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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- 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.

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Black Angels

Chapter 5: Her Defeat, His Triumph

Philippe ran his hand down the smooth bare back of his lover. She had a beautiful body; it was firm and fit, but womanly still. She also had a talented body, it could bend and flex in positions that could make a courtesan blush. He chuckled to himself when he remembered their lustful endeavor that occurred mere hours ago. They were feeling rather excited after an excess of wine and decided to indulge in some dangerously scandalous lovemaking. He thought the term “lovemaking” ill-fitting for what they experienced that night, he preferred to think of it as fast and furious fucking, but he would never say so, for he was a gentleman and would not offend the sensibilities of his favourite lady. He could still feel the cool Parisian wind drying the perspiration on his skin as the thrust into his lovely Sorelli from behind as she scissored her shapely legs around his backside. She gripped his ornate steel balcony handrail and was able to hold her body up without needing his assistance. He could not help but admire her strong and able physique; he had to admit that it was in far better condition than his own. He was not an unattractive or overweight man, but his muscle mass had decreased over the years and he remained firm and fit rather then strong. He would surely have dropped her eventually had she not had the ability to keep her lithe body steady and balanced. If they had an accident and had fallen two stories into the gardens he shuddered to think of what he would have to tell the swarming onlookers. It would have been quite a sight indeed.

“Would you like something, my dear?” Philippe reached out a hand and caressed the side of her cheek; she stirred beneath his touch and opened her eyes, a slight smile on her full pink lips.

“Hmm,” she murmured, “some more wine perhaps.”

“You’ll make yourself sick if you keep drinking.” He laughed lightly.

“I have the stomach for it, and it’s been quite awhile since I’ve been able to indulge so carelessly.” She rolled onto her back, and he could not help but let his eyes widen in appreciation at the sight that unfolded before him. Her tiny waist and firm abdomen gave way to small firm breasts. Her body was graceful and streamlined, it was not overly thin so much that it felt breakable, nor was it too large for comfort. Dancers had such gorgeous figures; it was almost salacious to look upon them.

He got up from the bed and she let her hand linger teasingly at his backside as he lifted the tangled forest green sheets from his body. He did not bother to retrieve his robe from the bedside chaise lounge, he simply walked nude from the room. There were no servants about at this late hour. He returned shortly with two glasses and a bottle of his finest red wine.

“You’re wonderful.” Sorelli took the glass from his and watched as the deep burgundy liquid filled her glass, tiny bubbles forming and dissipating at the surface.

“I’m all right, it ‘tis you who makes these nights so very memorable.” He pressed a wet kiss to her throat. The forward hint in his voice did not go unheeded, and she smiled with feminine pride at the reaction she was able to draw out of her lover. She let the covers fall to her waist and leaned against his naked chest. He spread his thighs so that she may sit between them. Leaning back against him she shook her glass ever so lightly, staring at the deep red hue.

“How does the wine become so red?”

“Red grapes.” He answered her with confidence, but not even he was sure. Only Sorelli would ever ask such a question. He did not know whether or not it was hidden genius or complete and utter simplicity that compelled her to make such random utterances. He was mildly annoyed with her childish observations and inquisitiveness at times, but he found himself admiring it at the same time. If an apple where to drop from the sky and land at her feet she would not question why the apple had fallen from thin air, she would simply say an internal prayer of gratitude to whoever it was she believed responsible and eat the apple without question. Sometimes a mind free from complexities was a refreshing one. If she had been the daughter of a duke, a lord, a marquess, or a count she would be his wife. He often longed for some silly casual conversation to relax his mind, especially these past few weeks.

“How is Raoul these days?” Sorelli kept her eyes on her glass, never turning to meet his gaze.

“As well as can be, I suppose.” He answered her tiredly and with little interest in his voice. He had no desire to discuss Raoul at the moment; he preferred to revel in his overall satiation.

“I was thinking of him yesterday. It must have been such an ordeal for him, he’s so young.” Sorelli could sense the resignation that crept in Philippe’s voice at the mention of his impulsive brother and hoped to draw out his interest by expressing sympathy.

“He prefers not to speak of what occurred that night. I know that it makes him upset, so I do not press the matter when we converse.”

“I understand, it was such a horrible night for all of us. I cannot imagine what he must have endured, and that poor girl.”

“Indeed.” Philippe looked at his wineglass thoughtfully, a slight scowl twisting his normally pleasant features into a grimace. Sorelli turned and gave him a dazzling smile and ruffled his short blonde hair.

“Why so sad?” Have I ruined our night with unpleasant memories?” She kept her voice teasingly girlish and turned to face him, moving her body downwards until her face was against his chest.

“No, I just do not wish to speak of that ‘poor girl’ that you mentioned.” He quickly finished off his wine and moved to lie on his back.

“Do you dislike her?”

“I would not say dislike, no. I have nothing against the girl on a personal level, she seems good natured and sweet, she had a hard go of it, that one. What I do dislike is the fact that she has been made my brothers wife.”

“Why does that bother you so?” Sorelli felt a familiar indignation well up inside of her. Philippe was a kind man and skillful lover, but he could be a condescending and elitist brute at times, and his disdain for entertainers was insulting. She immediately felt guilty for her anger, as she was going to do something far more traitorous and deviant tonight then criticize his rank in society.

“Christine Daae is a beautiful woman, she has an air mystery about her, which is quite alluring. She is also a link to Raoul’s past, and he was a lonely child without parents, so I can understand why he is so drawn to her. However, she is also a showgirl, and an orphan at that. Who knows what she did during her youth in such frivolous surroundings with no mother or father to guide her.”

“She had Madame Giry, she was like a mother to her.” Sorelli argued softly.

“That does not change the fact that she has no dowry. She never attended a debutant ball; she never obtained any gentlemen suitors during the seasons, she is not of Raoul’s rank. She was a singer and dancer in an opera house, and gentleman callers do not qualify as gentleman suitors. It is an embarrassment for a Vicomte to marry a showgirl. She would have made a lovely mistress, and he could have showered her with gowns, jewels, and expensive wine and dinners as he would any wife. He has also ignored the fact that she panted like a bitch in heat for that monstrous demon that night on stage. It is only because he is young that he made the brash decision to make her his wife. Young people have no concept of logic or duty.”

“Why must one live by rules when they are in love?”

“Why must one ask a question to which they already know the answer?” He playfully smacked her bottom.

“Perhaps I do not know the answer.”

“Yes you do.” They lay there in silence for a moment, the tension beginning to mount. By criticizing Christine he had criticized Sorelli, and although he cared about her, he did not wish to give her any false hope that he might one day forsake his values and meet her at the altar. Sorelli knew that she and Philippe’s relations would never move beyond the opera house and the bedroom, but she still caught herself dreaming of waking up next to him each and every morning, eating with him each night, and coming together as man and wife with no French letters adorning his manhood.

“Where are Raoul and Christine living?” She asked softly, running one finger up and down his chest seductively.

“They are currently living in my English estate, but he tells me that they plan to move back to Paris. Why they would do such a thing is a question that I cannot answer. You would think that the city would bring nothing but ill memories and constant gossip. My brother’s queen seems to be missing her old home though, and he hasn’t the heart to deny her anything.”

“Do you not find that romantic?”

“I find it weak.”
“Where will they be living?” She frowned against his chest; his dismissal of his brother’s devotion seemed flippant and unkind.

“On the outskirts of the city. I’ve been looking at some mansions on Tremblant Street; I think they need a little solitude and relaxation. I also think that they will feel safer outside of the city, far from the Opera Populaire.

“There are so many trees around Tremblant Street, they will have leafs all over their grounds.”

“Is that a problem?” Philippe laughed at the silliness of her observation.

“I like to see the grass in the summertime.”

“They will hire a groundskeeper I’m sure.”

“When will they be returning to Paris?”

“Within the next month I believe.” Philippe pulled Sorelli on top of him and laid back against his white satin pillows, a suggestive smile upon his lips. She sat atop his hardening pelvis and began to move, reaching for the package of French letters on the nightstand.

***

Sorelli walked out of Philippe’s townhouse the next morning, it was an unusually cool day. She pulled her black cloak around her shoulders to ward off the harsh wind and began to make her way to her tattered former home. The leafs blew about wildly and she often had to clutch the throat of her cloak together in one hand and use the other sweep her loose hair out of her eyes. She felt the punishing wind chill her skin; the intensity matched the sadness in her soul. She had asked Philippe to borrow a piece of stationary from his office to write a note to another dancer whom she had not heard from since the accident. He sleepily nodded and gave her bottom one last squeeze before she left his bedchambers. She scrawled the De Chagny’s future area of residence upon the fine white paper with the green bordering, a part of her heart dying as she wrote the damning words.

She pried open the blackened oak doors that led to the dormitories and began to make her way to her room feeling as though she were about step towards a guillotine. The sunlight coming through the windows offered a strange sense of false comfort, if she were under the cover of darkness she would have felt like even more of a criminal, sneaking about in the shadows like a common thief. She also felt safer, as though the daytime would keep his demonic presence at bay. She remembered looking upon him in his red death façade at the masquerade ball and wondering to herself if the rays of the sun would turn his body to dust, he was as dark and as sinister as hell itself.

She stepped into her room, that smell of rot entering her nostrils almost immediately. She left the loathsome paper on the nightstand and looked about her, everything was so quiet. She sat upon her old sunken mattress and let her head rest in her hands, she should have felt like sobbing, for she had just endangered two innocent people, one of them being someone her lover cared deeply about. She had not simply endangered them, she had promised them certain doom. She had nailed both of their coffins shut while both of them remained alive. She condemned them to certain suffering and they had done nothing to her. She felt so numb, as though she was not herself. Perhaps it was her minds way of coping with her guilt. Her mind and heart became separate, her logic dictating that she needed to do this for her own survival, allowing her heart to become cold and ignorant to the consequences of her actions.

“You have done well Mademoiselle.” That dreaded voice came from behind, burning her ears with its malice. She whirled around, her eyes wide with shock; she had not heard him approach.

“I have done as you asked, now please give me my money and papers.” She tried to sound self-assured and indignant, but his impeccable clothing and porcelain mask shook her. He looked almost gentlemanly, but underneath his neat appearance lay the heart of a murderer, a demon.

“Give you your reward and risk having others see you leave with said parcels in your hands? Do you think me an imbecile?” His voice was calm and smooth despite his harsh words; it wrapped itself around her and kept her body frozen.

“You promised me…” She began to wonder if she was, in fact, the imbecile, trusting a madman and damning two people for no real purpose.

“I said you would receive your reward the day after you gave me what I wanted. I also asked that you come at night to retrieve them.” He looked upon the address in his hands, his eyes filling with coldness, his lips nearly trembling. “I will place them here before night falls tomorrow, and then you shall receive your due compensation.”

“It had best be here.” She got up and dusted off her skirts, refusing to meet his eyes.

“My lady, I am a man of my word. Oh, and I would like to thank you for being so swift in meeting my demands. I would also like to say that I can see why the Count keeps you in his company; you have a very talented body. I think that I shan’t look at a balcony the same again for some while.” He looked at her then, not with childish amusement or perverse glee, but with threatening menace. She remembered Madame Giry’s haunting warning, the angel sees, the angel knows. He had made sure his request was fulfilled. He smiled sardonically as she ran from the room, her pale skin turning as red as the rising sun. If she had not been so humiliated and distraught, she might have thought that she heard the opera ghost laugh.
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Black Angels