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Do I Dream Again?	By : LaurieBaker Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 10050 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: Sorry, guys, but having Erik listen to Christine and Raoul’s talk at the graveyard would be giving both him and the readers more satisfaction than I care to bestow at the moment. LOL!

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Erik paced about his room frantically, unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to do anything but worry and curse himself. For the last two days, there had been no sweet offerings of tea. There had been no music lessons. There had been no sound below. It was as silent as a tomb in the room below.

Had Christine regained her senses and returned to Paris and to her fiancé? He felt sick at the very thought. Had something bad happened to her? Had she become ill or struck down somewhere? He should have kept a better watch on her, he cursed at himself. That was the whole reason he was here in this foggy dreary country!

But he had been so damned tired. At one point, he had been listening to one of Christine’s music lessons. Then he drifted off so deeply that he had completely lost track of the time and of her. Was that when she had left?

He hated feeling so helpless.

There was no help for it. He would have to break into her room and see if her belongings were still there. Always, he kept his Punjab lasso and his lockpicking tools within close reach, never knowing when they would come in handy. So much for whatever moral leanings had occurred the day that he had not killed Mr. Tomkins. But this was too important. If something had happened to his beloved, then he had to know about it.

After having washed and dressed, Erik made his way to the lower floor, carefully picking at the lock until it snapped.

Once he entered her small sitting room, he felt as if he were in heaven. The scent of Christine’s perfume was all about. Surrounded around him were all of the knickknacks and possessions that were part of her existence. A wash of memories overtook him as he looked about the room. He felt his eyes sting with tears of pain and loss.

At any rate, all of her things seemed to be there. So wherever she was, she had not left for parts unknown.

Venturing into the small bedroom on the side, he looked all about, overwhelmed with her invisible presence.

Sitting upon her bed, he buried his face into her lace-edged pillow with ecstatic pleasure. The combination of her scent along with the softness of her bed made him harden with arousal. Yet he tried to push such thoughts out of his mind or he would go insane. Oh, yes, but he was already was mad, he giggled to himself as he took off his mask and rubbed his entire face into the sweet pillow. Oh, Christine! Once his senses returned to somewhat of a normal state, he stood up from her bed, taking care to adjust the bedspread so that there would be no incriminating wrinkles.

Going over to her dresser, he pulled a small dark curly hair from the comb sitting upon her dresser and placed it inside of his vest pocket.

Erik opened her closet, wondering if he would see any of the familiar dresses that she used to wear when she would visit him for singing lessons. Alas, they all seemed to be gone, replaced with dull colors of greys, browns and blacks. He shook his head, wondering why she suddenly yearned to dress like a drab little sparrow.

Returning back to her sitting room, he could not resist sitting at her piano. Pressing a note, he remembered that the instrument was in desperate need of tuning. How could Christine stand it? He tinkered about with the piano until the pitch of the notes was perfect. Then he played upon it, losing himself in one piece after another, trying to divest himself of his mad passion in the only way that he knew how. Oh, how he missed having his own pipe organ to create his sweeping masterpieces upon!

But he did not dare to carry on for this much longer. Indeed, he was being entirely too foolhardy, taking such risks.

Yet before he left, he noticed a much-read copy of Wuthering Heights resting along the edge of a bookcase. For some time, he had been curious about this story but could never bring himself to buy a copy. Romance was not his favorite genre of literature. Still, he was desperate for some other entertainment besides just playing the violin during his assigned hours. And while he loved listening to Christine sing, listening to her teach other students for an eight-hour stretch every day was too much, even for him. Gingerly, he picked up the book, wondering if she would miss it.

Losing his nerve, he then placed the book back down upon the bookcase. It was too risky. If she did discover it missing, it could draw unwanted suspicion. As it was, he was not certain that her locks were not permanently broken from his tampering with them. And if she discovered that he was living above her, she would run away again. Even worse, she might try to call the police. He would hate to think of his darling betraying him so without the influence of the Vicomte, but after the night of Don Juan Triumphant, he could never be certain.

Just the memory of that night made him flinch.

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Passarino, go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey…

At last, the night of his opera was upon him.

At last, he would steal his soulmate from the Vicomte and take her as his bride.

Waiting on the sidelines, Erik saw his lovely Christine enter the stage, wearing the white silken blouse and the red gypsy skirt that he had designed especially for her on this night. Never had she been so beautiful. Just looking at her made him dizzy with desire. Even as he efficiently choked the life out of Signor Piangi, he fantasized of what it would be like to take the rose out of Christine’s hair and rub it along the naked sensitive flesh of her breasts.

Then he entered the stage in Piangi’s place. It was only one risk in a night full of risks. But what a sweet prize he would win before the night was out! Placing his fingers to his lips, he secretly entreated Christine’s secrecy as he joined her upon the stage.

Together, they sang the passionate words of their duet, singing of the inevitable lust which must be succumbed to. He had written this song for her. It was only fitting that he should sing the song with her. And as he watched her mind fall prey to the suggestive lyrics, he also was victim to the most erotic images. He went through the motions, following the stage choreography, singing the words perfectly. Yet all the while, he imagined Christine naked underneath him, finally his, holding back nothing.

Even when she would nervously glance up at her Vicomte, there was no questioning her true desire. She could pretend to love Raoul de Chagny. She could yearn for a life of quiet respectability. But she was meant to be by his side. Even the hushed audience knew it, feeling the intensity of the embracing couple upon the stage.

Nuzzling his face into her throat, he could have taken her right there on the stage, uncaring if all Paris watched. Words of love poured from his lips. He would give her the world if she would only let him. Please be mine, Christine, please…

As Christine turned to face him, for once he could not read the look in her eyes. Yes, she was consumed with passion and tenderness. Yet there was something else there, lurking and ready to strike like a snake. It was not until she quickly yanked off his mask before the entire world that he realized that expression. Her mysterious look had been one of treachery.

Covering his face in disbelief and horror, he could only stare at Christine in pain and betrayal, unbelieving that she could be so cruel to him.

The blind blood craving overwhelmed him as he set his device in motion, allowing the large chandelier to rip through the ceiling as he escaped with Christine into the dark. He did not care what innocents died at his hand. He wanted them all to suffer horribly. He hoped the glass of the chandelier viciously tore into agonized flesh again and again. He did not care if all of Paris died. All of his fantasies of lust and passion had rotted into a need for death and destruction for everyone. All because of his betraying Delilah that he had only meant to love…

Why did she do such a thing to him? Why?

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Shaking his head, he tried to rid such memories from his mind. If it hadn’t have been for that idiotic boy, Christine would never have done such a thing to him. At least, he hoped that she would not.

Returning back to the present, he decided to take Wuthering Heights after all. He needed the entertainment and distraction. If he read it quickly, she would never know it was gone. And then he could return it back to its proper place when he had done with it. Yes, that is what he would do.

Quickly taking the book, he left her apartment, hoping that the locks would function normally. They seemed to be more or less intact. Hurrying back up to his own room, he was shocked to see his irate landlady standing in front of his door, her hands resting upon her hips.

“So it was you!”

Mildred Hobbes glared at him, her eyes large with accusation and disapproval. Curses! Would this annoying woman never learn to fear him and mind her own business!?

“I was wonderin’ how I was hearin’ piano playin’ in that room when Miss Daae was off visitin’ her poor dead father’s grave!”

Of course! Erik could have kicked himself for being such a fool when he remembered the date. It was the anniversary of Christine’s father’s death. Of course, she had gone out to Perros-Guirec. For the first time since he realized that she was missing, he could breathe again. So relieved was he that he had almost forgotten about his bothersome landlady, shooting poisonous darts at him with her eyes.

“See here,” she lectured haughtily. “I shouldn’t even be lettin’ a blackguard like you stay in my place. It’s bad enough you’re playin’ that bloody violin at all hours but to sneak into another tenant’s room to play her piano…I ought to report you to the police! I still have my doubts that Mr. Tomkins ain’t lyin’ about as a corpse somewheres!”

Taking his hand to her throat, he pressed Mildred Hobbes against the wall of the corridor.

“There is one thing you should learn about me, Mademoiselle Hobbes,” he snarled. “I abhor interfering women who do not know their place and do not keep civil tongues in their heads. I owe you no explanations for my behavior or actions. Understood?”

Again, he noted with dismay that glazed look in her eyes.

“What do you want with Miss Daae?” she continued, goading him on. “She’s a sweet young thing. I don’t like masked men goin’ into her room all hours of the night, doin’ God knows what! I’m runnin’ a boardin’ establishment here, not a cathouse!”

“Shut up!” he snarled, tightening his grip slightly upon her throat, not enough to hurt her but enough to scare her. “Mademoiselle Daae is a lady. And you shall not speak about her in such a way or you shall dance to a tune not of your liking, Hobbes, I swear it!”

There was something about this woman that appealed to his baser nature. He always prided himself on behaving as a gentleman around the fairer sex, but with this woman, it was simply impossible. He did not know if he yearned to paw her, strike her or kill her. Maybe all three. And the fact that she inspired such lewd dark desires in him when he was living right in the room above his beloved Christine made him even angrier.

Mildred’s eyes burned with hot excitement. The horrible woman was enjoying his threats! The more villainous he acted towards her, the more she seemed to like it! It was infuriating. Why did she not run away from him like a normal woman?

“Please don’t hurt me, Mister!” she whispered softly, trying to pry his hand from her throat. “I’ll give you anything you want if you don’t kill me. I swear!”

He loosened his grip, grateful that she seemed to have at least wised up enough to obey him.

Then with the swiftness of a fox, the saucy wench reached up and planted a kiss right upon his mouth!

Paralyzed with shock, he did nothing but stand there dumbly, his lips and tongue being plundered by this insatiable vixen with her perverse desires. He hated it. He hated how sweet her mouth tasted. He hated the way that his manhood stood up with blind attention, ready for more of that buxom body that was thrusting itself in his direction. He hated feeling so unfaithful to Christine. But most of all, he hated feeling so out of control.

Even with his mistress, Elissa, he had never kissed her. Christine would be the only woman who would ever know his kiss, even if he never saw her again. That this coarse woman wrested such an intimacy from him made him burn with violent rage.

When the sordid exchange was finally over, Mildred pulled back with a naughty gleam in her eyes and a faint smile on her lips. And her expression said Don’t take advantage of Miss Daae! Take advantage of me!

Disgusted, he pulled away from the woman as if he had been burned.

“Don’t tempt me to kill you!” he threatened harshly as he turned from her and entered the sanctity of his own room.
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Do I Dream Again?