’s glare began to crack under his analytical gaze.

“Why was she here, Christine?” he asked, his voice hardening slightly. “Mlle. Giry does not seem to be in any need of medical aid. Which leaves…” 

Christine quickly reached out to clasp the door, her knees wobbling dangerously under her.

“What are you insinuating, Raoul?” she asked, her attempt at false bravado falling flat.

“You were kidnapped on the night of your debut two weeks ago, Christine. Two weeks. . .” The words died on his lips as a new thought seemed to cross his mind. “Oh. . .”

“Raoul?” Christine whispered, reaching out.

He flinched back from her touch, blinking back what seemed to be a sheen of tears in his eyes.

Christine quickly pulled back, stung by his reaction.  

“No, no, no.” Raoul nervously ran a hand through his hair, mussing it horribly. “How could I have let this happen?” 

Suddenly, Meg came to stand at Christine’s side. “Get a hold of yourself, Viscount.” 

In a different situation, Christine would have been amused by how similar her friend sounded to her austere mother. As it was, she could only stand and watch in fascinated horror as Raoul attempted to regather his composure.

“Are you with child by force, Christine?” he whispered softly.

His question stole her breath. Relief and anguish blended together inside her, as she struggled to form her answer—any answer.

“Tread carefully, Viscount,” Meg whispered, her tone as sharp as the dagger she had received from Mama Valerius. “Remember your promise to me this night. Will you stand by Christine no matter what?”

“Stop!” Christine cried, her voice coming out as little more than an agonized croak. “Just stop, Meg.” She squeezed her eyes shut. 

She could not face him. She could not bear to watch the heart rending expression on his face break further when she told him the truth. He would hate her. She had been broken beyond repair, even if it was not in the way he suspected. Her love was a poison which only endangered him further—endangered everyone she cared about.

“Please leave,” she whispered, eyes still firmly closed.

“Christine, I—”

Meg pulled Christine back from the door. “She asked you to leave, Viscount.”

Christine finally managed to open her eyes, unable to stop herself from taking one last look at the love of her life. He froze under her searching gaze, his expression torn between anguish and confusion.

“Go home, before I do something that I will later regret.” Meg admonished, shutting the door between them with more force than strictly necessary, and throwing the bolt. Christine stood frozen in place until she heard the tell-tale thump of booted feet walking away.

The tattered remnants of her strength finally gave way. She stumbled back to her bed and buried her face in the worn blankets, unable to even cry through the mess of emotions swirling inside of her. 

With careful hands, Meg gently unpinned Christine’s hair before working on the lacings of her costume. It took herculean effort for Christine to stand up and shed the costume like a snake casting off its skin. Her mind seemed strangely detached from the rest of her body, as she went through the motions of preparing for bed.

Once clothed in her nightgown, she turned to help Meg with her pins and lacings. The costume department would have their heads the following morning for not returning their costumes promptly, but Christine could not bring herself to care. Her slow progress with helping Meg earned her an impatient huff and in the end banishment to her bed once again.  

She slid under the worn covers, and laid on her back too exhausted to sleep. She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused even before Meg turned out the gas and slid into her own bed some time later.

What do I do? What do I do? The question repeated itself over and over in Christine’s mind. She felt so trapped. She closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would pull her into oblivion, but her thoughts continued to spin endlessly in a messy loop. 

Oh, Papa, some irrational part of her demanded. Why did you leave me? I need you to tell me what to do. 

Christine’s eyes snapped open. Her conscience rebelled at the vague plan forming in her mind, but the darkness she kept locked deep down pushed back. 

Perhaps he still can? The darkness whispered, dangerously close to breaking free. You managed it once before. You could do it again.

Even after seven years, the memory rose in her mind’s eye with perfect clarity. The feeling of the coarse sand under her fingernails, cold water soaking through her dress, and the taste of salt on her lips attempting to pull her deeper into the memory. 

Do I dare? Rubbing the side of her neck subconsciously, a phantom pain radiated through the skin following the curve of the bite which had long since healed. Cold hatred churned inside of Christine as the debilitating feeling of helplessness returned. She clenched her hands into fists, resolve hardening into a single clear thought.

What do I have to lose?  

Chapter Text

Christine knelt at the foot of her bed. The cold stone floor made her legs ache as she crouched by her clothes chest. The dark stain of sturdy wooden box caused it to blend in with the shadows, nearly invisible against the footboard of her bed. Carefully propping the lid open, she emptied an armful of clothing and personal items on the floor, all she had in the world. Her fingers traced the sides of the empty box until they found the catch of the false bottom. She pulled it free. 

Setting the large plank of wood to the side, she reverently removed a bundle wrapped in protective oil cloth from the hidden compartment. Her hands trembled as she peeled back the flaps, revealing the well-used set of armor she had hoped never to need again. Despite its years of disuse, the armor was well-maintained. She had no trouble slipping each piece over her nightgown, snowy white fabric disappearing bit by bit under blackened steel, thick leather, and glimmering veins of silver. 

By the time she had attached the final piece—an intricately detailed gorget which protected her throat—she had fully transformed back into the warrior her father had trained her to be. She drifted silently back to her bed and extracted the pistol from under her pillow, slipping it into the pocket of the cloak she had draped over her arm. 

Meg sighed as she turned in her sleep. A sudden wave of guilt halted Christine’s steps at her friend’s soft movement. It would be cruel to leave without some sort of explanation. She knew how quick Meg was to worry. 

Darting back to her pile of belongings, she dug out a playbill that she had saved from her first performance and scrawled a brief note on the back.

Going to the cemetery to talk to Papa and clear my head. Be back in a few hours. 

Leaving the note on the top of her bed, Christine made her way to the door. With her duty to her friend satisfied she swiftly unlatched the bolt. Her steps were absolutely silent as she exited the room, and made her way down the hall. However, she had only gone a short distance when she came across an obstacle in her way. Someone had their leg stretched out across her path.

Glancing up from the leg, Christine was shocked to see that its owner was none other than Raoul. Her heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight of him sleeping on an uncomfortable looking chair in the hallway. 

What is he doing here? She wondered, worry clashing with a sharp burst of fondness at the sight of him. He didn’t leave. Maybe he doesn’t hate me, A hopeful part of her whispered. Or…does he suspect the truth? 

Christine startled as Raoul shifted in his sleep. In the low light, she caught the gleam of a pistol almost completely hidden by his crossed arms. It eased her mind to know that he was not completely defenseless, even if he had chosen such an inadvisable place to sleep. Holding her breath, Christine carefully stepped over his leg, careful to keep her cloak from brushing him as she moved. 

Satisfied that she had not disturbed him, Christine quickly made her way down the hall, compromising stealth for greater speed. She wound her way through the maze of hallways and passages, following the smell of hay and horse manure to the stable yard. If she was lucky, one of the stable hands would still be around, sleeping off last night’s excess in an empty stall. Most of the hands could be bribed with a few coins into letting her borrow a horse and cart so long as it was returned before it would be missed.

Slinging the cloak over her shoulders to obscure her armor and protect her from the chilly air, Christine made her way through the stalls, her eyes peeled for a tell-tale lump in the straw. A few of the stabled horses continued to sleep, but one nickered as he poked his nose out, obviously hoping for a hand out. She gently patted his nose, but kept on moving. Her search was soon rewarded with a loud snore.

“Hello?” Christine quickly spotted just what she was looking for. A middle aged man was curled up in a mound of hay, a meaty hand clutching a dark bottle just under his chin.

“Good morning, Monsieur!” she said with more volume.

The man groaned, slowly pulling his free hand up to shield his eyes. “Keep it down, whouldya,” he slurred. “No need t’shout.”

“My apologies for disturbing you, Monsieur, but I am afraid that I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

The man slowly sat up, fixing Christine with a glower. “Wha’time ‘sit?” he grumbled squinting past Christine toward the open yard. His glower soured further at the dim grayness of the pre-dawn light.

“Would you be willing to drive me to the cemetery by the north city wall?” Christine pressed. “I can pay you 10 francs.”

The man’s expression quickly changed from frowning to calculating. “Wha’so urgent? Ya goin’t’a funeral?”

“My business is no concern of yours,” she said, tone hardening. 

The man grumbled, slowly hauling himself to his feet and attempting to dust off the bits of hay that were stuck all over his clothes. 

“Stupid lover’s trysts,” he mumbled under his breath, “Runnin’ away at the crack of dawn a’fore a man’s had so much as drop to drink or bite to eat.” He sought to remedy his situation by putting the bottle he had been holding to his lips and tilting his head back. He cursed under his breath when he discovered it to be empty.

Christine reached into the pocket of her cloak for her money pouch. She flinched as her fingers brushed over the handle of the tiny pistol before locating the soft leather bag. Pulling out five francs, she stepped forward and placed the coins into the man’s empty hand. “Here. Half now—half when we get there.”

The man continued to grumble, but he began to move at faster pace after stowing the coins in the inner pocket of his vest. 

“Fine. Wait out in t’yard. Don’ need ya gettin’ under foot.”

Nodding, Christine stepped out into the open portion of the yard. She walked around briskly, the movement helping to keep her warm in the cold morning air. She examined the end of the yard idly as she waited, and was surprised to find a number of flower arrangements discarded near the garbage cart. Perhaps they had been meant to serve as congratulatory bouquets to appease Carlotta, but had been discarded after—well, after everything ended in disaster.

It was a shame to see perfectly fine flowers wasted. Bending down, Christine gathered a few of the best preserved roses into a small bouquet and tied them off with a length of ribbon she scrounged from one of the gaudier bundles. Satisfied with her handiwork, Christine made her way back to check on the man’s progress. She was pleasantly surprised to see that the stable hand had hitched a large white horse to one of the finer carriages, and had settled himself, wrapped in a thick cloak, upon the driver’s bench.

Christine climbed into the carriage. “ Merci .”

The man ignored her thanks and urged the horse forward. With smooth movements he guided them out into the quiet streets. The sun had just begun to peak over the horizon, but the sky was filled with thick gray clouds diffusing the light and muffling the noises of the city as it began to wake from its slumber.

Christine clutched her small bouquet closer, her heart clenching as the densely packed housing eventually gave way to squalid slums. The smell of sewage filled the streets through the layer of gray slush that had once been newly fallen snow. Ragged children darted through the tiny alleys, avoiding the huddled bodies of the elderly or infirm which were left to fend for themselves on the narrow sidewalks.

Her heart ached for the people of the lower ring. Nine out of ten were refugees who had no other place to go. Thanks to her father’s reputation and the tiny inheritance he had left her, she had never suffered as these poor people did. New Paris was lauded as a city of hope and opportunity, but did little to help those who needed it most.

The carriage rattled on, leaving the slums behind as they crossed one of the city’s many bridges and entered the buffer zone. Sprawling labor camps dotted the barren land all the way up to the wall which loomed overhead as far as could be seen in either direction. Where the ground was not covered by tarps or tents it was rutted and muddy from the constant activity in the camps. She could hear the banging and shouting of craftsmen beginning their day as well as the notes of a bugle signaling the changing of the guard. It took a veritable army of people to keep the massive wall both maintained and defended.  

Christine’s focus shifted away from the camps as soon as the old quarry came into view. The giant pit-like opening of the quarry gaped like the maw of an animal; a spiked half-rusted fence ringing the circumference like blood-stained teeth. It was a forbidding place to put a cemetery. 

The stable hand guided the horse off the paved road onto the muddy path that led to the gateway. The sturdy iron gate which served as the only way in and out of the cemetery was propped open, a sleepy guard huddled in his booth to the side. He barely spared Christine a second glance as the carriage rolled to a stop. His presence was merely to reassure the general public, since the likelihood of a body turning undead during the daylight hours was practically nonexistent. 

“You have my thanks,” Christine said, quickly alighting from the carriage before the stable hand could get down from his seat. “Here is the rest of your payment, as promised.” She tossed him a large five franc coin, darting through the gateway before he could attempt to question her or try to bargain for more. 

Icy mud clung to her well-worn boots as she walked. There was little to see on the upper level of the cemetery, as it merely served as an open space for memorial services to be held. The bodies were buried on the lower levels, accessible only by a single winding flight of stairs. 

She quickly crossed the open yard to reach the top of the stairway flanked by unlit lamposts on either side. While the steps were broad and well maintained, the stone was slick with snow. Christine gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering as she descended, feeling the temperature dropping steadily the further down she went.

There were many paths that branched off from the main flight of steps leading to smaller burial plots cluttered with simple headstones crowned with snow. However, the grave markings gradually became more elaborate the further down she went. Laughing skulls and guardian angels sculpted from the native stone were set above the more prominent graves. To Christine, the grand monuments seemed cold and impersonal. They were the wrong sort of companions for her Papa. In life, he had always been so warm and gentle.

Finally she reached the bottom of the quarry. Rows of mausoleums had been carved into the cliff-like face of the quarry wall. They ranged from incredibly large and ornate to utterly simplistic. Christine made her way solemnly to the last one on the right. The opening seemed dark from the outside, but as soon as she stepped over the lintel, her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim lighting provided by a shaft cut into the cliff-face. The soft beam illuminated the simple stone coffin which stood alone in an otherwise empty chamber.

Christine’s steps echoed in the still air as she carefully placed her bouquet down in front of the plaque at the foot of the coffin. Her fingers trailed over the inscription carved into the metal.

Friend and Father.

“You were so much more than that,” she said, voice hitching with emotion. “You were my dearest companion. . . the only one left that mattered.”

She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. “You lied to me, Papa. You promised that when you died, you would send me the angel of music.”

Her voice caught, and she glared at the coffin lid. “You promised, but the angel never came.”

What did you expect? The darkness sneered, churning inside her with sickening familiarity. You were foolish and naive. It is no wonder that you fell so easily for the lies of a monster.  

The truth of the accusation only made the pain of it cut deeper.

“You left me here alone!” she cried, her fist slamming against the unyielding stone of the coffin lid. The strike sent a jolt of pain through her hand and up her arm. 

“You promised me! You promised me.” A choked sob tore through her throat at the empty accusations. She pulled back, cradling her aching arm against her body.

 “What am I supposed to do?” she whispered. “Everytime I try to pick up the pieces, my world shatters again and again.” She forced herself to relax, letting her arms hang loose at her sides. 

“I am so tired, Papa. Just tell me how to fix this, please. Can you hear me?” She held her breath, waiting for something—a sign—anything. Oppressive silence filled the mausoleum. 

Stop holding back, the darkness whispered in her mind . Just give in. . . 

Very well.

For the first time in seven years, Christine fully relinquished control. Her mouth opened of its own accord and the words began pouring out wild and free, mingling with the music that flowed straight from her soul.

“ Wishing you were somehow here again.

Wishing you were somehow near.

Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed,

Somehow you would be here .”

Her words filled the air with power, the way the sky felt right before a lightning strike. They swirled around her, thick with longing as well as laced with danger.

“Wishing I could hear your voice again.

Knowing that I never would .

Dreaming of you, won't help me to do,

All that you dreamed I could…”

The soft beam of light seemed to twist above the coffin. It moved slowly, taking on a vaguely human shape as it fought against the pull of her words. 

“Too many years, fighting back tears. Why can't the past just die?”  

Her breath caught as an achingly familiar face began to materialize, looking down on her as if through a veil of light. Ever so slowly, the figure shook its head back and forth. Her voice died away at the look of disappointment on his face.

 She collapsed to her knees with a muted clang, burying her face in her hands. What am I doing? she thought, panic rising. How could I ever justify dragging Papa back from his eternal rest ?

Sucking in a heaving breath, she struggled to regain control over the unnatural power. It was like trying to stop the flow of a dam that had already burst open. The current was too strong. There was far too much power pouring out to shove it all back in at once. She had to wrestle it back the same way it had left her. 

“ Wishing you were somehow here again. Knowing we must say goodbye.”

The darkness roared in her ears as she reigned it in with an iron grip.

“Try to forgive… ” she begged softly, not daring to lift her eyes. 

A velvet touch brushed across her cheek, startling her into looking up once again. Rose petals swirled in the air all around her, filling the room with their calming perfume.  The figure in the light was dissipating quickly, but the smile he beamed down on her was filled with pure love.

“ Teach me to live, ” she sang, reaching up to him.

The light washed over her hands, leaving behind a single white rose petal.

“ Give me the strength to try.”  

Tears formed in her eyes at precious gift cradled in her hands. 

“No more memories, no more silent tears,” she promised. “No more gazing across the wasted years.”

With the darkness once more tucked deep down inside, the air stilled, scattering rose petals over the coffin lid and floor. 

“Help me say, Goodbye.”

Slowly, Christine rose once more to her feet, cradling the white petal to her chest. With a final breath she let her voice rise to the heavens in a heartfelt farewell.

“ Help me say, Goodbye…”

When the stillness returned to the mausoleum, it no longer felt stifling and oppressive. If anything the emptiness of the room filled her with relief. She had almost made a truly terrible mistake, yet despite seeing the darkness and selfishness inside of her, her father still loved and had forgiven her. 

A single tear fell from her lashes, splashing the hand covering her heart. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks in a waterfall now that there was nothing left to hold them back. But even through the racking sobs, relief blended with newly resolved determination in her heart. She would face her future, no matter how uncertain, without betraying her humanity. 

Pulling in a shuddering breath, Christine finally managed to compose herself. Carefully wiping the tears from her face, she exited the mausoleum, stepping out into the foggy white graveyard. A blast of cold air struck her head on, easily piercing the joints of her armor and triggering a wave of exhaustion. With clumsy fingers, she attempted to tug her cloak around her body more securely, but could only use one hand since the other still carefully held the petal against her breastplate over her heart. She was dreading the long icy walk ahead of her back to the opera house. Hopefully, the exercise would help keep the winter’s chill at bay.   

She had barely taken more than a few steps, when violin music suddenly filled the air around her. Christine quickly swung around to face the mausoleum she had just left. Panic seized her again, as she focused on the music drifting out from the dark opening. The haunting melody was eerily similar to the lullaby her father used to play before he had gotten sick and had sold his violin. 

“Wandering child

So lost, so helpless

Yearning for my guidance.”

Christine’s heart stuttered in her chest. This was not right. It couldn’t be happening. She was certain that she had managed to get a hold of her power before fully resurrecting her father. However, the music pulled insistently at her mind, dulling her fear and wrapping her in a cocoon that whispered— warm, safe, trust.

“Angel or father?” she mumbled, suddenly dizzy. No. Not her father. It couldn’t be.

She tried to simplify. “Friend or…” she meant to say foe, but her thoughts abruptly changed directions, supplying a different word. “Phantom?” 

Why did that word make her shudder? The plaintive violin fought back the rising fear, attempting to lull her back to sleep in the nest of calm. 

“Who is there, staring?” she finally demanded in a clear voice. She could feel the sensation of eyes watching her through the dark doorway. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that she ought to feel unsettled, but she could not bring herself to care.

“ Have you forgotten your angel? ” the voice sang, sounding truly heartbroken.

Hope swooped in Christine’s chest. The angel of music had come to her, just as Papa had promised. 

“Angel,” she cried, taking a step back toward the dark doorway. “Oh, speak to me.”

“ What endless longings, echo in this whisper ?” she sang, words meant to be spoken dissolving into the haunting song. Were those truly her words? Why did they somehow feel wrong? 

The angel’s sweet voice sang back.

“ Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my fathering gaze .”

The inside of her father’s mausoleum slowly brightened, filling with a warm orange glow. The color was so familiar. A memory floated at the edge of her mind, a tunnel bathed in the same kind of light before it was extinguished in an instant. The fear that had been held at bay by the violin surged to the forefront of her mind. 

“ Wildly my mind beats against you! ” Why couldn’t she stop singing?

“ You resist. Yet your soul obeys ,” the voice answered with absolute assurance.

Christine channeled every last bit of her anger into her voice. “ Angel of Music! I deny you! ”

“ You denied me ,” the voice sang over her, drowning out her refusal. “ Turning from true beauty .”

“ Angel of Music! My protector no longer. ”

“ Do not shun me ,” the voice ordered. “ Come to me. Come to your strange angel. ”

Christine felt a scream rise in her throat as her body was compelled by the voice to step towards the mausoleum. She dug her boots into the snow, fighting against the pull of the voice with all her might.

“ I am your Angel of Music,” the voice sang, turning dark and commanding as the veneer of calm patience melted away.

“Come to the Angel of Music .” 

Christine felt the song’s compulsion tear through her, a burning pain which only built the longer she held out against it. She shut her eyes against the command, unable to even cover her ears. 

“No! Christine, wait!” 

The hold on her wavered at the call. Somehow, she knew that voice.

“Wait!” the person cried, muffled hoofbeats drawing nearer. She could hear the undisguised worry and fear in his tone. 

“Christine!”

“Raoul!” Her eyes snapped open as the song’s hold over her shattered. She turned from the tomb and bolted.

Raoul swept towards her at a gallop, unbuttoned duster flapping almost like wings in the cold wind behind him. Once he was within a few feet, he threw himself from the saddle to stand beside her. 

“Christine, you have to listen to me!” 

His warm eyes briefly scanned her for injuries before he slipped a silver rosary and crucifix over her head. With his other hand, he drew a dual barreled pistol. 

“Whatever you may believe,” he said in a low urgent voice. “This man—this thing—is not your father!”

Harsh laughter filled the air. “ Bravo, monsieur! Such spirited words!” A white domino materialized in the once more dark mausoleum opening. The rest of the Phantom’s tall figure soon followed, half obscured by a billowing cloak. The flashing of razor sharp canines were the only warning they had before the vampire lunged forward.

“Raoul!” 

With one fluid movement, Raoul carefully pulled Christine behind him and took his first shot. 

The creature halted his charge and managed to dodge the first bullet. However, Raoul seemed to have expected his reaction, sending off his second shot right where the vampire would be next. The shot went straight through the its chest, right where its heart should be. The three of them stood frozen as the crack of the pistol-shots rang through the graveyard.

For a moment, Christine dared to hope that it was all over, watching for signs that the creature would keel over dead. The vampire remained standing, carelessly inspecting the smoking black hole in his body.  

“Out of bullets, Hunter?” the creature hissed mockingly, canines flashing in a too-wide smile. “Then let’s see how far you dare go!”

Raoul barely had time to draw his sword before the vampire lunged again, claw-like nails outstretched.

“No!” Christine cried out, crushing the precious petal in her haste to dig out her pistol from her cloak pocket. 

Raoul met the Phantom’s attack, the blade of his sword ringing from the impact of the vampire’s blows. 

“Is this all you can do, Monster?” Raoul taunted, even as he panted for breath. “Or do you rely on deception to commit more violence?”

“That’s right,” the vampire sneered, seemingly unbothered by Raoul’s comments. “That’s right. Keep walking this way!”

Raoul struggled under the creature’s onslaught, the Phantom forcing him back into a plot of the graveyard filled with large tombstones and monuments.

Hands trembling with cold and fear, Christine finally managed to pull the tiny pistol free and rushed after them. 

Raoul skillfully dodged the majority of the objects in his way, but she could see his energy flagging. The Phantom seemed to be toying with him rather than going straight for the kill, a tiny silver lining. However, they were moving far too quickly for her to take a clean shot. 

Suddenly, Raoul’s foot caught on a wide, low tombstone hidden by the snow. He fell back, his sword snapping where it struck the stone at a bad angle. The vampire lunged forward to eviscerate him, but Raoul managed to dodge the worst of the blow as he rolled away. However, Christine could see a worrying rivulet of blood running down his side through the torn portion of his shirt. 

“You can’t win her love by making her your prisoner!” Raoul said, brandishing his shortened sword in front of him. “You are no angel!”

“Silence!” the vampire roared. “I am an angel! The angel of death!” 

With a frenzied laugh, he lunged forward, ripping the sword out of Raoul’s hand by the blade. He flung the sword—blackened and smoldering where it had touched his cursed skin—away into the snow and fixed his other hand around Raoul’s throat. Long, pale fingers dug into Raoul’s skin, pulling him up into the air while squeezing tighter and tighter. 

“Let him go!” Christine cried, leveling her pistol at his back. “For heaven’s sake! Let him go, or I shoot!” 

“Go ahead!” the Phantom spat without turning. “Silver bullets won’t be enough to kill me.”

Christine blinked back tears. She was out of options, and Raoul was running out of air. Steeling herself, Christine turned the pistol and pressed the cold barrel to her temple.

“Erik!” 

The Phantom’s fingers spasmed, allowing Raoul a single choked breath as he finally turned to face her. 

“One shot will be enough for me ,” she said, leveling him with her best approximation of Madame Giry’s stare. “If you kill him, I pull the trigger.”

“Christine, what are you doing?” The Phantom instantly released the viscount, letting him hit the ground like the sandbag counterweight of a backdrop. 

“Christine. . !” Raoul choked, eyes watering as he struggled to reign in his coughing fit.

“Just calm down,” the Phantom said gently. “You do not realize what you’re doing.” He subtly edged closer.

“Stay where you are!” Christine let her finger curl around the trigger, gratified to see him track her movement and freeze in place.

“Is it so hard to believe that I would rather die than allow you to continue hurting everyone I hold most dear?” She kept her eyes trained on the Phantom, hoping Raoul would make use of the distraction to get clear. “If I cannot stop you directly, I will gladly lay down my life—if that is what it takes!”

The Phantom seemed to deflate, his expression strangely devastated. “You misunderstand, Christine. Everything I did was for you .”

She choked back a derisive laugh. “Everything you have done has only caused me more suffering!”

“I was trying to protect you!” the Phantom insisted, running a hand over his hair, smoothing it down obsessively. “You have a great power hidden inside of you. A power that others will seek to exploit or take from you by force. I am the only one who can teach you how to control it—the only one who can help keep you safe—but we are running out of time.” The last statement became a growl as he noticed Raoul, once more on his feet, edging toward the discarded remains of his sword.

“I don’t need your help!” said Christine. “And even if I did, I could never trust you again,” she added, her voice growing softer at the aching pain of his betrayal. “You have done nothing but lie to me since the first day we met.” 

The Phantom went still, a flicker of sadness flashing across what could be seen of his face, before he drew himself up to his full height. “So be it!” he cried, fangs flashing through his grimace.

Raoul seized the chance to snatch his blackened sword from the ground and lunge at the Phantom. 

The vampire reached into some hidden pocket and threw down a handful of dark powder. For a moment, Christine’s eyes were dazzled by the wall of fire that erupted in the ground between them, its unnatural warmth exploding through the wintry air.

“Now let it be war upon you both!” the vampire screamed, his voice blending into the high pitched shrieks of a swarm of bats.

By the time the fire faded into a cloud of black smoke, the Phantom had disappeared into thin air along with the torrent of bats. Christine shuddered at the memory of the small creatures descending upon Piangi and Imogen the previous night. Could a vampire like Erik control bats, or was he himself the bats? She shook her head and shoved away the question, deciding she didn’t care to know the answer. 

Shakily, she lowered the pistol, finger carefully held away from the trigger.

Raoul did a brief sweep of the surrounding area, quickly checking the tombstones and monuments big enough to hide behind. Once he was satisfied that the vampire had fully retreated for the moment, he came to stand beside her. 

Holding out his hand with a hard stare, Raoul flicked his gaze at her pistol pointedly.

Christine fought the sinking feeling in her stomach as she set the pistol hilt first in his palm. Would he choose to use it on her, once he knew the truth about what she was? 

“We need to retreat. At once!” Tucking his ruined sword into its sheath, he grabbed her hand, and whistled for his horse. The faithful animal quickly trotted over to them, eyes wide and nostrils flared in fear. Christine was amazed that it hadn’t spooked and run off at the fight, much less the wall of fire.

“Mount.”

Christine shoved her muddy boot into the stirrup and heaved herself up into the saddle. Raoul sprung up behind her before she had completely settled into her seat and curled his arm around her armored waist. Whether he meant the gesture to be comforting or to keep her in place she could not tell.

With a quick movement of his heels, Raoul silently cued the horse to trot back in the direction of the stairs. 

From where she sat, Christine was unable to look at his face, but she could feel disapproval rolling off of him in waves. She reached into her pocket for the tiny petal that had been so unceremoniously placed there in her rush to retrieve her pistol. The poor petal had been crushed badly in her haste, but she didn’t dare pull it out for a closer look for fear of dropping it. 

“Christine,” Raoul said, his tone dreadfully blank. “You knew that the Phantom of the Opera was a vampire?”

Every possible excuse or explanation died before it could even reached her lips.

“Yes.”

Raoul went silent once more adjusting his position as the horse began to carefully climb the snowy stairway.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Christine shrugged. “Now that you know, does it even matter?” 

She could feel as well as hear, Raoul’s grumble behind her. “Of course it does.”

Silence stretched between them.

“The Christine I knew as a child never hid things from me,” he said in a softer tone. “Have you really changed so much?”

Christine went stiff. “Maybe you never truly knew me,” she said bitterly.

Raoul pulled back as if slapped. “Perhaps you are right.”

The remainder of the ride passed in pained silence. A pain that grew for Christine as the horrific throbbing behind her eyes intensified. Whether it was from the cold, lack of sleep, or the aftermath of succumbing to the darkness inside of her, she could not say. The splitting pain kept her so distracted that it was only as he assisted her down from the horse that she realized that Raoul had brought her to his chateau in the upper ring. 

“What..?”

Raoul ignored her confusion, turning to face the large liveried servant who came rushing into the courtyard. “Take Mlle. Daaé up to her room. She may be in the early stages of hypothermia so be sure she has a good fire.”

“Yes, milord,” the servant murmured, bowing and taking Christine by her elbow to lead her away.

“W-w-wait. You must s-see to Raoul first! He is injured,” she insisted through chattering teeth.

The servant’s eyes widened and he turned to call towards the house. “Dr. Choleti! The viscount is injured!”

Raoul gave an impatient shake of his head. “There is no need to panic, Jean Claude. Please take care of Mlle. Daaé as I asked. I will meet with the doctor once Achilles has been seen to.”

“Yes, milord,” the servant said, nodding quickly.

Raoul turned to fix her with a thoughtful look. “Rest well, Christine. We will speak later.”

The servant, Jean Claude, dragged her up the main flight of steps into the chateau even as an energetic man with an artfully waxed mustache came barreling out.

She could still faintly hear the smaller man reprimanding Raoul for his recklessness. His thick Italian accent echoed after them even as the doors closed behind her. 

“Come, Mademoiselle,” said the servant. Belatedly, Christine realized she’d stopped. “The doctor will see to his lordship, never fear. I will show you to your rooms. This way.”

Christine took a shuddering breath and nodded. Without further resistance, she allowed him to take her deeper into the richly appointed home. 

Chapter Text

Raoul found that he could barely feel the burning sting of the silver nitrate. His mind was too full for the pain to register for more than a moment as Dr. Choleti dabbed the applicator against his torn skin. Most of the claw marks were not too deep, but a few across his ribs had continued to sluggishly ooze blood, hence the doctor’s insistence on chemical cauterization. 

There was a knock at the infirmary doors, and Jean Claude entered the brightly lit room with a grace that belied his size.

“How is she?” 

The manservant’s thick eyebrows drew together in a faintly disapproving look. “I escorted Mlle. to the room as you commanded. Young Gerard fixed a good fire, and I left her in the care of Madame Carriere.”

Raoul nodded. “Very good. Do not allow her to leave the premises under any circumstances.”

Jean Claude’s swarthy complexion darkened further. “I trust there is a good reason for keeping the young Mlle. here.”

“Don’t a’move!” Choleti snapped, as Raoul attempted to reposition himself to face his manservant head on.

“There is vampire living under the Opera House,” Raoul said, grimacing. “I want to keep her where it is safe until I have dealt with the danger.”

Despite the gravity of Raoul’s statement, Jean Claude’s posture seemed to relax. “Understood, milord. I will implement the defensive measures at once.”

The manservant exited the infirmary at top speed. 

“Dees vampire… is’a different, no?” Choleti asked once the two of them were alone.

Raoul tilted his head to look at the shorter man. “How did you know?”

The doctor twitched his mustache unhappily as he began wrapping a long bandage around Raoul’s torso. “Your neck.”

Raoul reached up wincing slightly as his fingers brushed the bruised skin under his jaw and around the sides of his throat.

“No bites. . . only bruises,” the doctor observed in a surprisingly dispassionate tone of voice. “Dees vampire. He want to watch’a you die slowly.”

Raoul nodded, thinking back on his encounter. The vampire had seemed to go out of its way to attempt to murder him in the human fashion.

“ Finito.” Choleti neatly tucked in the end of the bandage and handed him a fresh shirt.

Sliding the clean linen over his arms, Raoul stood and began buttoning up the front.

“Keep an eye on Mlle. Daaé,” he said softly. 

Choleti stilled, his face quickly flooding with concern.

“I do not believe that she bears the curse of the undead,” Raoul interjected, before the doctor could issue a new barrage of questions and reprimands.

“However, you may perform any non-invasive checks on her health and well-being as you deem necessary. She currently shows no reaction to silver, sunlight, or blood.”

The doctor seemed to deflate at Raoul’s assurance, but his dark eyes remained stormy. “An’ where do you think you’re a’going?”

“Back to the Opera House. I believe that her friend, Mlle. Giry, has important information concerning this case.”

“ Da solo ?” Choleti inquired incredulously. “Is that’a wise?”

Raoul managed a tired grin. “Are you volunteering to come with me?”

The doctor swatted at his arm, ushering him out of the infirmary. “Is not a’my job!” 

Smiling, Raoul turned his focus completely on the “job” at hand. It took a little less than an hour for him to finish preparations and head back into the city proper. 

He felt marginally more relaxed now that he was dressed in his familiar “work” gear. The regulation coat alone contained a small army’s worth of weaponry, however it was the specially reinforced gorget hidden beneath his cravat that provided the most comfort. Being suspended by the throat, slowly asphyxiating had brought back painful memories of the time he almost drowned trying to retrieve Christine’s scarf when they were children. 

Raoul grit his teeth. Every thought, every memory seemed to lead back to her.

Maybe you never truly knew me. 

Shaking his head, Raoul forced himself to refocus. He needed all the information he could get on the vampire, and with Christine refusing to cooperate, Meg Giry was his next best option.

Stabling his horse at a small livery a few streets away from the Opera house, Raoul quickly slipped into the nearest alley. The narrow walkway was filled with refuse and half-melted snow which had fallen from the roofs of the different buildings. As he moved closer to the Opera House, Raoul kept his eyes peeled for suspicious activity in the darkest corners of the alleys. However, the only other person he ran across was a drunk emptying the contents of his stomach. 

Raoul left the man to his unpleasant business, in favor of inspecting the slightly wider alley which ran along the side of the Opera House. He soon spotted a trail of cigarette butts which led him to a dingy side door. Upon trying the handle, he was surprised to find it unlocked. 

Poor security, he noted, entering a silent kitchen. Making his way past large pots and a stack of unwashed dishes, he stepped out into a fairly spacious cafe style seating area. His mental map of the Opera House, from the tour the managers had given him as a patron, quickly supplied his location. He was standing to one side of the massive main foyer, to the left of the main flight of steps. He edged out of the eating area, but quickly halted at the sound of a hushed argument. Pressing his back to the marble balustrades of the massive staircase, he listened to the approaching voices.

“I am going,” the unmistakable voice of Meg Giry said harshly. “I have waited far too long as it is for you to come up from the tunnels.”

“No,” an accented male voice responded. “I cannot guarantee your safety. Besides, you do not have any experience—”

Raoul tensed at the unmistakable sound of a knife being drawn. In an instant, his crossbow was drawn from its holster and in his hand. 

“I have more experience than you think, Inspector.”

So the man’s voice belonged to the strange sûreté Inspector from the night before? What was his part in the conspiracy? 

“Be that as it may,” the Inspector said, switching tactics, “it would be better if you waited here to meet her, in case she returns.”

For a moment, Meg was silent, but with a click of a dagger being sheathed she began moving again. “No. She would have returned by now if she had been able to do so.”

From his vantage point, Raoul could just see them rounding the decorative pedestal at the end of staircase, which supported the gilded statue of the muse of dance.  

“Besides, when I told the viscount about her note—”

“You told the Hunter?” the Inspector interrupted, a note of panic in his voice.

“It was a good thing she did,” Raoul stated firmly, gliding out of his hiding place to face them. “I was nearly too late to save her.”

Gasping in surprise, Meg almost lost her grip on the long silver dagger she carried. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

Raoul kept his arm relaxed to his side, but the Inspector spotted the crossbow he was holding instantly.

“She is exhausted,” Raoul answered truthfully, “but as far as I can tell, unharmed. I brought her to stay at my chateau for her own safety.”

Meg’s eyes widened. “Then you are in grave danger,” she said. “The Phantom threatened your life if Christine were to leave the Opera House and reside elsewhere.”

Raoul pressed his lips flat, processing her statement. “Is that so?”

“You must believe me, Viscount!” Meg’ cheeks reddened despite her attempt to restrain her emotions.

Raoul shook his head. “Oh, I do believe you, Mlle. Giry. The ‘Phantom’ has already attempted to make good on his threat.”

Meg stilled, at his assurance.

“I left a bullet in his chest for his pains.”

The Inspector’s emotionless facade cracked for an instant as his tan skin went ashy gray. 

“Did you kill him?” Meg whispered, a hint of hope in her voice.

“No.” Raoul turned to pin the Inspector with a sharp look. “Unfortunately I was unsuccessful.”

The strange man softly released the breath he must have been holding. His face gradually returned to its former color.

“I confess that I am rather at a loss,” Raoul said, “I cannot understand how a silver bullet to the heart failed to kill this vampire.”

Meg went stiff, while the Inspector seemed to sag in resignation.

“Will you order an Inquisition?” Meg asked, her voice wobbling.

Raoul frowned, confused by the sudden subject change. “Should the truth be kept from me, I shall be left with no other recourse.”

Meg bit her lip, turning glassy eyes on the inscrutable Inspector. 

Raoul bit back a growl of frustration. “Why would you conspire to keep the existence of this creature secret? Surely you realize what a grave situation this is?”

“Of course we know,” Meg hissed. “But it is the only way.”

“The only way?” 

The Inspector seemed to take note of Raoul’s thinning patience. “We are willing to cooperate with you, Hunter DeChagny. However, ordering an Inquisition would be unwise at this time.”

“I will determine what course of action is wise or not, Inspector —once I have heard all the facts,” Raoul said. “Should either of you continue obscuring the truth, there will be dire consequences.”

Meg and the Inspector nodded solemnly.

“Very well,” Raoul said. “Shall we retire to my chateau?” 

His tone made it clear that it was not a question.

…

Jean Claude ushered them into the main sitting room, where a cheerful fire and a table of refreshments were already prepared. 

“How is Mlle. Daaé?” Raoul asked, hanging back in the doorway with his manservant.

“She is sleeping in her quarters. Madame Carriere said that the poor thing was practically dead on her feet.” 

Raoul held back a wince at the turn of phrase. “Have Doctor Choleti look in on her when she wakes.”

“Yes, milord.” Jean Claude bowed, softly closing the door after himself as he left the room.

Raoul turned to see the Inspector and Meg Giry standing in the center of the room. 

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said, waving them toward the plush arm chairs and settees arranged around the room.

“Where is Christine?” Meg asked, remaining stubbornly standing in place. “I want to see her.”

“Sleeping,” Raoul said. “You may see her after we have had a chance to speak and she to recover from her ordeal.”

Meg scowled, but seemed to grudgingly accept his terms. Snatching one of the finger sandwiches from the platter set out for them, she collapsed into the nearest armchair, chewing sullenly.

The Inspector took his seat with more grace, his sharp eyes trained on Raoul.

Neither seemed inclined to begin the conversation.

Raoul forced himself to take a calming breath. “How long have you known that the ‘Phantom’ was a vampire?”

“About a month,” Meg said, the Inspector nodding along in agreement. “However, he has been haunting the Opera, as the ‘Phantom’, for years.”

Raoul’s thoughts came grinding to halt. “Years?”

“Since before my mother and I joined the company, most likely,” Meg said, reaching out to grab a second sandwich. 

“At least five years for certain,” the Inspector added.

Meg nodded thoughtfully. “The night Christine and I first met was also the same night he introduced himself to her as the Angel of Music.” 

A flash of anger shot through Raoul. “What does the vampire want with Christine?”

Meg slouched into the chair with a frustrated sigh. “I wish we knew.”

“Do you have any guesses, Viscount?” the Inspector asked, his expression carefully guarded.

Raoul frowned, reaching into his vest pocket to rub the silver beads of the standard issue rosary there. He considered what the vampire had said during their brief clash. The creature’s frantic bid to make Christine put down her pistol played before his minds eye.

“You have a great power hidden inside of you. A power that others will seek to exploit or take from you by force. I am the only one who can teach you how to control it—the only one who can help keep you safe—but we are running out of time.”

 The repetitive motion of the beads slipping through Raoul’s fingers did little to assuage the worry and anger rising inside of him. If the vampire was grooming Christine to control some great power, it could only mean one thing. 

“Surely, it cannot be,” he mumbled to himself. “There is no way to predict such a thing .” 

The Inspector nodded solemnly. “Not for humans, perhaps. But this vampire’s focus on mlle. Daae does seem to suggest that she has the capacity to become a potens nobilis .” 

“Potens nobilis? What is that?” Meg asked, turning to look at the Inspector as he leaned forward to pour himself a cup of tea. 

“ Potens nobilis are the most powerful type of vampires,” he answered, his tone faintly distracted as he finished pouring the steaming liquid into one of the fine porcelain cups that Jean Claude had set out. 

“Besides being resistant to sunlight, they inherit supernatural abilities upon their transformation,” he said, straightening and raising the cup to his lips. “Things like being able to change their shape, or the ability to read minds. Potens nobilis use their powers to rule over lesser vampires. Some form powerful clans which maintain control over certain regions, or even entire countries.”

“Really?” Meg whispered. “How do you know all this?” 

Raoul turned slightly to better watch the Inspector. He had been wondering the same thing.

The Inspector shook his head dismissively, swallowing his beverage. “The Church has detailed information regarding each type of vampire, as well as which clans are currently in power.”

“Information which is taught primarily to Hunters,” Raoul pointed out. “How does an average sûreté Inspector come to know details regarding the most deadly class of vampire, let alone regional vampiric activity?”

The Inspector set his cup and saucer back on the table with deliberate care.

“I am not an average sûreté Inspector,” he said, his emotionless mask back in place.

“And just what are you, exactly?” 

“I was once the Chief of Police for the Shah of Persia,” he said, holding Raoul’s gaze without so much as a flinch.

Raoul narrowed his eyes at the man. Persia was known to be a hostile—or as they put it “independent”—nation, whose borders were closed to the Church. He could claim to be just about anything, and there would be no way to challenge him.

“Why give up such a position and come to France?” Raoul asked instead.

The man hesitated for a moment, his lips pressing together. 

“The Shah executed my son in front of me.” 

Raoul suppressed a surprised flinch and Meg struggled to choke back a horrified gasp.

“I escaped Persia and worked to begin a new life elsewhere,” the Inspector continued in a dull tone. “Due to the nature of my former position, I am familiar with the various vampire types, as well as given detailed information regarding their abilities and regional movements.”

A hundred new questions arose in Raoul’s mind.

“Do you think this particular vampire is affiliated with one of the clans?” he asked after a moment of consideration.

“No,” The Inspector replied instantly. “He is currently operating on his own.” 

Raoul frowned. 

“How can you be certain?” Meg interjected, beating Raoul to the question. 

The Inspector paused for a moment.

“You know this creature—this Erik—personally, don’t you?” Raoul asked, gratified to see a flash of unmasked surprise pass over the Inspector’s face. 

“Yes. . . I knew him. But how did you come to know his name?”

Raoul grimaced. “Christine. She called it by that name.”

The Inspector nodded slowly, but did not offer further comment.

Meg glanced between them, leaning forward impatiently. “But why is he here? Why does he want to change Christine?”

“He is in hiding,” the Inspector answered easily. “But as for his plans for mlle. Daae, I am just as in the dark as you are. ”

“Tell me everything you know of this Erik,” Raoul said, his voice brooking no disobedience. “Why is he immune to silver bullets? Is there some other way to defeat him?”

The Inspector went utterly still. 

Raoul stiffened, struggling to reign in his frustration with the uncooperative man sitting before him. Did he not understand the gravity of the situation? An unkillable vampire could spell disaster not just for the city, but for humanity in general.

“If you will not speak, then I have no choice but to send word to my holy order and lock down the city.”

“No!” Meg shot to her feet. “You promised not to order an Inquisition if we cooperated!”

“Oh, this would not be an Inquisition,” Raoul said in a flat tone. “I must order a Purge of New Paris.”

Meg’s eyes flashed with unadulterated rage. “You liar!” she cried, grasping the dagger she had stowed in her dress pocket. “You swore! You swore to protect her!”

The Inspector put out his hand and grasped Meg’s wrist to prevent her from drawing the dagger with her dominant hand as she had intended. 

Raoul found that his own hand had come to rest unconsciously on the haft of his crossbow. “What are you talking about?” 

The Inspector fixed his inscrutable dark eyes on Raoul. “Mlle. Daae, your fiancee. Do you truly intend to put her to death?”

Raoul staggered back. “What?” he whispered, the Inspector’s words having struck him like a physical blow. 

“You didn’t know?” The Inspector asked softly.

“That vampire bit her,” Meg hissed. “Two weeks ago, on the night of her first performance.”

Raoul felt the blood drain from his face. 

“It cannot be,” he insisted. “I saw her touch silver without burning and she does not thirst for blood.”

“I brought Madame Valerius to treat her,” Meg answered. “She gave her medicine that suppresses vampiric symptoms. As long as she refrains from ever drinking blood, all will be well.”

Raoul shook his head slowly. He felt as if his feet had been pulled out from under him, just as the vicious ocean current had done that dreadful day so many years ago. He was being pulled under by despair, sinking further into the murky depths.

“No,” he said dully. “You can only prolong the inevitable. No one truly recovers from a vampire bite. Never .”

The Inspector released Meg’s hand and slowly stood.

“There may be a way,” he said, so softly that Raoul almost missed it.

Raoul fixed the man with a long, hard look.

“Many years have I spent searching for it. For a cure,” the Inspector continued, meeting Raoul’s stare with a deadly calm. “In all that time, I have finally learned that there is but one soul left who knows the answer. And his name. . . is Erik.”

Chapter Text

A knock interrupted the tense conversation within the parlor. 

“Milord?” Jean Claude’s deep voice carried through the thick door. 

Raoul turned, attempting to bury his annoyance at the interruption. “Yes?” 

“There is a situation that requires your immediate attention—upstairs,” Jean Claude said, his voice tight with concern. 

“What happened?” Meg demanded, “Is Christine all right?”

Raoul grit his teeth. “This conversation is not over. Remain here, both of you!” he ordered over his shoulder as he darted to the door.

Meg seemed intent on ignoring his command, but the Inspector took hold of her, speaking in a low voice as Raoul slipped out of the room.

“Ensure that they do not leave,” he commanded, sweeping past his servant toward the main staircase.

“Understood, milord.” 

Jean Claude’s reply quickly faded behind him as he reached the bottom of the staircase. He shot up the steps two at a time, the deep claw marks along his ribs pulling with every heaving breath he took. By the time he reached the door to Christine’s rooms, he could hear Madame Carriere’s worried voice drifting from the anteroom.  

“Please, mademoiselle. I promise that we mean you no harm,” she called. “You are safe in the viscount’s home. No one will harm you here. Won’t you please unbar the door?”

His concern rising to new heights, Raoul burst into the anteroom. 

Madame Carriere stood in front of the ornate door to Christine’s chambers wringing her hands. 

“What happened?”

The middle aged woman turned and released a sigh of relief upon seeing Raoul. “Thank heavens you are here, milord. I came to check on Mlle. Daae only to find that she had barricaded herself in her room! Jean Claude and I tried to reassure her, but—”

He held up a hand to cut off the kindly maid’s worried rambling. “Christine?” he called, trying the handle. The thick door refused to open more than a finger’s width, colliding with something solid and heavy.

“Raoul?” 

Christine’s breathless reply caused his instincts, honed by years of training, to flare up in warning. 

“I’m here,” he answered simply.

“Before you kill me,” she said in a small voice. “I must speak with you—alone.”

Madame Carriere once more began wringing her hands. “She said as much before, sir.” 

Raoul turned, herding the maid away from Christine’s room with an outstretched arm. The last thing he needed was for an untrained civilian to get caught up in whatever was happening on the other side of that door.

“I will get to the bottom of this,” he assured the matron, keeping his voice calm and reassuring. “Please, leave us.”

She bobbed a curtsy and hesitantly made her way out of the room, shutting the anteroom door behind her.

With a steadying breath Raoul squared his shoulders and turned to face the door once more. 

“I promise to hear you out, Christine.”

After a brief pause, he heard the sound of something heavy sliding across the floor inside of the room.

“Enter.”

Loosening the twin hidden daggers concealed in his coat sleeves he took hold of the handle and pushed the door inward. This time, it swung open unimpeded. 

Raoul braced himself, half expecting the room’s occupant to make a mad dash for the nearest food source. No doubt she could smell the fresh blood dripping sluggishly down his side from the wounds he had reopened climbing the stairs. 

He was somewhat relieved to see Christine standing motionless at the end of an ornate wooden dresser. Her face was faintly flushed from the exertion of moving the large piece of furniture, but she showed no obvious signs of discomfort regarding his presence in the doorway.

Cautiously, Raoul stepped further into the dimly lit room. Even with the curtains of the tall windows pulled back, the winter sun only filtered a soft gray light through the snow crusted panes. He wished that the small fire in the grate was a bit brighter. 

Slowly, Christine left her place behind the dresser to stand in the open area across from him. 

Raoul felt an involuntary flush rise to his cheeks upon realizing that she was only clad in a snowy white night gown. 

Thankfully, Christine did not seem to notice his discomfort. “Thank you for agreeing to hear me out, Raoul.”

Shaking his head to clear his distracting thoughts, Raoul forced himself to concentrate on the situation at hand. 

“What did you wish to tell me?”

“First, I have a request,” she said, fixing him with the full force of her gaze.

Her eyes were thankfully the familiar shade of blue they had always been. 

“And what would that be?” 

“Please spare the Giry family.” 

Raoul blinked in surprise. “Spare them? Why? What have they done?”

“They have done nothing wrong,” Christine insisted solemnly. “Years ago, Meg’s mother suffered a wound that was tainted by vampire blood. She poses no threat to others and does not deserve to die before the Inquisition.”

Raoul tilted his head slightly as he reevaluated his previous interactions with Meg Giry. Christine’s explanation did shed a new light on the young dancer’s actions. 

“I will need my physician to examine them both before I make any promises,” he said. “But I shall see to it that the Giry family are treated fairly.”

An invisible weight seemed to leave Christine’s shoulders. “Thank you.” For the first time, a shadow of a genuine smile ghosted across her lips.

Raoul watched her intently. The instincts that he had honed for the last seven years, the sixth sense that had saved his life in the field more times than he could recall, remained quiescent in her presence. 

“As for the other matter. . . I hardly know where to begin,” she admitted, turning to face the fire. The angle of the flickering light seemed to deepen the circles beneath her eyes and danced across the curve of her bare neck.

A bitter flash of anger burned through Raoul. How could fate be so cruel as to bring them together after years of separation only to sunder them irrevocably?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Christine stilled. “About the vampire?” she asked in a small voice.

“About being bitten.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Was she that afraid to face him? Had the long years spent apart eroded their bond so thoroughly? 

“I was selfish,” she said at last. “I didn’t want to lose you–again.”

Raoul narrowed his eyes at her statement. “Lose me? I was not the one who left you behind without so much as a word.”

Anger, frustration, and guilt flashed in quick succession across Christine’s face.

“It was the only way,” she said, words thick with emotion.  

“What?”

“Leaving was the only way to keep you safe!” Christine said, reaching up to touch the skin bellow the hollow of her throat only to lower her hand again with a grimace. 

 Raoul’s gaze flicked between her eyes and mouth. Extreme agitation could cause latent vampiric symptoms such as elongated teeth and blood eyes to show.

“I don’t understand,” he answered carefully.

Looking down, she asked quietly. “What do you remember. . . about that day on the beach?”

There was no need to ask which day. The last day they had spent together as children was forever burned in his memory. 

“I do not like to think about it,” he admitted. Memories of being dragged under by the vicious tide crowded uncomfortably close in his mind.

“Do you remember running into the sea to fetch my scarf?” she prodded, strangely determined with her line of questioning. 

“Yes,” he said grimacing. “I nearly drowned trying to get it back.”

“No–not nearly. You did drown.”

For a moment, the phantom sensation of gasping salt water into burning lungs hit him with the force of a crashing wave. Raoul shook his head slowly, his confusion no doubt plain on his face.

“It was hours before. . . before I finally found where you washed up,” she said, biting her lip. “I will never forget it; the site of you lying there cold and blue.”

Forcing down a shiver she pressed on. “I laid my head on your chest, but you had no heartbeat.”

Raoul frowned, the steady thumping of his heart suddenly loud in his ears. 

“I–I could not let you go,” she said. “So I brought you back to life.”

Her speech caused warning bells to resound within Raoul’s head. Had the trauma she endured caused Christine to suffer a mental break? Such words could be considered grounds for excommunication.

“I think you must be mistaken,” he said, in a gentle tone. 

A brief flash of surprise and frustration passed over Christine’s face. With a deep exhale she closed her eyes and subtly shifted her stance and posture. 

Raoul’s instincts suddenly triggered as a strange aura brushed against him. Something powerful was expanding, no–more like unfurling from within Christine. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him. Echoes of whispered words he could not fully comprehend filled his ears as the powerful aura cloaked her like a second skin. 

Reflexively, he flicked out one of his concealed daggers, preparing himself for an attack. 

Opening her eyes, Christine looked up at him boldly. “Can you feel it?” She asked. Her words were soft, yet they seemed to fill the entire room, as if spoken by more than one voice. “Can you feel the weight of my burden?” 

Raoul stiffened as she broke into discordant, sobbing laughter. 

“It was a gift from my mother’s side of the family,” she said with a sneer. “I was created to be the bloodsake of the Tepes clan–the vessel that keeps safe the powers and abilities for the next Clan Leader . ”

“Tepes Clan?” Raoul said sharply, shocked at the mention of what had been, until very recently, one of the most feared vampire clans in Europe. “Your mother, she was. . ?”

“She was human,” Christine said with a shake of her head, “And when they married, she and Papa knew nothing of her lineage. It was only after she became pregnant with me that they came for her.”

The weight of the aura fluctuated, as Christine paused to take a breath. It seemed to curl around her almost protectively, however the incessant whispers continued pelting his senses even in the relative silence. 

“By the time Papa found where they had taken her, it was already too late. She had been bitten by the wasted husk of the Impaler himself.”

Raoul grimaced at the mention of Vlad Tepes. The Church had records of the Impaler as far back as the beginning of the Black Death. His bloody reign of terror had lasted for centuries.

“Apparently, he had grown too weak to control their territory and protect it from rival clans, so they created a bloodsake using his blood and venom; to preserve his abilities until a suitable successor was chosen.”

“If creating bloodsakes is a common vampire practice why have I not heard of this before?” 

“They took care that none should hear of it,” Christine said. “They feared the knowledge falling into the hands of rivals who would usurp their powers. If the Church has no written records of such things, then the method of creating bloodsakes likely died with them.”

Raoul stilled, considering her statement. 

“I am the last,” Christine assured him. “Papa killed every last vampire within Târgoviște to ensure that there would never be another Tepes.”

“Your mother as well?” he winced internally at he harshness of his question, but he needed to be certain.

Christine shook her head. “No, he was spared from that at least.”

“How so?”

“She met her fate with the sunrise,” Christine said simply. “I took my first breath the same moment she breathed her last.” 

“ Cinis in cinerem pulvis ad pulvis ,” Raoul whispered reflexively, years of Hunter training taking over. 

“But do you understand now?” she asked, gently. “That is how I brought you back.”

Raoul shook his head struggling to collect his thoughts as her words swirled in the air around him like thousands of warped reflections in a shattered mirror.

“Impossible,” he said, “I completed all of my training and passed every test in preparation for knighthood. The last vigil is specifically designed to ensure that one cannot become a Hunter unless they are absolutely alive and completely human.”

Christine remained motionless, watching him intently.

“Christine, you must be mistaken.”

A flash of hurt crossed her face, but it was buried a moment later. “If you do not believe me, then trust your senses.” Christine resolutely extended her hand, palm up. 

Raoul hesitated, poised to react the moment he felt the barest flicker of vampiric compulsion. After the space of a few breaths, he finally extended his free hand.   

It was instantaneous. The moment their fingers touched, the fractured whispers surrounding him sharpened and coalesced into a strangely familiar melody. 

Raoul startled. “I know this song.”  

Christine’s lips softened into sad smile. “I sang it to you, seven years ago.”

A shadow of a memory formed in the back of his mind—a melody that was impossible to ignore. It was there to call him back to cold, aching wakefulness. It had been there still as he coughed and vomited up an ocean’s worth of salt water. It only stopped once he was awake enough to feel a strong pair of adult arms gather him up and carry him away. The memory had faded with time, but he never forgot the song. To this day, it still echoed in his dreams. He found himself humming along to the last refrain.

Anywhere you go, let me go too. . .  

Love me–that's all I ask of you.

Christine’s gaze dropped guiltily as the song came to an end, the aura dissipating.

“What I did that day. . . came at a price.”

Raoul frowned, the joy he felt upon hearing the song once again quickly replaced with worry. “What price?”

“I gave up a piece of my soul to bring yours back.”

Horror flooded through him. Mind practically frozen, Raoul could only blink at Christine.

“Until today, I had not considered the fact that with our souls being linked, my death could also affect you.”

Chapter Text

Christine startled at the muffled sound of a knock on the anteroom door, dropping Raoul’s hand in her surprise. 

“Milord?” Madame Carrier’s voice called. “Count Philipe deChagny has just arrived in the outer courtyard.”

Raoul stood frozen. Christine wondered if he had even registered the maid’s words as he stood, glazed eyes seeming to stare through her. Despite his fixed expression, she noted how his hands slowly clenched into fists at his sides, the one clutching a dagger trembling ever so slightly. 

Had he mistaken her warning as a threat? 

“Raoul?” 

With a sudden flick of his wrist, the dagger disappeared up his sleeve almost as if by magic. 

“Enter!” he called, pulling back his shoulders and smoothing his expression to one of blank calmness.

Madame Carrier quickly entered the antechamber, a look of relief flashing over her face upon seeing Christine through the open doorway to the inner room. 

“Find something suitable for Mlle. Daaé to wear in company,” Raoul ordered quickly, striding past the maid.

Christine looked down, registering for the first time the state of her undress. Her cheeks heated with a fierce blush.

“I must greet my brother and see to my other guests. Escort her to the main parlor once you are ready. Mlle. Giry is anxious to see her.”

Christine sagged a little in relief. She was to be allowed to say goodbye to her friend at least, no matter what was to come next.

“At once, milord,” Madame Carriere said, bobbing a swift curtsy despite the fact that Raoul had already disappeared into the hallway without a second glance.

The unexpected reprieve left Christine adrift in a swirl of emotions. Raoul finally knew the truth. All of it. Yet he had said nothing. 

Worry churned inside of her as the middle-aged woman guided her towards the ornate vanity situated near the windows. Glancing up, Christine winced at her reflection in the vanity mirror. A few hours of rest had not been enough to undo weeks of sleeping little and eating even less, not to mention battling vampiric bloodlust. 

She stiffened as memories of her disastrous second performance threatened to overwhelm her mind. Seemingly oblivious to Christine’s unease, the older woman leaned past her shoulder to pick up a brush from the table top.

Christine expected the eye-watering aroma of blood to fill her nose. After a moment, she realized that nothing happened. No overwhelming scent nor burning pang of thirst came over her. She was still tired, hungry, and thirsty; yet she was not forced to fight off the unnatural urge to consume. 

“Have no fear, milady. I shall soon have you put to rights,” the maid said, steadily brushing out the knots in Christine’s loose hair. “Though you did give us a right scare,” she admonished gently.

With effort, Christine managed pull her mouth into a semblance of a smile. “I apologize for my previous behavior.” 

“Well, I am glad that the viscount was able to reassure you, milady.” 

Christine almost shook her head, but in an effort not to ruin the maid’s work, she carefully held still.

“I am not a noblewoman. There is no need to call me lady.”

Madame Carrier smiled enigmatically. “What color shall we try then?” 

“Color?”

“For your dress. A nice blue, I think. Should bring out your eyes nicely.”

The woman darted away to the massive dresser, which was still sitting out of place thanks to Christine’s manhandling. She fought back a guilty wince as the maid circled around the large piece of furniture to pull open one of the drawers. Still, she seemed to find what she was looking for quickly. She soon returned with her arms full of a bundle of patterned blue fabric. 

“What a beautiful gown,” Christine said solemnly, admiring the white embroidered details worked into the dark blue contrasting pieces of the neckline and bodice. 

“Hardly a gown, milady,” Madame Carrier said with a scoff. “‘Tis simply a walking dress suitable to receive visitors in. Now, let’s get you dressed, shall we?”

Christine obediently followed the maid’s directions. Surprisingly, Madame Carrier was also able to obtain all of the necessary underthings for the dress, every piece exquisitely made from the best materials.

“Where did all of this come from?” Christine asked as Madame Carrier helped her lace up the back of the dress.

“Do you like them?” 

“They are lovely, but surely they will be missed?”

“Not to worry,” The maid said, once more donning that secretive smile. “Look how well the blue suits you.”

Christine struggled to hold back a growl of frustration at the older woman’s caginess. However, she could not deny that she felt much more settled now that she was fully dressed. The older woman took her arm and escorted her out of her chambers and down the hallway toward the main staircase.

A large manservant with keen eyes and a tan complexion met them at the foot of the stairs. Reaching out, he offered his arm, taking over escorting Christine to the parlor. 

“Make sure they have a good fire in there, Jean Claude,” Madame Carrier admonished. “Milady only just recovered and musn’t catch a chill.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the manservant said in a long-suffering tone. As they walked, Christine finally recalled why he seemed so familiar. He was the manservant who had brought her up the very same stairs when she first arrived at Raoul’s chateau some indeterminate time ago. 

“In here, Mademoiselle,” he said, reaching for a stately door. 

“ Merci , Jean Claude.”

With a gentle smile, he opened the parlor door for her. There was a roaring fire in the massive fireplace. He deposited her with a gentle nudge at the center of a thick persian rug, then solemnly bowed himself out.

As the door clicked shut, silence filled the room. Meg, Raoul, and surprisingly the Inspector, along with a tall man who could only be Raoul’s brother, all turned to face her. For a brief moment, Christine was struck with the uncomfortable feeling of stepping out onto the stage before her cue. 

Meg was the first to break the stillness. “Christine!” The ballerina bounded over to her, pulling her into a fierce hug.

“I was so worried,” Meg half sobbed, half whispered into Christine’s shoulder. Anger and concern seemed to war in her face as she pulled back, dark eyes fixing Christine with a look she knew all too well. Once they were alone, Christine would have a great deal of explaining to do.

“Ah, Mlle. Daaé. Its been so long since last we met,” the tall man said, crossing the space between them. “I am surprised to see you so grown.”

Christine looked up at the Count deChagny, attempting to perform a proper courtsey. 

Despite the silver hairs threaded through his mustache and sideburns, he still cut an imposing figure, much as he had when she and Raoul had been children.

“Indeed, it has. I hope you are well, Count?”

Taking her hands in his, he pulled her slightly forward to kiss both of her cheeks.  

“Quite well,” he said with a knowing smile. “I was surprised when I received word that my brother had elected to remain in New Paris for the winter rather than come up for the holidays. Seeing what a beautiful young woman you have become, I must confess that I am no longer at a loss for my brother’s sudden change in plans.”

Christine’s cheeks flooded with heat at his comment, but internally she squirmed at his unctuous words. It was difficult to resist the urge to pull her hands out of his grasp. 

“Philippe.” Raoul fixed his brother with a reproving look.   

The Count laughed easily, releasing one of Christine’s hands to pat Raoul on the back with more force than strictly necessary. “Come now, there is no shame in admiring such a lovely young lady, my lad.”

Raoul’s cold expression deepened from frosty to glacial.

“Have no fear, little brother. I shan’t try to steal her away from you.” He lifted Christine’s hand towards Raoul, as if they had been dancing partners and Raoul had asked to cut in. 

“I am not so much of a hypocrite as to keep you from pursuing this little love affair with a childhood sweetheart. I have had my share of dalliances with beautiful women in the past.”

Meg stiffened next to Christine, and even the silent Inspector shifted uncomfortably at the Count’s flippant remark.

Blinking back the unexpected sting of tears, Christine struggled to keep her face neutral. She opened her mouth to reply, but Raoul moved first. 

Stepping forward, he firmly plucked Christine from Philippe’s grip. Drawing her to his side, he took her hand in his own and twined their fingers as he faced his brother.

“How dare you?” 

Every person in the room froze at Raoul’s deadly tone. “Your base estimation of Mlle. Daaé’s virtue—and assumptions regarding my character—are both ungentlemanly and unjust.”

Christine’s heart swelled in the stunned silence that followed his words. Looking up at Raoul’s face, she could see the righteous fury blaze in his eyes as he stared down his brother. 

“I love her, Philippe. I have loved her ever since we were children. And having found her again after so many years of separation, I will not be parted with her—by anyone.”

The Count’s expression clouded. “Raoul, just what are you saying? Do you mean to suggest—?”

With a crisp nod, Raoul broke in, “I asked Christine for her hand in marriage and she has seen fit to accept my proposal.”

Shock crashed through Christine with the force of a breaking wave. Raoul loves me? Even after everything that happened? He still loves me?  

“Absolutely not!” the Count said, the large family ring on his hand flashing at his sharp motion of denial. “You cannot pledge yourself to marry this—this…” He gesticulated wordlessly toward Christine, Raoul’s dark expression seeming to force him to censor his choice of wording.

“I forbid it, Raoul!”

“You forbid it?” Raoul said evenly, fixing his brother with an incredulous look. 

“Yes!” the Count spat. “If you insist on marrying her, then you can consider your fortune lost. I will cut you off without a centime.”  

“Very well.”

Philippe blanched at Raoul’s easy acceptance. “Perhaps you do not understand, little brother. I could publicly disown you.”

“If that is what you wish.”

“That is not what I wish, and you very well know it!” Philippe shouted, beginning to pace back and forth in agitation. “Why must you always be so stubborn?” 

“A trait I learned from you, perhaps?”

The count grit his teeth.

Christine could stay silent no longer.

“I love Raoul! With all my heart,” she said, squeezing his steady hand in hers. “His station in life doesn’t matter. King or stable hand, I would love him the same. He means more to me than my life.”

Christine was surprised to see the Inspector, who had remained almost motionless during the exchange, shift slightly at her words. There was a watery sheen to his dark eyes for a moment before he blinked it away.

“Oh you love him, do you?” Philippe sneered. “Of course you don’t care about his station in society. Your love will cost him everything!”

“That is not true—” Raoul tried to cut in.

Philippe turned on his brother with flashing eyes. “She would not last ten minutes in a room full of our peers and you know it. Her lack of education, breeding—Undead take us all—she’s a glorified burlesque dancer!”

Meg’s lips pulled back into a silent snarl, her entire body shaking with barely contained indignation.

“Do you think I will be the only one to draw ‘ungentlemanly’ conclusions regarding the nature of your relationship with her?”

“No,” Raoul grit out stiffly. “But as my brother, I had hoped that you knew me better.”

Philippe deflated slightly at the rebuke. “Ever since Mother and Father died, I’ve done my best to take care of you. I may not have been a perfect brother, but it is my duty to warn you that you are making a grave mistake.”

Raoul nodded. “Duly noted. But nothing you say will change my mind, Philippe.”

The count straightened to his full height, gaze turning cold and calculating. “Very well. I have said my piece.”

Christine glanced between Raoul and Philippe. It pained her to know that Raoul was being forced to choose between her and his last living family member. 

“The new year is fast approaching,” Philippe said, abruptly. “I shall throw a New Years Eve Masquerade Ball where you will announce to all of New Paris your engagement with Mlle. Daaé.”

Christine’s breath caught in her throat even as Meg choked in surprise beside her.

Raoul frowned slightly. “But why are you—?” 

“If you are bound and determined to make a fool of yourself, then it is best to get it over with sooner rather than later,” Philippe said.

Christine straightened as she met his calculating gaze. The count huffed under his breath. “Let us see if your love lasts into the new year.” 

Raoul seemed poised to ask more questions, but Philippe ignored him, walking instead to the bell pull hung near the door. With several vigorous tugs muffled sounds of a bell could be heard ringing through the mansion to summon the servants.
“We have roughly a week or so to prepare,” Philippe said over his shoulder. “I want this to be the event of the season. We may as well make use of that opera house you’re funding, Raoul—it’s grand enough. I shall host the masquerade there.”

The Inspector, Meg, and Christine all shared worried looks. The opera house was the last place someone should ever host a ball, let alone a masquerade ball.

“Are you certain the opera is the best location?” Raoul ventured carefully. “There was an. . . accident last night that may make guests hesitant to attend.” 

“Accident?” the Count asked, sounding bored. “I am sure accidents happen on stages all the time. By New Year’s Eve, any unpleasantness will be old news. Besides, what better place to share your good news?” He raised a brow challengingly. “Surely you are not ashamed of the gentry meeting all of Mlle. Daaé’s fellow opera associates. Simply everyone must attend!”

His downright gleeful smile set Christine’s teeth on edge.

“I shall take my leave, then,” the Inspector said, bowing neatly to the count and then Raoul. He produced a calling card, which he passed to the viscount. “I have an investigation to finish, but if you have any further need of me, I can be found at this address.”

Raoul pressed his lips together grimly, glancing briefly up at his brother. But he accepted the card with a stiff nod as the Inspector saw himself out.

“Miss Giry,” Raoul said, turning to the ballerina. “You and your mother will be staying with us as chaperones for Mlle. Daaé while she recovers here. Please go retrieve your things from the opera house and return as soon as possible.”

Meg startled, but thankfully didn’t argue. Fixing Christine with a stern look, she allowed herself to be escorted out by Jean Claude, who had just entered the room in response to the Count’s summons.

“I was not aware you had been unwell, Mlle. Daaé.” Philippe said in a thoughtful tone, the calculating look back in full force. “Do you still retain that old fusspot doctor, Raoul? You should have him see to your fiance.”

Raoul breathed a soft sigh but nodded. “That was my intention before I was distracted by your arrival. Come, Christine. I’ll escort you to Dr. Choleti now.”

Taking his proffered arm, Christine followed Raoul, glad to get away from Philippe’s piercing gaze. Whatever weakness he hoped she had, it could not be any worse than the truth of her circumstances.

Chapter Text

For Christine, the nine days that followed seemed to drag on for an eternity. This was largely due to her new, demanding routine as the “lady of the house.” Upon being declared healthy by Dr. Choleti, she was supplied with a seemingly endless list of masquerade preparations to oversee, courtesy of the Count. Philippe claimed that the workload was meant to prepare her for her future role as a Viscountess, but Christine could see his challenge for what it really was. Determined not to fail his test, no matter how arduous some of the tasks seemed, Christine applied herself to her new duties with fierce determination. She was immensely thankful for the aid afforded by Meg and Madame Giry. It eased many of her worries to have both of them safely moved out of the opera house and into the chateau, even though it came at the cost of an uncomfortable conversation with Madame Giry regarding the monstrous nature of the Phantom of the Opera and his relationship with Christine. The normally stoic woman was surprisingly kind and sympathetic which only made Christine feel more guilty for not telling her the whole truth. Madame Giry even agreed to undergo an examination with Dr. Choleti, at the Viscount’s request. 

Her old wound and its careful if unorthodox treatment by Mama Valerius intrigued Dr. Choleti. Regardless, he declared Madame Giry perfectly healthy much to Raoul’s visible relief. 

“Look after Christine for me,” Raoul ordered, fixing both Madame Giry and Meg with a serious look. “Until the Phantom is caught, it is unsafe for any of you to return to the opera house.”

“What about you?” Christine was quick to ask. “It isn’t safe for you to face him either.”

Raoul smiled grimly. “I am Hunter. It is my sworn duty to face creatures like him no matter the consequences.”

“And the Inspector will help,” Meg added quickly. “He said that he knew Erik from before when he was the Chief of Police in Persia.”

Christine blinked at her friend in total surprise. 

“What of your engagement ball?” Madame Giry asked quietly. “Was the Count not made aware of the situation when he chose the Opera House as the venue?”

“No.” Raoul sighed, shaking his head slowly. “And it is best that it remains that way. The less my brother knows of this situation the better. I don’t have enough resources at my disposal to deal with a citywide panic if he were to spread word of what lived below the opera house.”

Christine grimaced at the thought of the city devolving into a state of mass hysteria. It would be ten times worse than a Church sanctioned Purge. 

“I will send out a message first thing tomorrow,” Raoul continued. “But it will likely be a fortnight before reinforcements from my order arrive.”

Turning, Raoul fixed Christine with a solemn look. “I will do everything in my power to hunt the Phantom down, but I need you to stay here where its safe.”

Christine swallowed hard. How could she let him face such a such an impossible task alone? What chance did he truly have against an invulnerable vampire?

“Please,” she said, her voice a choked whisper. “Please come back to me safe and sound.” 

Raoul’s eyes softened. “I promise that I’ll do my best.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, he departed for the city.

Christine hated herself for letting him go. The guilt, fear, and loathing slowly ate away at her for next few days. Neither her busy schedule nor Meg and Madame Giry’s best efforts to keep her distracted were quite able to keep her from worrying about Raoul.

By Christmas Eve Christine’s control over her cursed double nature was holding on by a thread. Whether it was the constant stress, lack of sleep, or the weakness at her father’s grave, her control over the darkness hung in tatters. Whispered promises of unnatural power to safeguard those she loved echoed loudly in her ears throughout the day, but especially at night as she lay alone in her cavernous room. With trembling hands, she clutched the wilted rose petal from her father’s sepulcher. Holding the bruised petal over her heart, she clung with everything she had left to the physical reminder of her promise. She would not betray her humanity. She would not give in.

At long last, the first traces of morning light shone weakly through her tall bedroom windows. Christine dressed quickly, tucking the petal into her pocket as she made her way out of her quarters. The house was cold and quiet in the early morning as she drifted down the stairs, drawn to the main parlor where the Christmas tree had been set up. Crossing the carpeted room on quiet feet, Christine stood in front of the tree. Closing her eyes, she breathed in a fragrant lungful of pine-scented air. Strangely, a hint of oiled leather and gun powder mingled with the smell.

“Christine?” 

Christine’s mind froze for a moment, capable of only one coherent thought.

Raoul was back. 

Her body was moving of its own accord before her the rest of her mind caught up. Hurtling back across the thick Persian rug, Christine flung her arms around Raoul in a fierce hug.

Raoul returned her embrace instantly, one arm crushing her to his chest while the other lifted to cradle the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her loosely braided hair.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she said, her voice watery.

“And I you.”

A hundred different questions rose to the forefront of her mind, but before she could open her mouth to ask any of them, a supremely annoying voice broke in.

“What’s this! Are you two trying to sneak a look at the presents early?” 

Christine bit back a growl of frustration as Philippe strode into the room, several wrapped parcels in his arms. He looked positively chipper for being up at the crack of dawn. 

Raoul shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “That was only one time, Philippe.”

The Count’s mustache twitched as he snorted in derision.

“I haven’t the time in any case,” Raoul added stepping back so that he was only holding Christine’s hands. “The investigation continues. And I’m still on the hunt for Christine’s engagement present.”

She stiffened at his coded wording. He’s still hunting for Erik then.

“But you will be back in time for dinner,” Philippe said, fixing his brother with the full force of his sharp gray eyes.   

“Having you here, safe and sound—that is the only present I need,” Christine added. Please, stay. 

“There is no telling how much longer this investigation will take,” Raoul said apologetically, softly squeezing her hands. “Do not delay dinner on my account.”

Philippe shoved his packages roughly under the tree, muttering under his breath.

Blinking away useless tears, Christine braced herself. “If you must go, then you should have this with you.”

Darting around the Count, she quickly extracted the present she had prepared for Raoul. 

“For shame!” Philippe said crossly, reaching out to block her. “No opening presents early.”

“Just this once,” Christine insisted dodging around him to place the bundle in Raoul’s hands.

Smiling, Raoul carefully tugged the ribbon free and pulled the package open. The thick cloth fell away, revealing an elegant sword inlaid with silver filigree. “Your father’s sword,” he breathed reverently, pulling it partially free of its worn scabbard to inspect the edge of the blade. “Are you sure..?”

“To replace the one that was broken,” Christine said looking at Raoul meaningfully. “May it serve you well and keep you safe.”

Leaning forward, Raoul planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I’ll keep it with me at all times,” he promised.

“Hadn’t you better be off then, Raoul?” Philippe snipped. “The sooner you finish this dratted investigation, the sooner you can come home.”

With a quiet huff of breath, Raoul nodded ruefully. “Indeed. I’ll be off then.” Straightening his shoulders, he turned and strode out of the room, fixing her father’s sword to hang at his hip.

Unable to hide the tears welling in her eyes, Christine fled back upstairs to watch Raoul ride away from her window where she could cry in peace. Without a doubt, it was the worst Christmas season since the year her father died. 

The only reason Christine did not collapse an exhausted emotional wreck the next day was thanks to the arrival of Mama Valerius. The sprightly old woman had caught wind of Giry’s relocation to the de Chagny chateau and used the holiday as a convenient excuse to come visit as well as pass on information regarding the current state of the vampire hunt. 

She reported that Raoul and the Inspector were working together to map and seal as many secret passages as they could find in the opera house. The managers seemed to be highly motivated to cooperate with their efforts once they learned that these passage were likely contributing to their “ghost” problem. However, the two men were as yet no closer to finding the vampire’s base of operations. This was in part due to the various deadly traps the vampire had laid in many of the passageways. The two hunters were forced to move with extreme caution, further hampering their efforts in such a limited time frame. With the vampire’s capture looking less likely by the day, they determined that the next best plan would be to lay a trap utilizing the New Year’s Eve ball to draw out the Phantom. It was a plan that filled Christine with a terrible sense of unease.

After her initial visit, Mama Valerius returned several more times, but with fewer updates. Christine soon began to suspect that she mostly came to the chateau to spend time with the Raoul’s doctor. Mama Valerius and Dr. Choleti got along fabulously, trading remedies and experiences in treating both regular and vampiric afflictions. During her visits, Mama Valerius and the doctor would often disappear together, sometimes with Madame Giry and sometimes without, to the doctor’s private study to write down detailed case notes regarding the different unusual cases they had treated.

This left Christine, Meg, and sometimes the house maid, Madame Carriere, to undertake the majority of the last minute costume preparations. Thankfully, Meg had managed to obtain several gowns with the blessing of the costume department for their use, the very same ones from the mysterious black trunk found the day of Christine’s first performance. The designer had declared them incompatible with his artistic vision and would have had them discarded if not for Meg’s quick thinking. The gowns were hurriedly made over to suit the somewhat sacreligious theme of the masquerade ball which Philippe had chosen—heavenly splendor. 

However, by the evening of the ball Christine was too tired and numb to care about themes, gowns, or any of the other minutia related to the event. Erik would inevitably make his move tonight. Philippe’s insistence that the ball be hosted at the opera house would not only ensure that the Phantom would attend, but also provided the perfect cover for him to walk among the party goers in plain sight. It was the perfect bait to lure the Phantom out into the open. But would the trap work?  

“Such an anxious expression, Christine,” the Count said, breaking her distressing train of thought. “Are you having second thoughts about going through with this engagement?”

Christine blinked, focusing on the Count seated across the carriage from her. His golden sun mask covered over half his face, but could not completely obscure his condescending smirk.

“On the contrary,” she said. “I am simply eager to see Raoul again. The investigation has kept him so busy that I worry for his health.”

Philippe grimaced. “Indeed. Though he likely shall be occupied with other matters soon, if the state of the roads are anything to go by.”

“You think so?” Meg asked shifting beside Christine. Her carefully crafted angel wings brushed Christine’s arm as she moved. 

“There is trouble brewing in France, mark my words,” Philippe stated with full assurance. “You would never find this many undead running around the countryside in Austria or Italy. There must be something drawing them to this area.” 

Christine did her best to keep her expression neutral as Meg began to wring her gloved hands in her lap.

“We have arrived,” Madame Giry cut in smoothly, pinning Meg with a severe eyebrow that instantly stilled her nervous hand movements. The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the opera house, causing Christine to fight back a shudder.

The Count stepped out first, turning to assist Madame Giry. With stately grace, the older woman maneuvered her cane to subtly support herself as she disembarked. Her dark dress glimmered in the flickering lamp light, tiny beads sewn sporadically across the fabric mimicked a sea of stars in the night sky. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be right behind you all night,” Meg whispered in Christine’s ear just before she rose to exit the conveyance. “I brought my knife.” The young dancer patted the front of her low cut bodice meaningfully. 

Christine smiled sadly. Meg’s dagger would do little good against this particular vampire, but she appreciated her support nonetheless. She squeezed her friend’s gloved hand briefly before stepping out into the frigid night air.

The short flight of stairs leading up to the main entrance were lit with both lamps and decorative torches. Throngs of cloaked, costumed people made their way up to the party. However, two costumed men hovered near the entrance, scanning those who entered. Upon spotting the Count, they quickly approached.

The taller one was dressed in assorted pieces of glittering silver armor including a plumed helmet with a vizor. The shorter wore a far more subdued outfit save for his hat which resembled a snarling dragon’s head. It was hard to say which one was snarling more, the dragon or the man wearing it. 

“My dear Count de Chagny!” the tall armored man said, raising his vizor, revealing the overly wide smile of the opera manager Gile Andre. “Such a splendid party, my dear fellow. The prologue to a bright new year.”

After receiving an elbow to the ribs from his associate, the taciturn manager Richard Firmin added, “Quite a night, very impressive.”

The Count flourished his golden gloved hand almost in benediction, “Well, one does one’s best,” he said with a light laugh. The two managers quickly fell into step along either side of him, their breath visible in the cold air as they engaged him in conversation.

Meg scoffed, teeth chattering a little. “His best! You were the one who did most of the hard work.”

“Come girls,” Madame Giry said, a small smile tugging at her lips at Meg’s remark. She followed the sun king and the managers up the steps as solemnly as night follows day.

Reaching up, Christine let her finger’s graze against the simple locket she wore around her throat. The silver pendant had been Raoul’s Christmas gift to her. A pendant that was just the perfect size to store her rose petal. She only hoped that he was also keeping her gift close at hand as well.

“Christine?”

Taking a deep breath she turned to her friend. “Let’s go.”

Gathering their skirts the two girls solemnly began to climb. Warmth blossomed around them as they stepped through the open doors of the opera house. Liveried footmen rushed back and forth to take cloaks as well as serve refreshments to the guests who mingled both in the foyer and further into he building. 

“I propose a toast!” the bubbly manager Andre called to the assembly, raising a flute of champagne in his armored hand.

“Here’s to the Count and Viscount de Chagny!”

“De Chagny!” the crowd echoed, many raising their glasses politely in acknowledgement.

“And to all the good people of the city of New Paris!”

“To the city!” the crowd shouted much louder.

“What a pity the Phantom can’t be here,” he joked, sending the crowd around him into titters of laughter. 

Christine glanced around, half-expecting the Phantom to make his presence known at the flippant remark. However she saw nothing out of the ordinary, except for Meg’s delicate silk mask skewed sideways as she wrinkled her nose in distaste. Christine reached out to adjust it for her when music suddenly began to pour out of the ballroom. All at once, the crowd of guests began to make their way further into the building.

The two girls were swept towards the music, the press of costumed bodies swirling them along like a strong river current towards the designated ballroom area. Christine could feel her nerves straining at the parade of strange faces streaming past her on every side. Every face was a different shape or shade, turning even those she considered close friends into strangers. Every time she looked over her shoulder, there was yet another strange mask behind her. 

Abruptly, Meg was pulled away by a grinning man in yellow, her protests swallowed into the general tumult as he spun her into a crazy dance alongside a nimble girl in red. They were no doubt dancers with the company; however, Christine could not say who they were. The crushing crowd was rapidly becoming too much to bear.

Christine began to gasp for air, drowning in the overwhelming glare of lights and sounds, unable to name even one face in the crowd around her. Straining against the current, she finally broke free, finding a place to stand alone at the edge of the dance floor. The relief of escape quickly soured as she stood panting under burning glances. More and more heads turned towards her. An endless sea of painted smiles watched her every move.

“Who is that?” she heard someone whisper. 

“Where did she find such an odd gown?”

“Like a church window perhaps—”

“—so strange.”

Christine wished fervently that she could just disappear, regretting her choice of costume. Of course none of the nobles with their taste in high fashion would like it. Her idea to recreate the look of a stained glass window in a gown had been made last minute. 

From the corner of her eyes, the shadows in the room seemed to seethe and lengthen, reaching twisting tendrils out to her. She gritted her teeth, struggling to reclaim her slipping control once more. She couldn’t let the remarks get to her, or Philippe had as good as won in proving her unfit to wed Raoul.

Suddenly, a familiar voice spoke. “Fah! So gaudy. My dress is’a bettar.”

Finally, a face she recognized. Carlotta stood off to the side of the dance floor with Piangi, holding her mask suspended on a slender stick well away from her artfully painted face. She was dressed in a Grecian inspired gown decorated with numerous costume jewels and a ball of golden cord dangling from her cinched waist. Piangi was dressed similarly in the Grecian style although his waist was in no way cinched. His only adornment was a simple wreath of grape leaves around the crown of his head and two golden cuffs on his wrists. 

Despite the diva’s harsh words, Christine was glad to see the woman back in good health. Memories of the prima donna choking on poison with blood pooling at the corners of her mouth flashed sharply through Christine’s memory.

It was your fault that she almost died, the darkness inside of her whispered. You are a monster .

I’m not a monster, Christine snapped, mentally shoving the darkness back. You breathe nothing but lies.

Oh? The darkness responded, almost laughing. You can fool any friend who ever knew you—but we both know what you are.

Christine turned sharply, determined to escape the voice’s torment and locate Meg. However as she darted away behind one of the pillars she heard Philippe speaking in a sharp whisper.

“Just think of it. We could delay the announcement. . . keep your engagement secret—just for the time being.”

“Why keep it a secret? What have we to hide?” 

At the sound of Raoul’s voice, relief flooded through Christine like cool water over a burn. Glancing up she caught sight of the two brothers arguing at the edge of the ballroom. The Count’s flamboyant sun king costume contrasted sharply with the subdued colors and cut of Raoul’s dress uniform.

“This announcement ball was your idea,” Raoul said before adding in a softer voice, “You promised me, Philippe. . . Let’s not argue.”

The Count stiffened as he spotted Christine making her way toward them. “Look, your future bride.”

Raoul turned, his eyes widening slightly. A tired but genuine smile brightened his face as his gaze swept over her appreciatively.

Christine’s nerves evaporated as she smiled back, practically floating across the distance between them. The moment she was within arms reach, she was suddenly swept into a kiss.

“No, Raoul,” Philippe cautioned, edging in front to shield them from view. “Don’t– they’ll see.”

Raoul pulled back, leaving Christine breathless but also put out at Philippe’s interference.

“Well, then let them see. It’s an engagement, not a crime.”

What are you so afraid of? Christine wondered, glancing at Philippe’s guarded face. Did he truly care so deeply about what other people thought of them? Or was there some other reason for his concern?

“Let’s not argue,” Raoul repeated, taking Christine’s hand to lead her back toward the dance floor.

Philippe held out his hand, “Please reconsider.”

Raoul frowned. “I will not.”

The Count turned to Christine, an unreadable expression on his masked face.

“I hope that you will come to understand in time,” she said holding his gaze with determination. You won’t win. Raoul and I belong together.

A subdued smile crept across the visible portion of the Count’s face. “Very well. Signal the orchestra when you are ready to make your big announcement.” 

He strode off abruptly, making a bee-line for the alcohol laden section of the refreshment tables.

“What was that?” Christine wondered aloud. 

Raoul burst into chuckling laughter. “I think that was his final test.”

Christine glanced between Raoul and the Count in bewilderment. “Does that mean we passed?” 

Raoul grinned, sweeping her with enthusiasm into the flow of the dancers. “Yes, I believe we did!” 

For the first time in days, Christine felt hope bubble up inside of her. Smiling widely she followed Raoul’s lead. Her skirt billowed out as they twirled, the vibrant colors of her gown catching the light before scattering it back in a rainbow. Together they glided through the steps in perfect synch, the music seeming to fade away around them. Only a second later as the other couples began to still did Christine realize that the music had stopped for real. Around them, the guests were turning to stare in the direction of the grand stairs leading up to the box seating.

It could only mean one thing.

He’s here.

Breaking out of Raoul’s stiffening grip, Christine whirled around.

At the top of the stairs stood a tall figure robed in a flowing oriental costume of scarlet silks and brocades. A turban sat low on his brow, a long feather fixed to its folds with a glittering ruby pin. The lurid color of the fabrics contrasted starkly with the grimacing skull mask he wore. 

The Phantom of the Opera had arrived.

Chapter Text

“I must go. Be careful and stay out of sight as best you can,” Raoul whispered. “The plan is working. He’s right where we want him.”

With a reassuring squeeze of her hand, Raoul’s presence at her back vanished as he slipped away through the crowd.

Please be careful. Christine longed to whisper back, but the words died on her lips as the Phantom’s hypnotic voice filled the ballroom.

“Why so silent, good monsieurs?” His burning gaze swept the crowd. “Did you think I had left you for good?”

“Monsieur?” the manager Andre said hesitantly.

Out of the corner of her eye, Christine could see both managers hovering nervously at the base of the staircase.

“I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure. . .” Firmin offered uncertainly.

Peering down at them through his horrific mask, the Phantom’s icy expression froze them both in place. 

“I say,” the Count called loudly from the refreshment tables, “if you plan to crash my party, you ought to at least dress appropriately.” 

Christine sucked in a frightened breath as her idiot future brother-in-law began to stalk determinedly through the crowd. The wine glass in his hand sloshed dangerously, but he did not seem to notice as he neared the stairs. 

“Your mask is in incredibly poor taste!” he called out, affronted. “What is the meaning of this intrusion, sir?”

Christine bolted forwards to intercept him before he could start climbing the steps. Raoul needed time to spring his trap and she couldn’t let Philippe ruin his plans by getting himself stupidly killed. She grabbed the Count’s arm, hauling him backwards into relative safety behind her. 

“What now. . ?” The Count’s remark faded into silence.

Now that she was no longer hidden by the bodies of the other dancers, the Phantom’s gaze fell upon her with full force. If Philippe’s sudden stillness behind her was anything to go by, she was not the only one who felt like a cornered prey animal.

The Phantom titled his head. “Have you missed me?” 

The words were spoken so quietly, Christine was sure that only she and a few others could hear them. A cruel smile twisted the Phantom’s lips behind the false skeletal jaw he wore. She released a tiny sigh of relief when he finally turned his attention back to the managers. 

“Good monsieurs, I have written you an opera.”

The two men exchanged startled glances, Firmin’s dragon hat sliding askew at the movement.

“Here.” Raising his arm, the vampire parted voluminous sleeves to reveal a large leather bound portfolio in his hand. “The finished score.”

With an elegant movement, he flung the bound case at the taller of the two managers. With a clang, the man caught it against his armored chest. He stumbled at the force of the toss.

“Don Juan Triumphant!” the Phantom announced loudly.

A soft murmur rippled through the crowd.

“Must be a new production?” 

“An eccentric playwright, perhaps?”

“What on earth is going on?” Philippe muttered under his breath. “Who is this man?”

The Phantom held out a hand, instantly silencing the crowds’ whispered speculations.

“What’s this?” he called in mock surprise. “And here I thought there was no need for introductions.” With the sinuous grace of a serpent, he began to make his way down the stairs. “The Phantom of the Opera gives his fondest greetings to you all.”

Gasps of shock rang out, especially from those who were part of the opera company. Both of the mangers went visibly pale.

“I have but a few instructions before rehearsal starts,” the Phantom continued.

Christine clenched her fists at his condescending tone.

“Carlotta must be taught to act.” Turning, the Phantom speared the prima donna with a sharp look that had her shrinking behind Piangi. “Not her normal trick of strutting ‘round the stage.”

Her carefully painted lips drew thin at his harsh words, but Carlotta remained silent. 

“And our Don Juan must lose some weight,” the Phantom droned on imperiously, sneering at her beau. “It’s not healthy in a man of Piangi’s age.”

The rotund singer stepped forward, puffing out his cheeks in protest, but a warning look from the Phantom had him quickly backing away again.

Reaching the final stair, the Phantom glanced down his nose at the two managers before him.

“And my managers must learn their place.” 

The Phantom struck in a lightning fast movement. Several pieces of Andre’s armor fell, the straps cut in the blink of an eye, and Firmin’s dragon hat fluttered to the ground in pieces. “These creatures which crawled out of a scrap heap belong in their shabby little office—not the arts.”

The two men scrambled back, tripping noisily over the debris in their haste to get away.

Christine held her breath as the Phantom turned to face her. Stepping off of the staircase, he approached her almost hesitantly.

“As for our star. . . Mademoiselle Christine Daaé.”

Philippe bristled behind her. “Your star? I think not!”

Christine tightened her grip on Philippe’s arm in warning. Stop talking. Don’t make him more angry than he already is.

“Mlle. Daaé is to wed my brother and become the Viscountess de Chagny.” The Count continued on heedlessly. “She is retiring from the stage, monsieur.”

The Phantom went deathly still, his face freezing in a look of shocked fury.

The crowd broke once more into gasps of surprise.

Taking a deep breath, Christine braced herself, watching for the slightest hint of movement on the Phantom’s part.

“You would chain yourself to—to that. . ?” his words trailed off into a hiss so low it was almost inaudible.

“Yes.” Her answer cut clearly through the soft murmurs of the crowd around them. 

For a brief moment, Christine felt the balance of power shift. The Phantom no longer had a hold on her. . . and he knew it.

The Phantom drew himself up to his full height, lips drawing back to make the tips of his elongated canines just visible. Christine sank into a fighting stance, preparing herself for the inevitable attack to follow. 

 “Erik!” The Inspector’s accented voice rang through the ballroom.

In a flash of sanguine brocade, the vampire whirled to face the person who had called out from the top of the stairs. 

“Your game is at an end. Come quietly,” the Inspector entreated. “There is no need to make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

As if to highlight his words, the crowd parted for a troop of sûreté officers with Raoul at their head. 

Christine breathed a quick sigh of relief and seized the opportunity to drag Philippe away.

“Listen to Inspector Kahn,” Raoul said, watching the Phantom closely. “Every exit has been secured. There is nowhere for you to run this time.”

The Phantom threw his head back and laughed. It was a horrible mirthless sound.

“Nowhere to run? Ignorant fool, it is you who should be running.”

Raoul drew his sword, but the Phantom remained in place, deceptively motionless.

“Watch out for his punjab-lasso!” the Inspector called, hurling himself down the stairs. “Keep your hand at the level of your eye!”

Before Raoul could even respond to the man’s warning, the Phantom struck. A rope flashed through the air, almost like a living entity. Raoul was yanked off balance, the noose pulling tight around his neck before he could even attempt to cut it. With another sharp tug, Raoul fell at the Phantom’s feet, his sword clattering to the ground as he clutched at the rope around his neck. 

“Raoul!” Christine cried, rushing forward. However, her progress was impeded by the sûreté officers ringed around the Phantom. They leveled their guns at the vampire, demanding the Viscount’s release.

“Let me through!” she cried. 

Her voice was lost in the screams of the guests as a warning shot was fired by one of the officers into the air. 

“Release him or we open fire!”

The Phantom smirked. “ Stand down, men. ” 

Christine could hear the change in his voice as he tapped fully into his vampiric register. 

The sûreté officers around her slowly lowered their arms, their eyes slightly unfocused. Peering past them, Christine could also see the Inspector, who had reached the end of the stairs, struggling against the order. A dagger was loosely held in his hand.

The Phantom also seemed to take note of him. “ Daroga, drop your weapon. ”

The Inspector’s knife clattered to marble floor. A second later, the Phantom had bound the Inspector and flung him down next to Raoul. 

“No!” Christine shoved her way through the ring of dazed sûreté. Reaching deep inside, she opened the door between her and the darkness, pushing the smallest amount she could safely manage into her voice. “ Release them!” 

The Phantom tilted his head in bird-like manner. “Is that the best you can do?”

Raoul began struggling harder, flicking out a dagger from his sleeve. The Phantom stomped down on his arm harshly, leaving Raoul only one hand to pull at the noose which was still tightening around his neck.

Christine struggled to push more into her voice without losing her grip on the door. “ Let them go! ”

The Phantom shook his head, tugging on the rope as he mockingly addressed the Viscount. “It’s true, her voice is good. She knows. Though should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn.”

Raoul glared daggers up at the Phantom. 

“If only her pride would let her return to me, her teacher.”

Christine fought down the impulse to scream in frustration, knowing that she would loose all control if she did.

“Her teacher?” someone gasped from beyond the ring of sûreté, it sounded vaguely like Philippe.

Raoul’s face was tinging purple, his struggling growing weaker by the second.

“ Please ,” Christine whispered. “ Spare him. ”

The Phantom shuddered, his condescending expression giving way to a look of frustration and anger.

“Your chains are still mine,” he declared, rearing back abruptly. “You belong to me!”

Reaching into his robes, he flung down some of the same powder he must have used in the graveyard—for a wall of fire instantly hid him from view. As soon as the flames and smoke cleared, the place where the Phantom, Raoul, and the Inspector had been was empty. Christine ran forward to the soot stained floor, frantically searching for a mechanism or evidence of a hidden passage. However, she could find nothing.

Chapter Text

The sudden fall was startling. It would have knocked the air from Raoul’s lungs if he had any left to dislodge. As it was, by the time he hit the unyielding stone floor, he was already almost unconscious. Someone was speaking to him, but he couldn’t quite make out their words. The person sounded far away, like they were underwater.

Or maybe he was the one who was underwater. Am I drowning again?  

There was a tugging around his neck and abruptly the terrible choking pain was eased. Raoul gasped for breath, his body quickly devolving into a coughing fit as his throat protested the prolonged mistreatment.

The memory of his capture at the hands of Phantom rushed back in perfect clarity. Raoul scanned the area, but he and the Inspector were alone in what seemed to be a hexagonal room of mirrors. Strange bulbs of glass filled with burning orange light were somehow suspended from long wires above them, rendering the space bright but uncomfortably warm. 

This was an area of the Phantom’s lair they had never seen during their exploration. Raoul frowned, disoriented by every movement which was magnified and duplicated around them. An attack could come from any direction. They would never see it coming.

“Erik!” The Inspector stood, turning round and round as if trying to locate the direction in which the Phantom had gone.

Raoul pulled the lasso over his head with his good hand, grimacing when he realized that the rope had been roughly cut so that the end was only a few feet long. Not long enough to be used for climbing out, then.

“Erik, I know you’re there! Speak to me. You owe me a debt!”

The ghastly visage of the vampire suddenly appeared in one of the panes.

Raoul tensed in his crouched position. Vampires could cast no reflection upon a mirror. Was he present in the room with them? Raoul flicked his remaining dagger out of his coat sleeve, preparing for what would come next.

“Owe you?” the vampire hissed, his burning scarlet gaze fixed on the Inspector. “How did you come to that strange conclusion, Daroga? From what I remember, the last time we saw each other you stabbed a wooden stake through my heart!”

Raoul frowned. So this vampire had survived a stake to the heart as well? 

“He would never have let you go unless I convinced him of your death,” the Inspector shot back. “You are free because of me!”

The Phantom scoffed, turning as if to leave.

“Wait, please!” the Inspector’s voice broke as he dropped to his knees. “I don’t ask this favor for myself. It is for my son.”

The Phantom turned back, brows drawing together in a slight frown.

Raoul was similarly puzzled. I thought the Shah of Persia killed his son?

“Please, Erik. Reza is my only child, Rookheeya’s last gift to me.”

“Speak plainly,” the Phantom commanded. “What is it you want?”

“I beg of you, restore my son to me.”

Dread swept over Raoul. “No. You musn’t.” The words came out as little more than a raspy gasp thanks to the swelling in his throat.

The Phantom’s gaze briefly flicked over to Raoul, before returning his full attention to the Inspector.

“It was my punishment for letting you go,” the Inspector explained, anger bleeding into his tone. “When the Tepes clan was wiped out, the Shah began to suspect that you had somehow survived to thwart his plans.”

“As paranoid as ever,” the Phantom scoffed. “However, he was mistaken. I attempted no such thing.”

The Inspector shook his head. “The timing was too suspicious. My entire household was placed under arrest, and when I was finally brought to the palace to be pardoned, he chained me down–forced me to watch. . .”

The Inspector shuddered where he knelt, a stifled sob slipping past his lips.

The Phantom stiffened minutely.

“He all but tore out his throat!” the Inspector shouted, pounding a fist into the stone floor. “The accursed Shah claimed him as a thrall!”

Raoul sat up straighter. What!? The Shah of Persia was. . . a vampire?

The Phantom did not seem the least bit surprised at the Inspector’s words. He simply waited motionless as the distraught man gathered himself.

“What have I become, Erik?” the man asked in a tortured whisper. “What father must keep his only son forever locked away in darkness? Yet, I dare not let him loose—for he would certainly injure himself.”

Raoul would have scoffed at the Inspector’s remark if his throat had allowed it. Did this man have no concept of how much danger thralls posed to humans? Surely he must have seen the state of the surrounding countryside coming to New Paris?

“When I had opportunity, I would clear the grounds and take Reza out to walk with me in the moonlight,” the Inspector said wistfully. “Some nights his mind would clear enough for us to converse. Yet I find that I dread those nights the most.”

The Phantom shifted slightly. Despite his blank expression, Raoul felt as if he could catch just the briefest glimmer of discomfort in the vampire’s movement.

“When the time comes that I must return him to his quarters, he turns to me and—and he says, ‘Can’t I stay outside a little longer? Just until the sun comes up, Baba.’”

Raoul froze. The acrid stench of flesh burning to ashes in the morning light tugged at his memory so vividly, he could practically smell it.

The Inspector seemed similarly overcome, shoulders heaving with stifled sobs.

“What would you have me do, Daroga?” The Phantom asked in a surprisingly gentle tone. “No death is painless for a vampire. If he is willing to face the light, then you must let him go.”

Raoul grimaced. He had been thinking much the same thing.

“No! There must be a cure,” the Inspector said, his voice watery as he gathered himself into a semblance of control once more. “The Shah said that the Impaler knew of a way—a jealously guarded secret which ensured the Tepes clan could never truly be destroyed.”

The Phantom’s lips pressed together in a grim line. “Yet they were destroyed. So you said yourself.” 

“Yes. They were destroyed because their secret was uncovered!”

The Phantom shook his head slightly. “You are grasping at straws.”

“Please, Erik—”

“There is nothing I can do for you, Daroga,” the Phantom said.

“But–”

The Phantom held up a pale hand to forestall the Inspector’s words. “I do not have the power nor the ability to cure your son. But for the sake of our past friendship, I will pardon your attempt to capture me and allow you to return to him once my plans are complete.”

The Inspector froze in place. 

“What plans?” Raoul rasped, his voice louder this time.

The Phantom turned to stare down at Raoul with disgust. “Insolent whelp. Be grateful that I still permit your existence to continue.”

Raoul leaped to his feet, brandishing his remaining dagger in challenge.

The Phantom laughed harshly. “Such a hot temper. You really ought to cool off, Viscount.”

In a blink, the Phantom disappeared, his grating laugh floating through the air seemingly all around them before fading away into nothing. 

Raoul shifted the grip on his dagger, straining his ears as he slowly turned in a circle. There was no sign of the Phantom in any of the many reflections around him. All he could hear was the steady buzzing sound emanating from the glass lights above him as they continued to fill the room with heat and light. 

The Inspector slowly got to his feet, knees creaking loudly as he stood.

Hundreds of questions warred inside of Raoul as he faced the older man. In the end, only one slipped out in a gravelly rasp. “Why?” 

The man turned to Raoul, his face arranged into a mask of devoid of emotion.

“Why did you lie to me?”

The Inspector shook his head. “I never lied, I simply withheld certain details.”

Raoul opened his mouth to respond, but the Inspector turned to face the wall of mirrors.

“Now is not the time to argue, Viscount,” he said dismissively. “We must work together to find a way out of this prison while Erik is gone.”

Raoul begrudgingly sheathed his dagger. 

“Work together?” Raoul asked in a huff, gently palpating his injured arm. The bones did not feel broken, but his entire forearm was swollen and sensitive. “How am I supposed to work alongside someone I cannot trust—a man who willingly served a vampire master?”

The Inspector’s blank expression slipped for a moment, unadulterated hatred flashing in his eyes across every mirror. 

“Do not mistake my service for loyalty, Viscount de Chagny,” he said sharply. “The Shah has been in control of Persia longer than either of us has been alive. His control over my people, especially those of his living bloodline is absolute.”

Living bloodline? As in the Inspector was directly related to the Shah? Raoul mentally shoved that uncomfortable train of thought away to deal with at a later time. 

“And yet you chose to defy this tyrant for another vampire’s sake?” Raoul asked, holding himself back from adding, A choice that cost you the life of your son.

The Inspector’s expression closed off once more. “You know nothing of my life or the events that led me to make that decision, Viscount. But considering your fiance’s situation, I would not be so quick to judge what I have done, especially for my son.”

Raoul bristled at the reprimand, but could not refute the Inspector’s accusation. He had bent the rules for Christine. 

“Are you certain the cure exists?” Raoul asked in a low voice. 

The Inspector nodded sharply. “I am certain of it. Did you not hear him? Erik said that he had neither the power nor the ability to cure my son. How would he know how much power such an ability would require—unless he is aware of its existence? If he cannot perform the cure himself, then he must know someone who. . .”

The Inspector froze, his eyes flicking up to fix Raoul’s reflection with a contemplative stare. 

“What? Is there another player we are not aware of?” Raoul asked, stepping toward the Inspector.

The strange look disappeared almost instantly, as the Inspector once more smoothed his expression into one of complete blankness. “Perhaps,” he answered distractedly. “Or perhaps. . . not.” Shaking his head, he reached out and began examining the edges where the mirrors met. “In any case, we should focus on escaping this room.”

Raoul nodded, tugging at his cravat to loosen it. His dress uniform mimicked his normal uniform in that it was designed for coverage. Unfortunately, the design did little to cool him in the room’s steadily rising temperature. Why did the strange lights put off so much heat?

“Erik designed all of the mazes and labyrinths the Shah used for hunting,” the Inspector said in a low voice. 

“Hunting?” Raoul asked perplexed.

The Inspector nodded moving on to the next panel. “The hunted were promised their freedom if they could escape the maze alive. No one ever managed it.”

“He hunted people for sport?” Raoul felt his stomach roil at the Inspector’s casual words.

“Yes. That was the reason Erik was one of the Shah’s favorites. He devised clever traps that could slow down even the strongest vampire in order to prolong the chase. This is why I recognize this room.”

“You do?”  

“It looks like one of his typical ‘sunlight’ traps. While potens nobilis —as you call them—do not burn in sunlight, they still have a natural aversion to it. He designed these lights to incapacitate lesser nobles while leaving a human relatively unharmed. However, the longer we remain trapped in this room, the hotter and brighter it will get.”

As if to highlight the Inspector’s words, a bead of sweat trickled down the back of Raoul’s neck.

“In every trap Erik built, there was always a hidden trigger that opened the door to the rest of the maze.”

“What does the trigger look like?”

“It was different every time. Sometimes they were as small as a shirt button. For now, look for any protrusions or depressions.”

Nodding, Raoul began making his way in the opposite direction of the Inspector, attempting to carefully feel every inch of the walls for a hidden trigger. However, each mirror seemed to be fitted perfectly into place. With every passing minute, Raoul could feel his anxiety rising as the relentless heat beat down upon him from the overhead lights.

“How long do you think we will be able to survive in here?” Raoul asked.

The Inspector’s lips pulled down slightly. “I don’t know. An official hunt never lasted more than 24 hours.”

Raoul grimaced. “Whatever the Phantom’s planning will take place soon, then.”

The Inspector released a contemplative breath. “Perhaps. But why would he give the opera managers a new production to perform? Such preparations usually take weeks to complete, do they not?”

“True. If so, that would be a good thing. Backup from my holy order should be arriving a week or so from now.”

The Inspector froze, turning to look over at Raoul. “You mean to purge the city?”

“If that is what it takes to bring this monster to ground.”

Suddenly the light and heat above them extinguished with a sharp click. The hexagonal room was plunged into pitch black.

Raoul was relieved and concerned in equal measure at the change in circumstances. While he was glad that the oppressive heat was finally beginning to dissipate, the darkness made it much more difficult to sense an attack coming.

“He will likely turn the lamps back on, in a few hours,” the Inspector murmured to himself. “If he means to keep us here for an extended period, he can’t leave us in the light for too long.”

Raoul wished he had worn his regular uniform instead of his dress one. His tinder box was stashed away in one of the pockets of his favorite duster back at home. 

“Please move to the center of the room, Inspector. I need to create a perimeter.”

Based on the sound of the man’s footsteps, he obligingly removed himself to the center of the room. Raoul extracted his flask of holy water and poured a defensive barrier around the two of them with a few sprinkles of garlic salt for good measure.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Raoul said, easing into a crouched position within the ring.

“I am more familiar with Erik’s patterns of behavior. Allow me to take the first watch in case he returns.”

Raoul paused, considering the Inspector’s offer. His arm and neck where both throbbing fiercely. A short rest should restore his frazzled senses to proper order.

“Very well.”

The Inspector sat to Raoul’s back, as he settled himself on the floor. 

“Wake me when you grow too tired to keep watch,” Raoul said.

The Inspector made a soft sound of assent. Shortly after, Raoul finally slipped into unconsciousness. 

He woke some time later at the sound of sharp click and blinding light flooding the prison chamber. Instantly awake, he rolled to his feet with dagger drawn and ready. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat as he checked his surroundings. His panic only heightened as soon as he realized why the sudden change had caught him off guard. The Inspector was gone.

Chapter Text

Christine’s body was present in the manager’s office, but her mind was far away. She made no effort to pull her thoughts and emotions out of the numbing haze they had drifted into. It was better not to think or feel. At least that way she couldn’t give in to the darkness howling inside of her for release. 

She sat motionless on the hard wooden chair where Philippe had placed her some hours ago. He had set up his base of operations in the opera manager’s opulent joint office. Under the Count’s orders, the sûreté had sent away the guests and began a thorough search of the entire premises, beginning with the lower storage levels and working their way up from there. Meanwhile, the two managers had produced every piece of correspondence they had ever received from the Phantom and painstakingly brought the Count up to date regarding their dealings with the Phantom of the Opera.

“How could you two imbeciles have allowed him to run loose for so long?” Philippe demanded, turning on the managers who were seated across the desk from him. “This Phantom is a menace that should have been dealt with ages ago!”

“You think we haven’t tried?” Mssr. Firmin demanded, scattering the loose notes as he gestured angrily. “We eagerly cooperated with the investigation led by the Viscount and Inspector Kahn precisely for that reason. And look where that got us?—where it got them !”

The Count stilled, his expression darkening until it was a mere shade away from murderous.  

Mssr. Andre spoke, looking up from the portfolio he had been distractedly paging through. “We have all been blind,” he said. “The answer is staring us in the face.”

The Count glanced over as the more foppish of the managers leaned forward and placed the portfolio on the desk. “This could be just the chance we need to ensnare our clever friend.” 

Christine shuddered as Philippe picked up the manuscript and began paging through the handwritten sheets of music and stage notes. 

“Go on,” Phillipe ground out in a tight voice.

“We play his game,” Mssr. Andre explained, growing excitement lacing his tone. “By performing his work, we hold the ace! For if Mlle. Daaé sings—” He turned slightly to face her. “He is certain to attend.”

Christine blinked, the jolt of surprise rapidly dispelling the hazy numbness. Fear, anger, despair—overwhelming emotions of every variety—swept through her like a tidal wave.

“I cannot sing it,” she said through clenched teeth, shuddering against the sudden onslaught. “I don’t want any part in this plot.” 

“But don’t you see?” the manager Andre continued on undeterred. “We can make certain that the doors are barred, have sûreté hidden in the production crew, and make certain that everyone capable of carrying a weapon is armed. By the time the curtain falls, the Phantom’s reign will end.”

“Madness,” Christine whispered. “This is madness.”

“Not if it works!” Mssr. Firmin chimed in glaring at Christine. “We could finally turn the tide in our favor.”

“Monsieur, believe me, there is no turning this tide.” 

“We can if you help us,” Mssr. Andre said. “Or could it be that you're on his side?”

“Of course not!” Christine cried. “But don’t you remember what happened to Buquet? We have seen him kill !”

“This so called ‘angel’ has to fall!” Mssr. Firmin shouted over her. “Or he will haunt us ‘til we’re all dead!”

Christine clutched at the locket around her neck, struggling to shove down the rage and anguish that threatened erupt at the manager’s insinuation. Raoul was not dead! He wasn’t! She refused to accept such a possibility. 

“Gentlemen, I wish to speak to Mlle. Daaé privately. If you would step outside for a moment?”

The two managers stiffly got to their feet, Firmin openly scowling at being booted out of his own office.

Once the door was closed, the Count turned to Christine.

“Please, Philippe,” she said softly, releasing the death grip on her locket. “If I step onto that stage, I know he’ll take me away.”

The Count frowned, his mustache twitching slightly. 

“I’ll be parted from Raoul forever. . . he won’t let me go.” 

Philippe shook his head. “He may masquerade himself as an angel of death with those flashy magic tricks, but he is nothing but a man.” 

She let her gaze fall, her body beginning to shudder under the exertion of maintaining control. Dare she warn him about the Phantom’s true nature? Would it make a difference?

“Christine, don’t think that I don’t care—”

Blinking hard, she dismissed the idea. 

“But every hope—every prayer—of catching this fiend rests on you.”

Do I even have a choice? Twisted every way, she could find no other solution, no better answer to give. She would not hesitate to risk her life if it meant winning Raoul the chance to live. She would do anything, even if it meant becoming the Phantom’s prey once more. 

“I know,” she said, struggling to speak through lump in her throat. “I know I can’t refuse. . . but I wish I could.”

There was no telling what horrors waited for her in the Phantom’s opera.

Philippe reached out to briefly pat her clasped hands. He moved stiffly, but she could tell that the gesture was meant to be comforting.

In the silence that lingered between them, she could soon distinguish a growing commotion outside of the office doors.

“What is that?” Philippe wondered aloud. 

At his words, the office door was suddenly flung open. Meg charged inside, her angel wings shedding feathers at her rapid pace. 

“We found the Inspector!” she cried. Madame Giry, the two opera managers, and the disheveled Inspector Kahn followed her into the office. 

Christine shot to her feet, her legs aching at the sudden movement. “Inspector!?”

“Where did you find him?” Philippe called quickly offering the weary man a seat.

“In the lower storage levels,” Meg answered as the Inspector slowly took the seat, massaging the raw skin around his wrists. 

“He heard us searching around down there and was able to find his way out.”

“And what of my brother? What happened to Raoul?”

Christine held her breath.

The Inspector looked up, his dark eyes briefly resting on Christine before turning to face the Count. “I lost sight of him after we fell through the trap door,” the man answered. 

Hope withered in her chest.

“I would have searched for him, but it was pitch dark down there and the maze is riddled with deadly traps. I just barely managed to find my way out.”

“But can you find your way back in?” Philippe asked sharply. “I can gather more men, fetch plenty of lamps to search the area.”

The Inspector shook his head. “I wandered alone in those tunnels for hours calling for help. It was random chance that I found my way out at all. I fear I would be unable to find the path back. . .”

Philippe scowled at the Inspector’s answer. “Get some rest then. Perhaps you will remember more about it tomorrow and I can arrange a scouting mission once you’ve recovered. I’ll have guards posted by the exit in case Raoul manages to find his way out as well,” he turned to the managers. “Ready the production for the Phantom’s opera. If we are unable to find my brother before the week is out, then we will put on the play to catch this Phantom and force him to return my brother.”

The two managers instantly balked at the short timeframe.

“Madame Giry,” the Count said, ignoring the indignant managers to look at the older woman. “Please return my brother’s fiancée to the chateau. It has been a long night for everyone, and she must be well-rested to start rehearsing.”

Madame Giry nodded. As she herded Meg and Christine out of the office, the managers' arguments doubled in volume.

The Inspector trailed behind them as they made their way down the stairs and through the foyer towards the front of the Opera House. 

“Where do you think he took Raoul?” Christine said in a low voice, turning to look at the Inspector.

“I am not sure,” the Inspector said regretfully, not quite meeting her eyes. “But I do think he intends to keep the Viscount alive. Otherwise he would have no means of ensuring your cooperation with whatever it is he is planning.”

Christine grimaced at the thought of singing the Phantom’s music. 

“What could he gain from making you perform?” the Inspector asked, his dark eyes boring into Christine. “You knew him for five years as a teacher. Surely, you must have an idea?”

Uncomfortable with the Inspector’s probing, Christine remained silent. 

Thankfully, Meg seemed to sense her discomfort and jumped in. “Whatever he’s planning won’t matter. The Viscount’s reinforcements from the church should be arriving any day now. They will be able to smoke him out before he has a chance to do anything.”

“Hush now,” Madame Giry admonished softly, striding forward to order the Count’s carriage. The liveried footman dutifully made his way out into the cold air to order the stablehands to ready the horses and bring the carriage around.

The Inspector quietly wished the three of them a good night and departed into pre-dawn light. 

Christine sighed as she looked toward the horizon. It was hard to believe that so much time had already passed since she had been separated from Raoul.

“Be guarded with what you say around that man,” Madame Giry said in a such a low voice Christine almost missed it.

“What, why?”

The older woman simply watched the Inspector’s retreating figure as she spoke. “I have a feeling that he was not being entirely honest with us.”

“Why would you say that, Mama?” Meg whispered. 

“From time to time, my wound will have. . . flare ups. It usually happens when I am in the presence of a cursed undead.”

Meg and Christine exchanged worried glances before looking back at Madame Giry.

“Tonight, when we were searching for clues in the storage levels, I acutely felt the ache just before we found the Inspector. I do not think he escaped the labyrinth on his own. I think he was allowed to leave. . . by the Phantom.”

“But that would mean—!” Meg covered her mouth in shock, before forcing herself to speak softly again. “Is he in league with the Phantom?”

Madame Giry tilted her head thoughtfully. “I cannot say. For now, watch him carefully.”

Christine stilled. First a fallen angel, and now a false friend. Any remaining hope she had of rescuing Raoul and escaping her fate at the Phantom’s hands shattered. 

Ugly, sobbing laughter bubbled up inside of her. She tried to cover her mouth to muffle it but the pained sound echoed starkly through the cold morning air. Meg and Madame Giry both crowded around Christine, attempting to soothe and calm her, but she could not make sense of their words. 

I used to dream of singing on the stage. She thought. How I dread it now.

She gasped for breath, struggling through the uncontrollable fit of laughter. Her head spun and ringing filled her ears. Madame Giry began frantically digging through her reticule for something as Meg took over supporting Christine.

Suddenly she heard it.

“ No one would listen …” 

Christine went rigid at the familiar voice drifting through the air, the uncontrollable laughter fading as a surge of fear swept through her.

“ I alone could hear the music. ”

Meg whirled around, clutching at the hilt of the dagger hidden in her bodice. Madame Giry withdrew a small phial of holy water from her bag and adjusted her grip on her cane.

Thankfully, the carriage began to roll out of the stableyard toward the roundabout.

“ I hear your fears, see your torment, and your tears. ” The singing was partially drowned out by the ringing of iron shod hooves over the pavement.

Silent tears rolled down Christine’s face as she slowly turned to look back at the Opera House. There was movement on the upper balcony amid the stone statues on the railing.

“ She saw my loneliness, shared in my emptiness. . .” he sang softly, dropping his voice even lower. “ No one would listen. No one but her. ”

Christine closed her eyes and covered her ears with her hands, but there was no escaping his voice.

“ No one would listen. No one but her, heard as the outcast hears… ”

Meg hurried Christine and her mother into the carriage, urgently ordering the driver to take them to the de Chagny chateau with all haste.

However, the distance only reinforced the terrible realization in Christine’s mind. 

It will never end. He’ll always be there, singing songs in my head.

Chapter Text

There was no escaping the simple fact that time was running out. With each day that passed, Meg could see the mounting pressure taking a toll on everyone. 

Christine wasn’t eating, barely sleeping—wasting away before their eyes. It was as if every time she practiced her role for the upcoming production, she lost a bit more of herself. 

Similarly, the Count had hardly stopped to rest as he orchestrated efforts to recover his missing brother. He wielded his wealth and influence to gain absolute control over the city’s entire sûreté force. 

Unfortunately, the officers were no match for the traps within the labyrinth. Inspector Kahn seemed to be the only one capable of keeping the men from falling victim to the deadly traps during their exploration of the underground tunnels. Every foray led without him resulted in severe injuries or even deaths. Morale and manpower quickly ran low. Yet, the Inspector diligently returned to the maze day after day.

After her mother’s warning, Meg found herself distrusting the Inspector more and more. It could not merely be luck that spared the lives of his men. She was almost certain that it was his connection with the Phantom of the Opera. However, for the life of her she could not discern his motives. 

Before long, the Count de Chagny took to drawing reinforcements from the militia which normally guarded the wall. The monetary reward he offered for anyone willing to brave the labyrinth was generous, but the drain on the city’s defenses was worrying.

When she came to visit the chateau, Mama Valerius confirmed that the reports of unrest both within and without the city were true. The trade routes had become all but impassable. Many of the specialty compounds the black market healer relied upon to treat her patients were now in short supply. The people of the city, especially the refugees in the slums, suffered as food was swiftly bought up and hoarded by their more fortunate neighbors. 

“Panic is spreading like a disease,” Mama Valerius said. “And the stupidity it breeds is a malady I am unable to treat.” 

Meg grimaced. “But what of the reinforcements from the Church the Viscount sent for—”

“They’ll never make it in time,” the woman said, shaking her head. “It shall be up to us to put an end to this madness, mark my words! Or else the Phantom will destroy the city as surely as he is destroying that poor girl.”

Her words dropped to whisper as the two of them looked over at Christine. Through the open door of the music room, she was easily visible standing beside the piano holding several sheets of music in her hands. She sang along to the accompaniment provided by Mssr. Reyer. The maestro had been commuting daily from the opera house to the chateau to coach Christine on the details of her part, since she would not return to the opera until the night of the performance.

Meg clenched her fists, heart aching for her friend. “She has already given up. Nothing I do seems to help.” 

Mama Valerius reached over and rubbed her back soothingly.

Meg closed her eyes in an effort to hold back tears. She despised the feeling of helplessness that filled her. Why am I fated to watch the ones I love suffer? 

“Perhaps the search party’ll have some luck today,” the grandmotherly healer said. 

“With the Count insisting that he tag along?” Meg responded, attempting to lighten the somber tone of their conversation. “He’ll only slow them down.”

At that moment, Meg heard a commotion from the front of the house. The double doors burst open allowing the freezing winter air to howl through the main foyer unchecked. 

Mssr. Reyer’s hands stuttered over the piano keys and Christine’s head snapped up at the loud noise. Meg, followed closely by Mama Valerius, bolted toward the foyer.

Jean Claude and one of the other stable hands rushed in through the front doors a field stretcher supported between them. Sprawled across the canvas lay the Count de Chagny, shouting deliriously through chattering teeth. 

“Don’ lis-sen!” he slurred. “Issa t-t-trap! Don’ lissen t–t-to the s-siren!” 

His ravings were punctuated by horrific coughing fits that left him pale and gasping for breath. 

Dr. Choleti ran up ordering the two men bearing the stretcher to make their way into the medical suite at once. Catching a glimpse of Mama Valerius he brusquely ordered her to go find Madame Carriere and bring blankets and hot water. 

For a woman of advanced age, Mama Valerius certainly could move quickly when she chose. In an instant Meg, Christine, and Mssr. Reyer were the last ones left standing in the freezing foyer. 

“What happened?” Meg whispered. 

The cold wind howled mournfully for a moment, before the gust subsided plunging the cold foyer back into silence.

“We found the underground lake.”

Meg startled, whipping around to face the doors. The Inspector stood in the shadow of one of the decorative pillars. If he had not spoken, Meg doubted that she would have spotted him. However, the man’s dark complexion had taken on an ashy tint as he stood stiffly, fighting back full body shivers. 

Is it worth catching your death for a dramatic entrance? Shaking her head, Meg walked briskly past him to close the double doors.  

“We found the underground lake,” the Inspector explained in a low voice, glancing over at Christine who remained standing beside Mssr. Reyer. “But, when we tried to cross it we were interrupted by terrible singing.”

Christine flinched her face slowly draining of color.

“Can’t be worse than Carlotta’s singing during rehearsals, surely?” Mssr. Reyer joked weakly.

Meg winced, feeling the maestro’s attempt at humor fall flat.

The Inspector shifted slightly to fix Mssr. Reyer with a look of disgust that bordered on complete contempt. 

“Pray you never encounter such singing, monsieur,” he hissed. “Such unnatural beauty is truly terrible to behold. Every last one of my men threw themselves from the boat and drowned with smiles on their faces.”

There was a faint whoosh as the music sheets in Christine’s hands fell to the floor. 

Oh no. Now he’s done it.

With a gasping breath, Christine clutched the side of her head eyes unseeing.

Meg sprinted back to her friend, attempting to pull her out of the horrific memory. “It’s all right. He doesn’t have you anymore, Christine. You are safe!”

Christine shook her head. “No, no, no,” she whispered. “So cold. So cold and blue. . . My fault. All my fault!” Her voice rose into an agonized wail as she began to sob uncontrollably.

Mssr. Reyer quickly gathered the dropped music, shuffling the papers as he glanced worriedly at Christine then back to the Inspector.

“Then how—?”

“I managed to plug my ears just in time,” the Inspector said, cutting off his question. “But the Count was not so lucky. He almost drowned before I was able to get him out and plug his ears.”

Meg glared at the Inspector and the stage manager winced as Christine’s sobs suddenly changed into ragged gasps as her hysteria intensified.

“I should be going. . .” The maestro said edging back.

“Make sure everything for tonight is ready,” the Inspector ordered sharply, “This opera is our last chance to catch the Phantom.”

Mssr. Reyer paled at the Inspector’s reminder. Quickly excusing himself, he bolted to the music room to gather his things.

Meg desperately tried to calm her friend, shooting a hard look at the Inspector.

“We are out of time,” he said, rubbing his fingers tiredly over his eyes. The dark circles beneath almost rivaled the color of his irises. 

He’s given up too, Meg realized, the terrible feeling of helplessness inside of her intensifying.

“I am truly sorry. I cannot return the Viscount to you, Mademoiselle,” the Inspector said, glancing at Christine’s limp form in Meg’s arms. “I wish things had not come to this.”

Swallowing past the knot in her throat, Meg turned back to her friend. “Christine, you need to be calm. If you want to save Raoul you can’t let the Phantom win!”

The glassiness in Christine’s eyes cleared slightly at Meg’s words. With visible effort she fought to control her breathing.

“If you will excuse us Inspector, Christine needs to rest now,” Meg said, guiding her friend gently toward the staircase. “There should be a good fire in the main parlor. Feel free to warm and dry yourself before you head back.”

The Inspector acknowledged her clear dismissal with a shallow bow. Turning, he made his way toward the parlor, his footsteps dragging with exhaustion.

 Meg’s mind whirled as she and Christine began the laborious process of ascending the long flight of stairs. Christine’s face had gone dreadfully blank as she moved unresisting under Meg’s direction.

“It wasn’t your fault, Christine,” Meg assured her. “The Count knew how dangerous it could be and he still insisted on going down there with them.”

Christine shook her head. 

“I mean it. Besides, Dr. Choleti will put him to rights, you will see,” Meg said, forcing more optimism into her voice than she actually felt.

“It was my fault Raoul died,” Christine said.

Meg’s mind blanked. 

“He drowned trying to fetch my mother’s scarf. I should never have brought it with me. I knew better! Because of my carelessness it was blown out into the sea.”

An involuntary exhale of relief passed Meg’s lips as she realized that Christine was recalling her childhood. Obviously the Viscount had recovered from whatever incident Christine was remembering. 

“And it’s happening all over again, this time with Raoul and Philippe. I can’t stand by and watch. I can’t—” she blinked pulling her shoulders back. “I won’t.”

Reaching the top of the stairs, Meg helped pull the doors to Christine’s antechamber open, guiding her friend toward the bedroom.

“That’s the spirit,” Meg said. “Together we’ll find a way to beat the Phantom once and for all.”

Christine suddenly went stock still in the doorway. “The–the spirit. . . yes, that just might work.”

Meg blinked in confusion. “Christine?”

Suddenly, her friend turned and hugged her tightly. “Thank you Meg. You always know just what to say.”

Meg frowned, but returned the hug. “You are very welcome.”

“I love you,” Christine whispered. “Dear sister of my heart.”

Meg fought the urge to stiffen at the farewell in Christine’s low tone.

“I love you too,” she answered thickly. “But why tell me this now?”

Christine pulled back, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t say it often enough. You are like the sister I never had.”

Meg beamed at Christine’s words, her heart warming at being claimed as a sister even as her suspicion heightened. 

“You should go get some rest, Meg,” Christine said. “We have a big night ahead of us.”

Meg nodded solemnly turning to leave Christine to rest in her room. As soon as she  heard her friend close the door, Meg sprinted to her rooms. It didn’t take a mind reader to know that Christine was planning to do something stupid. Mama Valerius’s words rang in Meg’s brain as she changed into a shirt and set of breeches she had “liberated” from the costume department. 

Tucking her dagger into her waistband, Meg quickly threw on a coat, and tucked her hair into a cap. Sneaking down through the abnormally empty halls, Meg darted toward the stables in hopes of borrowing one of the Count’s horses. She only had a handful of hours at best before the opera was set to begin. She hoped that it was enough time to accomplish what she had set out to do. The moment she entered the warm building she quickly began gathering the necessary tack from where it was hung on the far wall. Amidst the sound of jingling metal and the creak of leather she almost missed the ominous sound of a cane and footsteps approaching. Meg froze, her arms full of equipment. There was no denying what she was about to do. Slowly, pivoting she turned to face the entrance.

Her mother stood in the doorway, a single eyebrow raised in question as she set her gloved hands over the end of her cane.

“Put those things away, Meg,” she said gently. “You won’t be needing them.”

Meg gripped the tack harder. “You don’t understand, Mama. I have to do this.”

Madame Giry nodded solemnly. “I know,” she said in low tone. “But you will not be doing it alone.”

Her head snapped up at her mother’s words.

“Jean Claude is pulling the carriage around. Madame Valerius and myself will be accompanying you into the labyrinth.”

“What?” Meg sniffled as her eyes welled with tears of relief. “Really?”

Madame Giry’s lips quirked in a small smile, the expression softening her usually stern features. “If we don’t find the Viscount, no one will be able to stop whatever the Phantom has planned. Every other recourse has been exhausted, therefor it is up to us to us now.”

Meg dropped the tack and raced over to hug her mother. “Thank you,” she whispered almost too choked to speak.

Madame Giry hugged her back just as fiercely. “I–I could not save your father,” she said slowly. “But I will help you save your friend if I can.”

“Oh, Mama. . .”

“Antoinette! Meg!” Mama Valerius called from the courtyard. 

Rushing back to quickly shove the tack she had taken down back onto the wooden pegs in the wall, Meg quickly followed her mother out into the courtyard. The Phantom would never see them coming.

Chapter Text

Giving up was not an option. Raoul found himself repeating this mantra more and more often with every period of light and dark that passed. He could not afford to think of his lack of progress as failure. He had simply eliminated the possibility of a release mechanism being located on any of the six mirrors. 

The “days” he spent reducing each pane to glittering shards with his dagger had been therapeutic, almost meditative. However, the stone walls behind the mirrors remained frustratingly blank. By the sixth “day”, the lack of any obvious joints or cracks to his hexagonal prison walls had thoroughly snuffed out any fleeting sense of accomplishment at the destruction. 

The light extinguished once more without warning forcing Raoul to reluctantly retreat to his protective circle. Not that it had kept the Inspector from being taken.

Raoul shook his head, grimacing. He must not dwell on the loss of his companion. Shoving the guilt down, Raoul settled into a cross legged position to wait. His skin itched under the layers upon layers of dried perspiration. 

Look at you. Reduced to little better than a caged animal, sitting in its own filth.

Raoul shook his head sharply. His thoughts were drifting again. The effort to reel them back was growing more and more painful as the lack of sleep took its toll upon his body. However, it was impossible for him to rest in the dark anymore. Instead he spent each “night” reaching out with his senses and attempting to discover how, every time the light returned, a small portion of food and water appeared in his cell.

It was yet another reminder of his growing list of failures. Pressure abruptly built up behind his eyes, causing his aching head to pound even worse. Giving up was not an option—he reminded himself, forcing his unruly emotions down further.

Every Hunter was carefully trained to hone their instincts for detecting the undead. It was a skill that Raoul had always excelled at performing until now. How could he fail to notice when the Phantom took the Inspector?

Unless he wasn’t taken, a bitter, vengeful part of his mind suggested. Maybe he found the way out and chose to leave you behind?

Raoul dug his nails into the palms of his hands, struggling to ground himself and reign in his rebellious thoughts. He couldn’t let himself succumb to the anger swirling inside. He had to focus all of his remaining energy on escaping.

He just had to figure out a new way to solve the problem. After all, giving up was not an option.

But what else was there to try? 

His mind churned sluggishly, returning no answer. 

With a grunt of frustration, Raoul pounded his closed fist against the wooden planks of his prison floor. Strangely, one of the nails seemed to give slightly at the pressure. His eyes were dazzled as orange light streamed into the hexagonal cell in a long narrow beam.

Raoul bolted to his feet in the blink of an eye. Surely, he wasn’t dreaming? Pinching his arm, Raoul slowly advanced to the narrow opening. As his eyes adjusted, he could plainly see the skilfully engineered door in the wall ever so slightly ajar.  

The release mechanism had been disguised as one of the nails in the floorboards? Raoul bit back a bitter laugh. How could the Phantom have designed something so idiotic and yet so brilliant? And how could he have missed it for so long?

Forcing himself to take a calming breath, Raoul drew his dagger and crept out through the opening into an all too familiar labyrinth tunnel, lit by strings of the buzzing orange lights. It took all of his remaining self-control to move forward cautiously. He longed to sprint as far away from the cell as possible—to freedom—to Christine. 

Please be all right. I’m coming as fast as I can.  

The sooner he could escape the labyrinth, the sooner he could take her as far away from the Phantom’s machinations as humanly possible.

With hurried steps, Raoul followed the path away from his prison, hoping that at the next juncture he would be able to find a way up to the levels he had mapped before. The current one he was traversing seemed older and was in much worse repair than those he had explored before. Long stretches of the tunnel remained unlit, empty glass bulbs glinting at him faintly like eyes in the dark. The stretches of deep shadow between working lights forced Raoul to slow his progress. As he exited one such pocket of dark he suddenly became aware of something behind him. 

 Tiny sounds echoed through the tunnel, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. Raoul gripped his dagger, holding his breath as he tried to pinpoint the direction of the noise.

He did not have to wait long. The sounds grew louder, resolving into distressed chirping and the skittering of tiny nails over stone. 

Raoul jumped to the side as a writhing mass of hairy bodies careened drunkenly past him. A horde of frantic rats, many with their naked tails hopelessly tangled together, surged through the tunnel. It was a revolting sight. Only after the last one had passed did a new and alarming thought occur to Raoul.

What are they running from?  

In answer, a new noise filled the tunnel behind him. The sound of a low hiss, like that of a great snake followed by faint gurgling and rumbling. Soon the tunnel took on a distinctly humid feeling as the air filled with the smell of mud and stale water. There was water leaking into the tunnel? 

No. The tunnels were flooding!

At the sight of the rising water, Raoul sprinted after the rats. 

Why is it flooding now? Did the Phantom discover my escape and activate a new trap?

Chest heaving, Raoul quickly caught up to the rat procession. The angry squeaking rodents led him further into the maze, until they entered a large room that intersected with several other tunnels. The free rats scattered into the different tunnels, however the rat king stalled as different members were prevented from going the way they wished by their knotted tails. 

Raoul grimaced at their pain and fury, but frantically turned his attention to the tunnels before him. He had to make a choice quickly. There was not telling how long it would take the water to reach this room.

A scream followed by several loud exclamations startled Raoul out of his internal debate. He sprinted towards the tunnel the voices had come from. 

“Calm down,” a stern voice commanded. “It was merely a few rats.”

“A few?!”

Raoul turned the bend in the tunnel, shocked to find Meg Giry, Madame Giry, and the elderly healer woman Madame Valerius standing there.

All three women froze at the sight of him.

“Viscount de Chagny?” Madame Giry asked, as she was the first one to regain her voice. 

He blinked at the three women owlishly, carefully lowering his dagger.

“Thank heavens we found you!” Meg cried. “Are you all right? Everyone has been searching for you for days. The Inspector said—”

Raoul jolted. “The Inspector?” The words left his throat as little more than a rusty croak. “He’s alive?”

Meg nodded her expression clouding. “We found him in the tunnels the same night you were both captured.”

Raoul ground his teeth as a wave of white-hot anger tore through him. Every negative emotion he had been shoving down for so long bucked against his tenuous grasp, threatening to explode out of control him.  

“He said that you both got separated when you fell and that he didn’t know what happened to you.”

Raoul’s vision went red. Turning to the wall, he rammed his fist into the crumbling brick and mortar, causing a few loose pieces to shatter into dust. Pain lanced up from his knuckles and into the joints of his hand. 

“ Judas! ” he hissed, struggling to regain control of his breathing once more.

“So. . . he did lie to us,” Madame Valerius said, grimly observing Raoul.

“We can deal with him later,” he ground out. “We need to leave, now!” 

At his words, an ominous gurgle sounded behind him.

“What is that?” Meg peered into the dim tunnel behind them her eyes widening with alarm.

“Tunnels are flooding,” Raoul answered.

“Plague take it!” Madame Valerius cried. “He means to drown us?”

“Not if we move, quickly!” Madame Giry adjusted her grip on her wooden cane as she quickly turned. “Follow me,” she commanded.

“Traps—!” 

“I am well aware of the traps, Viscount,” Madame Giry said, her cane thumping rhythmically as she strode quickly forward. “Copy my steps exactly and you’ll be fine.”

Raoul’s brow furrowed in confusion as Meg fell into line after her mother, moving at practically a run to keep up with the older woman.

“Mama discovered that her old wound allows her to sense where the traps are,” the ballerina said, her explanation failing to dispel his confusion.

“That’s how we were able to make it this far,” Madame Valerius said, shoving Raoul after Meg while she took up the rear. 

He flinched, his skin crawling at having the strange woman at his back. Attempting to calm his overstimulated senses, he asked the first question that popped into his head.

“How’s that possible?” 

“Believe me, Viscount. That is something I’d dearly love to know,” Madame Valerius said with a chuckle. “Perhaps I’ll have a chance to study it properly. . . assuming we manage to survive what lies ahead,” she added between panting breaths.

The women soon fell into relative silence. Their labored breathing drowned out the faint gurgles of the rising water as they put more and more distance between them and the lower tunnels. With Madame Giry leading them, they navigated the twisting tunnels at a truly impressive speed. 

If only I had enlisted Madame Giry’s help sooner, Raoul thought to himself as they jogged along. Suddenly, he heard a new sound. His heartbeat quickened as orchestra music drifted faintly through the tunnels around them. 

“We have to hurry!” Meg said breathlessly. “The opera’ll be starting any minute and I don’t know what Christine has planned but—”

“Christine cannot sing!”  

The three women flinched at Raoul’s sudden sharp tone. 

“If she sings, the Phantom wins. His plan hinges upon her.”

Suddenly the music quieted and muffled applause signaled the maestro taking his place. The opera was already beginning.

“Hurry! This way,” Madame Giry called rushing forward. The tunnel spat them out into the storage level below the opera. Old props and tarp covered production pieces were scattered throughout the cavernous room. 

Raoul’s heart fell as Christine’s voice rang out in the dusty stillness around them.

“We’re too late,” Madame Valerius whispered.

Shaking his head Raoul answered mechanically. “No. Can’t give up. Not an option.”

“Quick, I have an idea,” Meg said, darting towards the side of the room.

Turning, Raoul followed matching her step for step. The music above them reached a deafening level as they ducked metal girders and dodged towers of wooden scaffolding.

“Stand here!” Meg ordered, pointing at a strange wooden platform.

Raoul stepped up onto the wooden planks, as Meg ran toward a set of pulleys. 

“Brace yourself,” Meg called. “You’ll need to pop the hatch when you get to the top!”

“What?” 

There was no time for further questions. In the next instant, Meg threw the lever and the counterweight of the system sent him careening upwards. Raoul braced his arms over his head, the momentum of the rising platform shooting him up so quickly that he burst through a wooden hatch at the top with all the force of a shell from a cannon.

Blinking to clear the spots of the dazzling stage lights from his eyes, Raoul spotted Christine standing before a prostrate figure in a black hooded robe.

“No, Christine!” His cry was drowned out by the gasps of the cast and audience as she removed the hood from the figure’s head.

He was there. The Phantom of the Opera.

Chapter Text

Christine strode out onto the stage perfectly on cue. The black lace and frills of her gaudy costume magnified even the smallest movements as she woodenly followed her blocking. Tilting her head up to scan the empty seats in box 5, she winced as the throbbing pain behind her eyes intensified with the tightening in her neck. Attempting to relax her shoulders, she approached the table center stage and plucked the one real apple that had been placed there for her atop a mound of assorted wax fruit. 

There was no doubt in her mind that the Phantom would to attend his opera. The only question was where he would be. She had to be certain he was physically present before she dared to enact her plan. 

Don Juan entered the stage behind her in time with the swell of music from the orchestra. Christine didn’t bother turning, instead scanning the walkways above her, attempting to catch a glimpse of movement.

A rich, full voice suddenly filled the air around her, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. 

“ You have come here,” the voice sang, “ in pursuit of your deepest urge.”

Christine dug her nails into the skin of the apple, fighting to keep her face blank as she turned to face the cloaked figure behind her. That was not Piangi. While the deep hood of his costume muffled his silhouette and hid his face in a pocket of deep shadow, she’d recognize his voice anywhere.

“In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent.” With an elegant movement, he produced a goblet from the folds of his billowing sleeves. 

“Silent...” With a gloved hand, he held it up to the light, allowing her to glimpse the thick crimson liquid swirling inside.

Blood. Fresh blood. But whose?

The flesh of the apple split in Christine’s grasp, juice running through her fingers as a wave of white hot fury tore through her.

Seeming to sense the change in her demeanor, he quickly dropped his voice into its vampiric registry.

“ I have brought you, 

That our passions may fuse and merge.

In your mind you've already succumbed to me

Dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me.”

Christine grimaced as her body was drawn toward him.

“Now you are here with me, no second thoughts

You've decided. Decided.”

There was some truth to what he said. She had decided upon her course of action.

“ Past the point of no return,

No backward glances.

Our games of make-believe are at an end. ”

And oh didn’t that barb sting coming from her “angel.” Christine grit her teeth, breaking his hold long enough to step back and harshly fling away the crushed remnants of the apple she had been holding at his feet.

“ Past all thought of if or when… No use resisting, ” He sang softer, his voice dragging her inexorably back once more.

“ Abandon thought and let the dream descend.”

Christine took a shuddering breath as the darkness roiling inside of her begged—no demanded release. 

“What raging fire shall flood the soul?

What rich desire unlocks its door?

What sweet seduction lies before us?”

Air that was part laughter, part sob spasmed in her chest. He had no idea what kind of monster he wished to unleash.

“Past the point of no return,

The final threshold.”

Christine closed her eyes, the roaring in her ears only growing in volume with every word he sang. 

“What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn,

Beyond the point of no return?”

As his words died away, she felt the exact moment his hold weakened. This was her chance! 

Forgive me father.

Releasing the tattered vestiges of humanity, the darkness inside of her exploded free. Her eyes snapped open, burning as the natural blue of her irises swiftly gave way to blood red when she began to sing.

“ You have brought me,

To that moment where words run dry,

To that moment where speech disappears into silence.”

Abruptly all background noise died, her command halting any and all conversation amidst the audience, wait staff, and cast members backstage alike.

The Phantom shifted as if to respond, so for good measure she reiterated her command. 

“Silence. ” 

The vampire stilled, slowly raising a gloved hand to clutch at his throat.

A predatory smile curled on Christine’s lips in response to cackles of glee from the darkness coursing through her.

“ I have come here,

Fully knowing the reason why.

In my mind I've already imagined our bodies expiring, defenseless, and silent. ”

The Phantom’s hooded head reared back in shock at her deviation from his lyrics.

“ Now I am here with you, no second thoughts

I've decided, decided .”

She ignored the sharp shake of the cloaked man’s head.

“Past the point of no return,

No going back now,

Our power play has now at last begun! ”

Christine flung back her head and laughed in response to the heady rush of darkness flowing through her. 

“Past all thought of right or wrong,

One final question!

How long should we two wait before it's done?”

Fixing the cloaked Phantom with her crimson gaze, Christine reached out and placed her hand on his chest right above the hollow space where his heart should have been. 

“ When will the blood begin to race?

The sleeping heart begin to beat? ”

The undead creature spasmed under her touch, unable to cry out as she willed his undead body to awaken.

“ When will the flames at last consume us? ” she added as an afterthought, the building strain on her soul only vaguely registering amidst the flow of power she continuously poured into her connection with the Phantom.

“ Past the point of no return

The final threshold ,”

The goblet fell from the Phantom’s grasp as he fell to his knees, silently gasping and convulsing. Christine tiredly watched him tremble at her feet. The darkness purred with delight at the Phantom’s imminent demise, filling her ears with incessant cries for his blood.

Christine felt bile rise in the back of her throat, but ruthlessly shoved it back down. She could not afford to be weak when she was so close to ending this waking nightmare. 

“ The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn.” The darkness prodded her to step forward, demanding to see the moment when the life she forced back into the Phantom would leave his eyes.

“We've passed the point of no return. ”

In one swift motion, she hooked her thumbs under the edges of his mask. She pulled it and the hood of his costume over his head, baring the condemning brand on his forehead for all to see. 

There was a shout. The overwhelming roar of the darkness filling Christine’s ears guttered—and along with it, her hold over the blanket command for silence she had previously placed. The audience gasped and called out in shock even as Christine whirled around to face the source. A flutter of agonizing hope beat in her chest.

“Raoul?”

The darkness screeched, wrenching out of what little semblance of control she had. Christine staggered as the terrible power she had been forced to carry since birth exploded forth unchecked. Ancient cursed blood and venom clogged her throat, wept from her eyes, and even trailed from her nose and ears. Christine frantically scrubbed at her face, vision blurring with the malevolent substance.

“Christine!”   

“Ra–!” her cry turned into a choked, gurgling gasp. She fell to her knees coughing and retching up the black fluid uncontrollably.

Pain beyond the physical lack of air in her lungs built inside of her with every gasping cough as she felt her soul begin to tear. The pain she had felt that fateful day on the beach seven years ago paled in comparison to what she was feeling now. 

I can’t–I can’t bare this. No, please. Oh God in Heaven–!

A rough song cut through her panic, rusty voice barely holding the familiar tune. 

“ Say you'll share with me 

One love, one lifetime .”

The darkness’s hold over her faltered. Gasping in a full breath Christine seized her chance. 

“ Lead me,” She rasped in response. “Save me from my solitude !” The music swelled inside of her, easing the pressure on her aching soul fractionally.

“Say you want me with you here, beside you.” 

Raoul sang his voice drawing closer, steadying but thick with emotion. A warm hand gently cupped Christine’s face, calloused fingers shifting slightly against skin slick with blood and tears. 

“Anywhere you go, let me go, too .”

Christine echoed his words in harmony, opening her bleary eyes to see his haggard face hovering above hers. Familiar warm eyes were filled with absolute anguish as he raised a silver dagger just above her heart.

“ Christine, that's all I ask of-”

“NOOOooooooooo!” the Phantom roared. With a movement almost too quick to be seen by the naked eye, he darted forward to yank Christine into his arms. In a blink he retreated towards the back of the stage kicking at the lever of a strange device as he ran past it. She heard the sound of heavy chains clanking then a terrible groan. Her eyes were drawn up as the huge crystal chandelier suspended above the audience swung sickeningly for a moment before its support cables snapped. It plunged downwards towards the stage in a freefall.

The screams of the audience and crewmembers filled the air.

“Flee!” 

“Run!” 

“Save yourselves!”

Christine raised a shaking blood-stained hand, whether in supplication or warning she could not say. “Raoul…” 

“Christine!” 

The Phantom bared his fangs as the hunter scrambled to his feet in hot pursuit. With a swipe of his claw-like nails, the Phantom cut a rope and suddenly the floor dropped away beneath them. Darkness swallowed Christine as they fell.

Chapter Text

Erik’s heart was pounding in panic. The fact that he could even feel his heart beating only served to further increase his level of agitation. 

What have you done to me? Erik wondered, glancing down. 

Christine’s body hung loose in his arms like a doll, her eyes unfocused and pupils blown so wide he could barely make out the blue of her irids. Humid air from the many flooded tunnels seemed to be aggravating her already irritated lungs. However, her wheezing breaths were unable to drown out the sound of rhythmic thumping in his ears. Thumping that he should in no way be able to feel. . . yet was.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Erik was hit once more by the acrid smell of the black substance which had begun to dry on Christine’s skin and hair. Grimacing, he quickly made up his mind.

Down once more to the dungeon we go , he thought despairingly. 

Erik almost regretted flooding the lower tunnels, as the action had drained a good portion of the underground cavern in which he resided. However, there was no way to take back what had been done; and at the moment, he was grateful that it was now possible to wade across the majority of his lake on foot. It cut down on the time it would take him to reach his home and stabilize Christine. Time was a luxury they could ill afford with the roach-like Viscount on their heels.

How did that insolent boy manage to not only escape his mirror prison but successfully navigate the maze before it flooded? Even Daroga had required some assistance in exiting the labyrinth. The lack of answer was frustrating, but ultimately he had more pressing matters to consider.  

Reaching the pebbly shore break of his home in record time, Erik raced up the steps toward the living quarters he had prepared for Christine. He had always hoped to give her a tour of the entire complex that would serve as their home. Now, it would never happen. They had but a short time to prepare for the grueling and dangerous journey ahead. He wasn’t yet sure where they would flee. Perhaps to the Americas?

 Setting Christine on the black swan bed he had carved into the rock, he turned his attention to acquiring warm water and clean linens. By the time he returned with a basin full of steaming water and clean towels draped over his arms, Christine still had not moved. 

Situating himself beside her, he swiftly undertook the arduous process of removing the dried black substance from her skin and hair. After much longer than he would have liked, he managed to return her to a clean, if rather damp, state. Her costume was a lost cause. Gently, Erik turned her to the side so that he could begin unhooking the back of the dress.

For the first time since he had taken her from the stage, Christine moved of her own volition.

“Have you gorged yourself, at last, in your lust for blood?” she rasped, pulling away from his touch. “Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?” 

Anger flashed through Erik, patience frayed to snapping. 

“That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood,” he spat, “has also denied me the joys of the flesh.” 

He pinned her in place with one hand and swiped his sharp claws through the material of the dress, cutting it instantly from her body. Tugging away the ruined material, he roughly threw the offending garment away.

Christine shrunk into herself, shivering where she lay in only a rumpled chemise and corset. Tear-filled eyes blinked up at him in a brief look of terrified hopelessness before all emotion faded to eerie blankness.

Erik’s anger died, leaving the ashy taste of remorse in his mouth. He never meant for Christine to fear him. It was all that meddling Hunter’s fault. If only he had excised the Viscount from her life before the infection of his influence had poisoned their burgeoning love!

Rising from his place on the bed, he strode across to the wardrobe which stood against the wall. Pulling open the carved wooden doors, he glanced at the assortment of garments which hung there. The travel gown was without doubt the practical choice for the journey ahead—but he could not bear to leave behind the work of art he had meticulously designed for their wedding. 

Making up his mind, Erik pulled out the intricate white gown, returning to the side of the bed. With a much gentler touch, Erik carefully maneuvered Christine to a seated position before sliding the many layers of fabric over her head.

At the feeling of the silk on her skin, Christine seemed to emerge from her alarming state of apathy. She shifted, willingly assisting Erik in the process of dressing herself. 

He smiled softly, admiring the way the dress accentuated her perfect form, especially once she stood for him to finish securing the lacings. 

“I have never seen such perfection,” he said, reaching up to adjust her hair to hang in untamed golden waves down her back.

Christine stiffened. “What do you intend to do with me?” she asked, voice low. “Will I be bound and chained in this cold and dismal place?” 

Erik sighed at her accusatory tone. “Do you think it was my choice to live underground? I warned you that the mortals would never accept our race. It is our fate to be hounded by everyone and be met with hatred everywhere. You will find no compassion with them, Christine.”

Reaching up to her neck, Christine tugged at a silver locket that had previously been tucked into her chemise. Erik stifled a twitch of annoyance. He should have known that she would seek to replace the cross necklace he had handily disposed of during her first performance.  

“But I have,” she said. “Raoul knows what I am and loves me anyway.”

“How can you say that? He sought to end your life this very night.” Erik clenched his fists to keep in hands from trembling. The sight of the Viscount’s dagger hovering over Christine’s defenseless body flashed through his mind’s eye.

“Why, Chistine? Why? ”

A sad smile tugged at her lips. “I love him more than my life,” she said. “Have you ever experienced a love that strong before?” She paused a moment, her hand releasing the silver locket to drop back down to her side. “No, I suppose not. For that, I do pity you.”

Erik ground his teeth. “Your pity comes too late. Turn around and face your fate.” He put his words to action, spinning her to face him.

“An eternity of this before your eyes!” He gestured sharply at himself, fangs bared in a sneer.

She met his gaze for a moment before reaching up to trace the brand on his forehead, touch featherlight. Suddenly the heartbeat he had barely been managing to ignore grew deafening in his ears.

“This haunted face holds no horror for me now,” she said, her words almost completely lost in the thundering clamor. “It's in your soul that the true distortion lies.”

“Stop. Stop it!” Erik reared back clutching at his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric over the area where his heart used to be. “Make it stop! I can’t stand it!” 

Christine startled. “What—I don’t understand?”

Unable to repress a sharp cry of pain, Erik abruptly grasped Christine by the wrist and wrenched her at a run toward his workshop. Anything she might have said was lost in his frantic rush. 

The cool dimness of the natural cavern swiftly gave way to warm electric lighting as they entered his true domain. The multistory workshop was packed with dusty prototypes covered in tarps, shelves filled with books on every subject, and rows of metal work tables littered with scribbled notes, chemicals stored in scintillating glassware, and half-painted models of opera sets. 

He tugged Christine through the organized chaos, as quickly as he dared. He needed to reach it. The box.

They approached the back of the first floor where the homely miniature organ he had built resided. It was the seat of his composing creativity. He would never sully the masterpiece he had built in the main auditorium with an unfinished musical piece. It had seemed fitting to keep the box there. Years ago he had placed it there just behind the music stand, in the heart of his home. And every sheet of music he had ever written had begun under the papier-mâché monkey’s twinkling eyes, golden cymbals raised in benediction.

Yet as they reached the organ, the familiar shape of the box was startlingly absent.

Erik froze. The relentless heartbeat stuttered for a moment as he stared at the empty space in shock.

Suddenly, an all too familiar melody filled the room. A terrible feeling of dread gripped him at the sound of the tinkling chimes. 

“Looking for something, old friend?”

Erik slowly backed away from his instrument to look up at the balcony built into the floor above. 

“Inspector?” Christine whispered, a note of hope in her voice.

Erik was unable to draw his eyes away from the music box resting in the hands of his former friend, suspended just over the wrought iron railing.

“That does not belong to you,” Erik said, attempting to assert authority into his voice as he grasped for his vampiric register. “Return the box to me at once!”

“You are in no position to make demands of me, Erik,” Daroga said, fixing him with a look of pure disdain. “Release Mademoiselle Daaé.”

Erik hesitated for three heartbeats, before reluctantly releasing his grip on Christine’s wrist. She retreated towards the vicinity of the exit, leaving him to stand utterly alone beneath the balcony.

“Are you all right?” the Inspector said, glancing briefly over at Christine. 

“Yes, yes, I am unharmed,” she answered, shuffling near the base of the staircase that led to the second floor. “But were there many injured when the chandelier fell? Is Raoul all right?”

A feverish light glinted in the Inspector’s eyes as he remained fixed in place, taut as a coiled spring. “Tell me, if the Viscount was mortally wounded by the chandelier. . . what would you do?”

Christine gasped sharply. “Wounded–?”

“If his soul clung to his body by but a thread, could you knit him together? Could you make him whole again?”

“Daroga–!” 

“Silence!” 

Christine froze. “What are you implying, Inspector?”

“Answer me truthfully! Do you possess the power to bring the dead back to life?”

In the ringing silence following the Inspector’s demand, Erik attempted to subtly catch Christine’s eyes. Do not answer!

“Yes.” Her whisper resounded like a gunshot.

“I knew it!” the Inspector cried, hastily shoving the box under one arm as he made his way toward the stair case. 

Erik cringed at the precarious position, a sensation of tightness spreading through his chest just looking at it.

“I knew there had to be a way that my Reza could be healed!”

Erik heard Christine’s breathing shift, turning rapid and shallow as the Inspector approached.

“How long I have hoped and prayed,” Daroga said softly as he approached Christine, “that my son might be restored to me.” 

With an elegant motion that spoke to years of repetition, Daroga knelt down upon one knee and taking Christine’s free hand he pressed it to his forehead in obeisance.

Erik blinked in shock at the Daroga’s gesture of fealty. 

“I shall be forever in your debt,” the Inspector said looking up at Christine, before rising to his feet once more. “Come, Mademoiselle. You and I have a long journey ahead of us.”

“What?”

“No!” Erik’s vehement cry easily drowned out Christine as he darted forward. “Don’t be a fool, Daroga. You cannot take her anywhere near that monster! I won’t allow it.”

The Inspector’s grip on the box tightened as he flashed Erik a warning glare. 

“You have little choice in the matter, Erik. Not while your fate rests in my hands.”

Christine shot a confused look between them. “I don’t—”

She was interrupted by the sound of clanking armor, thudding of booted feet, and rattling of weaponry suddenly filling the air. 

Erik spun sharply to face the entrance of the workshop, claws extending and fangs lengthening in preparation for a fight. 

Daroga and Christine turned as well, startled by the steady stream of armored knights filing into the already crowded workshop with their weapons drawn. Once pristine silver armor and brilliant crimson and white woolen tabards were stained and marred with the marks of a prolonged battle. The cloying smell of drying blood filled the air so strongly that Erik found it hard to concentrate.

“The reinforcements from Raoul’s order!” Christine said.

For a moment no one moved. The knights remained on guard, eerily silent behind their expressionless helmets. 

“Can you take me to Viscount Raoul de Chagny?” she asked, stepping forward slightly. “My name is Christine Daaé.”

Finally the leader came forward, his superior rank marked by the subtle gold ornamentation around the crown of his helm.

“Ah! You must be the one I’ve heard so much about.”

Erik and the Inspector froze at the chilling voice emanating from within the metal casing. 

Leaning forward, he inhaled just above the curve of Christine’s neck, causing her to skitter backwards with a startled gasp.

“Now I see why you have delayed so long in returning, Nadir.” The knight pivoted to face the Inspector. “Not only did you track down this traitor,” he waved a gauntleted hand dismissively at Erik, “but you managed to find the lost treasure of the Tepes clan.”

Betrayed shock glimmered in Christine’s eyes as she glanced briefly at the Inspector before re-fixing her attention on the knight.

“Do you know how long I have spent searching for you, little bloodsake?” 

Christine’s face went white.

Daroga’s expression was carefully blank as stepped forward. “My deepest apologies for the delay, your grace. I have made all the necessary preparations to transport them with me back to Persia. Now that I have them both, we can depart at once.”

“No need. My escort will return you to my encampment just beyond these quaint little walls.”

Erik’s breath froze in his throat.

“I will await you there.”

Suddenly the knight staggered, his head lolling forward so abruptly that his helmet slipped off with a muted clang. 

He straightened back up slowly. With the helmet gone, the knight’s bloodless lips, sunken cheeks, and cloudy eyes were unmistakable. He was an undead thrall.

So even the Hunter’s precious reinforcements from the Church had proved useless in the end. The faint feeling of disappointment was easily lost in the swirl of fear and desperation churning inside of him. With a roar of fury, Erik sprung forward, claws outstretched. 

The knight captain jerkily dodged Erik’s swing, his movements disjointed. Erik fought with everything he had, but the armor of the undead knights allowed them to withstand most of his attacks. There were too many. Gauntleted hands grabbed and held him at every turn, dulling his strikes and dampening the power of his movements.

“No, no! Let me go!”

Erik glanced over to see Christine struggling as she was pulled forward by one of the undead knights. His break in concentration cost him dearly. 

A few moments later, he was forced to his knees. A gauntleted fist pulled back his head painfully by the hair. The blank faced captain approached him with a wooden stake.

No. Not again! Erik’s gaze found the dark eyes of his former friend.

A flash of guilt flitted over Daroga’s face before he turned his gaze away. Erik should have known better than to look to him for mercy.

Redoubling his efforts to squirm free, Erik reached deep inside, attempting to split himself into a swarm of bats. But ironically his attention was much too divided. The painful sting of silver coated armor pressing into his skin and the overwhelming heartbeat in his ears only heightened his panic, making him lose his tenuous grip on his shifting ability. He was out of time.

The feeling of the stake ramming through him gave way to horribly familiar inferno of white hot lightning coursing through him. He collapsed, his pain echoed in Christine’s agonized scream. Yet even that failed to drown out the horrific thumping of his heartbeat as he slipped away into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Meg could hear her mother and Mama Valerius falling behind, but she dared not slow her frantic pace. The familiar burn of exertion pressed toward the forefront of her mind, increasing with every step as she raced up the stairs that connected the cavernous trap room to the backstage. It took more effort to ignore the pain than usual, the hectic events leading up to the discovery of the Viscount finally starting to catch up with her.

Shaking her head to clear it, Meg flung open the door at the end of the flight of stairs. With practiced ease, she pivoted on the ball of her foot, redirecting her momentum to slingshot herself in the direction of the main-stage. 

The screams of the audience and metallic smell of blood filled the air as she rounded the curtain. She skidded to a halt, unprepared for the sight that met her eyes. There was blood splattered everywhere. Yet it did not appear to originate from the body which was half propped up on one of the benches situated around the prop banquet table. Meg gasped in a shocked breath, her eyes catching sight of the brand on the man’s unnaturally pale face. The Phantom had taken Paingi’s place in the roll of Don Juan? 

His fangs were bared in an anguished grimace, predatory red eyes focused ahead. 

Following the Phantom’s gaze, Meg’s stomach plummeted as she caught sight of Christine.

Her best friend sat in a crumpled heap, struggling to draw breath in the viscount’s arms. Unnaturally dark blood wept from her eyes, ears, and mouth. 

No! Am I too late… again? Horrific memories she had spent years burying instantly sprang to life in her mind. She slammed her eyes shut, but images of her father choking on his own blood as her mother buried a wooden stake in his heart only flashed faster through her mind. “No, no, no–!” 

Meg only realized that she had taken hold of her hair, when a burst of searing pain in her scalp broke her free of the oppressive memories’ hold. With a gasp, she forced her eyes open.

Christine wasn’t gone yet. She was still breathing, even if every shuddering breath caused her body to be wracked with pain. She was speaking—no, singing something to the Viscount. Yet all sound abruptly lost meaning for Meg the moment her eyes caught sight of the gleaming silver dagger in the Hunter’s hand. 

“NOOOooooooooo!”

The Phantom’s scream was echoed in Meg’s heart as she sprang forward.

Before she could take more than a step, the undead creature had already crossed the gap and taken Christine in his arms. 

The momentary feeling of relief was quickly swallowed by fear as he retreated with her friend to the back of the stage and kicked at what looked like the lever for one of the stage flys. The sound of metal groaning and snapping echoed from above. Meg almost froze at the horrific sight of the huge crystal chandelier swinging almost in slow motion before the last links of its support cable gave way. It was falling. The chandelier was falling!

Meg pushed every muscle fiber to its limit as she sprinted across the stage. Even amidst the screams of the audience she could just make out the sound of Christine’s voice as she called out the viscount’s name, one bloody hand raised in his direction. In the space of a heartbeat, the Phantom cut one of the counterweight ropes, dropping both him and Christine through one of the trap doors into the dark cavern below. The Hunter had managed to get to his feet and start his own mad dash toward the trap door. 

Meg risked a glance at the incoming chandelier from the corner of her eye. Neither of them were going to make it in time. In that split second, Meg made her decision. 

Dropping her shoulder, she let herself collide painfully with the much bigger man. Her momentum was enough send them both careening headlong into the heavy red curtains which shadowed the wings of the stage.

Raoul’s hoarse shout was instantly swallowed by the roaring crash of the chandelier impacting the stage where they had stood only moments before. A shockwave of fire and shards of wood and glass exploded through the air. The searing pain was too much to bear. The last thing Meg remembered as her consciousness dimmed was the sound of her mother screaming her name.  

…

After so many years, it was difficult to remember a time before the anger. A knot of carefully controlled fury had blazed in her chest for so long that sometimes she felt more like a walking furnace than a human. Perhaps that’s why Meg used to flinch away from her touch as if burned. Every instance of distrust, every fearful look only served to make the fury burn brighter. It was clear that there was no place for emotion in her life… not if it was hurting Meg.

She learned to encase herself in an icy shell of cool-calculation, reason, and logic. The embers of pain and anger in her chest systematically shoved down until they went numb with cold. And if the love and joy in her heart withered away as well, then it was but a small price to pay for Meg’s happiness.

Yet in one fell swoop, the Phantom managed to destroy her façade as thoroughly as he had smashed the opera’s chandelier. Years of hard work broken the instant Meg had been enveloped in flaming debris.

Antionette’s breaths came in ragged pants. She could hardly see where she ran, between the thick smoke and red haze obscuring her vision. Every heartbeat pushed the molten rage further through her veins, incinerating the remnants of her composure. 

One of the stage floorboards groaned as it gave beneath her foot. She quickly leapt over the flaming gap, a dull ache radiating through her wasted leg as she landed. She must have lost hold of her cane at some point, but her body burned with such intense fury she could not bring herself to care. 

“Meg!” Her heart stuttered as she finally reached the far end of the stage where two bodies lay partially obscured by the massive smoldering curtains.

“No,” she cried out, falling to her knees to reach out for her baby. Was she still breathing? All she could see from her angle were her daughter’s blackened clothing and beautiful hair reduced to twisted, burnt mats.

“Wait! Don’t—”

At her touch, Meg cried out. It was little more than a breathless whimper, but it pierced Antionette through the heart. Relief mingled sharply with horror that her touch had hurt her little girl.

“Move, Giry!” Madame Valerius ordered. With efficient movements, she dropped her ever-present carpet bag and took Antionette’s place next to Meg to check her over. 

“Covered in punctures. Oh, but these are deep,” she said under her breath, fingers gently palpating the area around the wounds. “Her back and arms are badly burned.”

Antionette clenched her trembling fists, watching helplessly as Meg’s cries morphed into ragged breaths.

“I’ll need to cut away the remnants of her clothing to determine the full extent of the damage. But for now I can give her some laudanum to ease the pain.”

“Will she recover?” Antionette whispered.

Madame Valerius dug out a small bottle from her bag, avoiding eye contact as she ladled out the dark liquid into a measuring spoon.

“Belladora?” The name came out more harshly than she intended.

The older woman stilled for a telling moment. “It’s too early to tell.”

Antionette watched as she carefully spooned the medication into the corner of Meg’s mouth, a dribble of liquid spilling down her chin. A terrible ringing filled her ears as her eyes unwillingly fixated on the dark droplets. 

It was as if she was watching from somewhere outside of her body, her husband’s face taking Meg’s place every time she blinked. It was hard to say how much time passed before Meg’s labored breathing began to even out. 

“I don’t understand it.”
Antionette turned slightly to where Madame Valerius was examining the Viscount, almost grateful for the distraction. 

“His burns are less severe, yet his vital signs are worse.”

A wave of anger washed through her, instantly snuffing out any other emotion. The Viscount deserved to suffer! How could the idiot have stood there and allowed Meg to be harmed on his behalf?

Closing her eyes, Antionette grit her teeth. In the far back of her mind she could recognize how irrational the anger was, but the realization did nothing to ease the furious burn in her heart.

“Why can’t I rouse him?” 

After a moment of rummaging, she caught the acrid scent of smelling salts. Reflexively, she opened her eyes.

The older woman waved the small bottle under the Viscount’s nose several times, yet he remained motionless. “This is bad. We need to get both of them to the hospital, urgently.” 

Antionette latched onto the clear objective with the desperate grip of a person drowning at sea. Turning, she scanned the chaotic stage with a sharp eye. Some of the cast and crew members had taken to fighting the fire on stage with fire blankets and buckets of sand. 

“Valjean! Armand!” 

The two young men startled, instinctively leaving their tasks to respond to her call.

“Go to the storage space by the carpentry department and bring back the stretcher. If you can’t find it, then bring wooden poles and a length of tarp.”

“Yes ma’am,” the boys chorused off like shots from a twin barrel.

“Madame Giry, how might I be of service?”  

Antionette turned, recognizing the retired sailor who often assisted the late Joseph Buquet with the flies. 

“Henri, we need more hands. Head to the foyer and see if you can flag down anyone who can help carry the wounded out.”

The man nodded, rushing back the way he had come. 

“And you,” she called, beckoning to one of the young boys struggling with a heavy bucket. “Leave that. Go check the aisles for wounded. There may be some left behind that need medical attention.”

The young boy nodded, setting down the heavy container to rush off in the direction of the auditorium. She lost sight of his progress through the smoke, as the crew managed to douse more and more of the fire.

Antionette suddenly stiffened at the sharp click of a carpet bag snapping shut. 

“What are you doing?” she demanded, whipping her head around to face the older woman.

Madame Valerius simply glanced in the direction of the hole through which the Phantom had disappeared with Christine her brows drawing downward.

“Someone has to go after them.” 

Furious tears stung Antionette’s eyes, but were boiled away before they could fully form. 

“You can’t leave Meg. . . or the Viscount,” she added less graciously.

The older woman turned, fixing Antionette with her piercing blue eyes. “If we let the Phantom get away, then all of this was for nothing!”

Antionette could feel her control slipping, a note of panic bleeding through the chorus of fury inside.

“No.”

Madame Valerius set her jaw, but Antionette raised her hand sharply to forestall her argument. 

“You can’t leave them. So, I will go.”

Madame Valerius’ expression grew pinched.

“And what if Christine has fallen? Do you think you have what it takes to finish this?”

Between one blink and the next, Antionette had crossed the space between them and taken hold of the woman’s arm in a bruising grip.

“I drove a stake through the heart of the love of my life, without hesitation. You know full well what I am capable of.”

The older woman seemed to deflate with a sigh. Reaching into her skirt pocket, she produced a wooden stake and a spool of rough, silver wire.

Antionette reached out to take the implements but Madame Valerius kept her grip on them. “I need you to bring me the vampire’s head,” she said in a low voice.

Antionette fixed her with a hard stare.

“I swear that I will do everything in my power for Meg and the Hunter, but if things take a turn for the worse. . . I’ll need venom.”

A sense of confusion swirled in her mind like tiny flurries of snow, but the half-formed thoughts only fanned the furious anger hotter.

Nodding stiffly, she pulled the tools free, tucking the spool of wire into her dress pocket and clutching the stake in her hand. She glanced down at the smooth wood, the familiar weight in her hand strangely grounding rather than distressing. Perhaps, it was because she had no pain or regret left to feel. Every ancillary emotion had been reduced to ashes before the boundless rage boiling inside of her. Rage to which she could finally give free reign.

Stalking toward the trap door in the stage, Antionette felt the rational portion of her mind subside beneath the primal. She would make the Phantom pay! For Christine, for the Viscount—but most importantly, she would exact the price in blood for every cut, every burn her daughter had suffered.