The Music of the Night Read Free Page B

much like her?”
     
    He smiled wistfully. “Yes. And no.”
     
    Later that night as she lay in his
bed, she thought of all he had told her. Only then, as sleep crept up on her,
did she stop to wonder where he took his rest.
     
    It was the first thing she asked him
the following night.
     
    “I have another lair, deeper
underground,” he replied. “And while it is not quite so elegant as this one, it
serves its purpose.”
     
    “I’ve put you out of your bed,” she
murmured.
     
    “I will find comfort in your scent
when you are gone.”
     
    “Erik –” Why did his voice have such
power over her? Why did she long to take him in her arms and comfort him? She
scarcely knew him, yet waking or sleeping, he was in her thoughts. There was
much she still wanted to see of Paris but she was content to stay down here, in
this twilight world, to bask in the love that shone in the depths of his dark
eyes, to lose herself in the music he played for her each night, to listen to
his voice as he sang the hauntingly beautiful songs of the Phantom.
     
    As the days went by, Christie found
herself yearning for his touch and with that yearning came a growing curiosity
to see what lay beneath the mask. But each time she started to ask, her courage
deserted her.
     
    One night, he took her up through the
tunnels to watch the play. Close to his side, Christie saw it all through his
eyes. She felt the Phantom’s hurt, the pain of Christine’s betrayal, the
loneliness that lived inside him, the anger that resided deep within him. She
cringed when the Phantom killed Piangi and wondered if his death was based on
the truth, as were some other parts of the story.
     
    But, fearing the answer, it was a
question she did not ask.
     
    She quickly accustomed her waking
hours to his. In his underground lair, time lost all meaning since there was no
way to tell if it was morning or night. She didn’t know where he obtained her
meals and, reluctant to heat the answer, she never asked how or where he found
those he preyed upon.
     
    He was an intelligent and interesting
companion. He spoke several languages and entertained her for hours with tales
of his travels around the world. He had seen it all: the wonders of the Old
World and the New. He read to her from the classics, his beautiful voice
bringing the stories to life. They spent hours discussing the works of Bronte
and Shakespeare, as well as the horror novels of Stephen King and Dean Koontz.
     
    The days and weeks went by swiftly
and with each passing day her affection for Erik grew deeper as she came to know
him better. How sad that he was forced to live in this horrible place, shunned
by humanity because of his appearance, when he had so much to offer.
     
    One day, while she was wandering
around his lair, she discovered a small door at the far end of the room. Driven
by boredom and curiosity, she plucked a candle from one of the sconces. When she
opened the door, she found herself in a large cavernous room filled with a
veritable treasure trove of paintings and works of art. Scattered her and there
were weapons – a rusty sword, an old pistol, several knives and daggers. A
jewellery box held a number of exquisite pieces – a diamond necklace, a ruby
pendant, a bracelet set with emeralds.
     
    Moving deeper into the room, she
found another, smaller door. This one opened onto a stairway that descended into
a pit of blackness.
     
    Heart pounding, she tiptoed down the
stairs. The candle cast dancing shadows on the walls as she descended the
stairway. At first, she saw nothing but an empty room. And then she saw it: a
black coffin sitting on a raised platform. The thought of Erik lying inside, his
hands folded on his chest, his long black hair spread across white satin, sent a
shiver down her spine.
     
    She stared at the casket for a long
moment, then she turned on her heels and ran up the stairs, any lingering doubts
she might have had