"Is the Baron here? Is the Baron here?" Marie pushed her way through the gaggle of girls until she could peer through the curtains. An excited squeal erupted from the petite dancer’s lips when she spotted her beau settling into his box, followed by a howl of disappointment when he moved to one side. "No! No, he promised! He was sending her to the country so we could be alone."
Exiled to the sidelines by virtue of being new to the chorus and having no nobleman actively seeking her company, Christine watched as the other girls comforted Marie, flocking around her like highly painted butterflies. The dancer’s hands fluttered in front of her face as she gasped for breath, the previous angry howl rapidly changing to a more decorous moan. "How could he! When he said he loved me more than life itself."
A harsh clap of hands interrupted their display of feminine nerves and comfort. "Girls! Back to the dressing room, please. Only twenty minutes until curtain-up."
"Yes, Madame." As one the dancers curtsied to the chef-de-ballet and fled, excited giggles trailing after them.
Christine remained, hovering near the wings, until Madame Zanella was distracted inspecting the stage for anything that may damage her dancers’ fragile feet. Only then did she venture forwards and tweak aside the heavy curtain peeking out into the rapidly filling auditorium. Her gaze automatically went to the box that had received the other’s attention and she was disappointed to discover that the Baron in question was a portly middle aged man. She shuddered, wondering how Marie could tolerate his puffy, sweaty hands pawing at her, even with the promise of riches that came with such an admirer.
That would never do for her, Christine was sure. She harboured no illusions that sooner or later some important gentleman would set his cap at her, after all her looks were hardly a handicap but that didn’t mean she had to settle for some ugly old goat. Her eyes scanned the audience sorting and cataloguing cut of suit and quality of cloth, age and looks, searching for candidates more to her taste.
There! Box ten. Two gentlemen, one with unfashionably long dark hair, but the obvious quality of their attire proved them to be rich, at least, and the titled were well known for being eccentric in their habits. Ladies of exquisite beauty accompanied them, but that hadn’t stopped the other girls.
"You are not one of mine, so I presume you belong to Monsieur Gabriel."
Christine started, dragged out of her daydream of riches beyond her wildest dreams and nights filled with passionate love, by the sound of Madame Zanella’s voice next to her ear. "Y-yes, Madame," she stuttered, confused and embarrassed at being caught.
"And who is it that has such a pretty girl forgetting her duties?" The chef-de-ballet moved Christine slightly to one side and peered over her shoulder. "Hmm. Let me see… Baron de Courcy? No, too old. The Marquis de Montebello? Too cheap." Pausing for dramatic effect the older woman perused the men on offer, her eyes coming to rest on two in particular. "Or could it be that the gentlemen to catch your eye are our new comers? The Comte and Vicomte de Chagny?" The flush rising on Christine’s cheeks evidenced Madame Zanella unerring accuracy as she indicated the very box that had absorbed Christine’s attention moments before.
"Aha. Your secret is out," the chef-de-ballet crowed. And then, taking pity on the blushing chorus girl, she nudged the young woman and whispered, "You’re not the only one, you know. They’ve attracted much attention since their arrival. Though as far as I know none of the girls have captured their hearts." On the other side of the curtain the orchestra started to tune up, indicating that the performance would soon begin, and Madame Zanella gave Christine a gentle push. "Run along, my dear. Monsieur Gabriel will be most displeased if you are late."
As the blonde girl darted off, her soft shod feet silent on the wooden stage, the older woman shook her head sadly. Yet another one losing her heart to some no good gallant who would exploit her while she was young and pretty only to move on to another once the bloom faded.
**
He watched her from the flies, evading numerous stagehands with long practised ease. The Prima Donna was adequate; good even, though there were others, like his little bird, who could sing so much better. It had to be the audience that caused the problem because he’d listened to Christine when she was alone and her voice was freer and richer than it ever was when she was on the stage. It was sad, disappointing. Like him, the girl was destined to remain in the chorus, her light hidden under a bushel, shunned and rejected by the others. It made her vulnerable. It made her irresistible. It made him want to raise her to staggering heights before dragging her down into the darkness with him.
It made her the perfect bait for revenge.
That evening he started to prepare.
**
Christine was in tears by the end of the performance. Her voice was just terrible. What had seemed rounded and clear in her small hometown sounded screeching and ugly next to the talented singers populating the Paris Opera. Eschewing her chorus master’s post-performance lecture, she dodged away hurrying through the dark back ways of the opera house, hardly conscious of where she was heading. Just needing to escape, Christine was somewhat surprised when found herself surrounded by sumptuous gilding and rich velvet hangings. Her hands flew to her mouth as she smothered a cry of horror. She had stumbled into the entrance hall, just under the grand staircase.
Desperate to remain undiscovered, she backed slowly away from the surging colourful crowds, only to be captured in a pair of large solid arms.
"Well, you’re a pretty one, aren’t you."
She swung round and was greeted by cold obsidian eyes that pinned her to the spot, studying her as though she were some kind of scientific specimen. "I-I…"
"You-you," the man mimicked, his voice boasting an accent she did not recognise. "Come on, lovely. I’m sure you can do better than that."
Even through a haze of tears she noticed the speaker had a beautiful face, strong and masculine, framed by sleek dark hair, though his cruel eyes and superior sneer detracted from his charm. In an attempt to appear less nervous than she actually felt, Christine swiped at her eyes, clearing them and only then did she recognise that this was the Comte de Chagny, the gentleman she had been watching through the curtains earlier.
Dropping into a rapid curtsy, she ducked her head, overcome with humiliation and shame at being caught here, in the public area, without an invitation, by such an important gentleman. "I’m sorry, monsieur," she murmured. "I did not mean to run in to you."
"Hm. No harm done. See." The Comte held his hands out as if to illustrate his point and Christine couldn’t prevent the small smile that slid on to her face. Maybe he wasn’t as forbidding as she’d previously thought. She glanced up shyly and saw he was smiling back at her. Please, please, let him say something, she prayed. Let him find me agreeable.
"And you would be?"
Yes! He wanted to know her name.
She opened her mouth, was about to speak, when the subdued conversation filling the foyer was swamped by a loud raucous voice raised in song.
"There was a lady come from France, to learn an English country dance…"
The Comte’s eyes widened in recognition and his attention immediately left her, more concerned with the vocalist. Christine’s grasp of English wasn’t good but she recognised it as the language of the singer. Who, it appeared, was the Comte’s younger brother, perched on the banister of the grand staircase and singing at the top of his voice, much to the embarrassment of the rest of his family.
"The girls of the town are such ladies of pleasure, they go to the tavern and stitch at their leisure…"
"Excuse me, mademoiselle."
With a short bow and a click of his heels the Comte left her and hurried off towards the stairs. Christine would have liked to stay and watch but being discovered here would cause more trouble than any fun she may have gleaned from the experience. The moment she was dismissed, the singer headed back into the bowels of the opera house and her room.
***
"Oof!" The air was expelled from his lungs as he hit the wall face first
"Tell me, William, what was it about unobtrusive you didn’t understand?"
Leaving a goodly proportion of his face on the granite as he turned, Spike managed to answer, "The ‘un’ bit?" Then, "Ouch!" as Angelus’ other fist caught him in the ribs. He shouldn’t do it. He knew he shouldn’t do it. But it was impossible to resist winding Angelus up. The bastard could be driven into a trembling rage with virtually no effort and the results could be…interesting.
Sniffing suspiciously, Angelus released his grip slightly and queried, "Are you drunk?"
"A bit. Dru and me shared a lush on the way here. Reckon his blood must’ve been about ninety proof." Spike took advantage of the extra inch of space Angelus had gifted him and squiggled around so they were face to face. "Anyway, it’s not like they could understand. I wasn’t singing in French."
Angelus willed himself to patience - not a condition that came naturally to him - and glared at the brazenly innocent looking vampire in front of him. "And presumably only the English are capable of learning another tongue."
A frown skittered across Spike’s face as he assimilated the difficult concept that there may have been English speakers amongst the crowd. "Oh, yeah. I never thought of that."
"No. You never do. That’s…"
Sensing Angelus was about to launch into yet another lecture about how stupid/irresponsible/thoughtless Spike was - select any or all of the above - the younger vampire interrupted, "Where’re the girls? I lost track of them somewhere between being dragged off the stairs and colliding with the wall. Can’t think why, unless it had something to do with the great lout hauling me around by the collar."
The rest of the facetious commentary died in his mouth as Angelus’ fist, recently disentangled from Spike’s neck, hit the wall with shattering force, spraying them both liberally with stone dust. Spike swallowed thickly and glanced up at his mentor’s face noting the depth of black in his eyes and the tightly drawn line of his lips.
"Erm," he ventured. Belatedly realising that he may have pushed the older vampire over the edge from annoyance into real rage. "The opera was good. All the singing and…stuff."
It wasn’t going to work. It really wasn’t. Angelus was hopping mad and this scenario was going to play out only one way.
**
The ship between Weymouth and St. Helier - Three months previously.
Spike clung to the edges of the bunk willing his stomach not to heave up the remnants of his last meal, Angelus’ warning still ringing in his ears. "Better feed well, Will. You won’t get another chance until we get to Jersey."
"I dunno. All them tasty humans packed onto the boat. Like them good cigars of yours. Just waiting to be pulled out and nibbled… Ouch!"
His forehead still bore the bruise from hitting the wall, driven there by Angelus’ open handed smack. "You will not touch a single one of them. Hear me, boy? Or I’ll sling you overboard and you can damn well walk."
No explanation, just an order. Not that Spike had expected one. It wasn’t Angelus’ style, or hadn’t been since leaving Joshua’s lair.
The ship pitched again leaving his stomach hovering in mid-air before it slammed back down a couple of seconds later than the rest of him. Fingers clenching to wood splintering tightness, Spike swallowed heavily and then cursed under his breath, "Bloody hell."
"Not one of life’s sailors, huh?" Angelus shifted in the bunk below him and peered up, his face set in that supercilious smirk that currently made Spike want to puke all over him.
"Not as you notice, no." Probably wasn’t a good idea. Might make the old bugger a bit testy.
A disgruntled mutter came from the bed next to Angelus and he vanished for a moment before reappearing to instruct, "Get out, then. Neither of us want to listen to you whining all night."
Spike grunted, the idea of walking anywhere far from appealing, then rolled with the ship dropping to the floor with more thud and stagger than feline grace. Topside the weather didn’t seem so bad, the sky relatively clear though clouds scudded across the moon. He’d halfway convinced himself they were in the midst of a storm, the way things were throwing around down below. Behind him the funnel belched smoke, its coal-laden scent polluting the clean sea air and beneath his feet the engine throbbed, labouring to drive the steamer forward through the water. Slowly, and using the railings more than he would ever admit, Spike made his way towards the bow, suddenly curious about where they were going, this being his first trip abroad.
The spot he wanted, right at the front and clear of any distractions, was already filled. The man in question braced against the railings, the wind goading his coat into snapping against his legs. About to melt back into the shadows, Spike was thwarted when a particularly large wave hit the side of the ship sending him stumbling across the deck and careening into, and nearly over, the far rail.
Just as he reached the point of no return, feet several inches off the deck and fingers clinging desperately to anything they could find, his mind spinning with the humiliation of being in such an ignominious position, a hand grabbed his coat and yanked him backward.
"Nearly went then, son. Not found your sea legs yet?"
And in front of a human at that.
A human, whose heart was thumping, whose blood was plump full of adrenaline and just a tang of fear because… oh hell, he’d slipped into demon face.
Without stopping to consider the implications, Spike seized the Good Samaritan by the lapels, pulled him down and latched onto his neck, his gyppy stomach settling the second the good stuff hit it. The man’s heart slowed rapidly and as it stopped completely, Spike spun and shoved the body hard, sending it flying overboard.
Only when he heard the splash did it really sink in what he had done. He’d killed. And fed. On the boat. All against Angelus’ explicit orders. He was so deeply in shit it wasn’t funny.
*
Long experience of sea travel had steeled Angelus against the denials it often brought however he was very well aware of the dangers. He had decided years ago that the best way to pass the time was fucking and sleeping as those particular activities could be done in a cabin, thereby reducing the risk of running into some human who was either begging to be eaten or needed to have their face ripped off.
That was why, when he smelled fresh blood on Spike, even through the iodine taint of seawater and something god-awful and lavender scented, Angelus knew exactly what had transpired.
"Get out!" he growled and then grabbed Spike’s collar as the younger vampire tried to slink back through the door. "Not you. Her," he added, gesturing to Bethan who had been sharing his bunk.
The second they were alone, he increased his grip and lifted his protégé the crucial few inches that brought his feet clear of the floor. "Thought you could hide it, imbecile," he snarled, shaking Spike until his teeth rattled. "What part of ‘don’t feed’ didn’t you understand?"
Spike cringed, embarrassment at being discovered adding to extant humiliation and a healthy dose of fear. Together however, and given a couple of moments to marinate, they were a recipe for disaster. In this particular case, rage.
Twisting in his elder’s grip, Spike kicked out repeatedly, aiming for Angelus’ kneecaps and groin, snarling himself. "Fuck off, ponce. I don’t have to listen to you. Think you’re so bloody clever. Creeping around like a sodding nancy-boy. Scared of getting yer pretty clothes all messed. We’re vampires, for god’s sake."
"It’s not about the hunt, you fool. It’s about control and your lack of it." With a final shake that made the tendons in Spike’s neck creak in protest, Angelus launched the spitting furious vampire across the cabin and stalked after him, determined to knock some sense into the recalcitrant idiot. "It’s about you not listening. It’s about you never, ever doing as you’re damn well told!"
It was the expression on Spike’s face that gave Angelus pause for thought. As his fist rose, ready to smash down that insolence, it flickered from rage to fear to gritted determination and the punch died a-borning. They’d been here before. That expression was more familiar to Angelus than his own face. It said beat me, thrash me, do what the fuck you want but I will never give up!
Insolent, stubborn, wilful…
Grinding his teeth, Angelus contained his temper with some difficulty, spinning on his heel and glaring at the blanket covered porthole until some level of rational thought returned. It wasn’t easy. The aborted fight had left him aroused and hard and… His thoughts stumbled as a memory came back to him. With everything that had happened in the past week, from packing up the house to booking passage to the Channel Islands, all affected by the immediate desire to rejoin Darla, he’d forgotten. And now seemed like the ideal opportunity to remember. To break William, you have to ‘love’ him.
A quick glance over his shoulder showed that determination had now been replaced by wide-eyed wary confusion, exactly the sort of look Angelus wanted to cultivate. Two quick strides took him to the bunk and he reached out, grinning when Spike flinched back from him, and delved under his pillow. His fingers closed around the prize and he pulled it out, tossing it over with an offhand comment, "I believe your protector suggested I use this."
Spike stared at the bottle of oil in his hand for a moment and then his eyes came back up to meet Angelus’, still filled with confusion. "What…? How…?"
"It’s oil, boy," Angelus snapped. "And you’ve got five minutes to use it."
**
"Drop trou and turn around."
Spike shot a look towards the front of the building where the opera-goers were starting to spill into the streets. They may be in a secluded alcove but the possibility of discovery was high. "Not here, Angelus. It’s a bit on the public side."
"So we’ll get to see just how unobtrusive you can be." Angelus paused for a moment as if considering his options, before continuing, "Alternatively you can wait until we get back home and I’ll take you in front of Darla and Drusilla. Your choice, William."
Shocked, Spike found himself speechless and frozen to the spot, pinned in place by the smug expression on Angelus’ face. That choice was no choice and Angelus knew it.
"What do you think your girl would think of that, eh?" The finger that ran down the side of Spike’s face simply served to accentuate the warning tone in Angelus’ voice. "Seeing her knight protector beg me as readily as she does. Maybe we should go home. Let her see how truly useless you are."
"No, Angelus, please." Christ could he be any more pathetic? "I’ll lose her." Apparently he could.
Instead of speaking, Angelus smirked and made a twirling gesture. Spike sighed, a heavy resigned sound, and dropped his gaze to the ground, his hands going to the buttons on his suspenders. They undid all too easily and he held his trousers up until he was facing the wall, letting them fall when he spread his hands against the granite.
Angelus was immediately plastered against his back, one hand grasping his cock and working it to full hardness, whispering sweet nasties in his ear. "Here we are again. Honestly William, anyone would think you enjoy this, the way you court it." Two fingers tapped against Spike’s lips and he obligingly opened his mouth and sucked at them. The self-satisfied commentary continued with more than a hint of snigger. "Oops, I forgot. You do enjoy it, don’t you. There wouldn’t be a whole hell of a lot of point otherwise." The fingers were withdrawn with a wet plop and pressed hard against his anus, making Spike gasp and blink as they penetrated the tight ring of muscle.
Captured between two points of stimulation he was soon squirming and panting, chewing at his lip to stop himself making any sounds that would draw attention to their presence. Angelus wanted unobtrusive, he could do unobtrusive. Right up to… "Urgh!" Pressure that verged on painful skated unexpectedly over his sweet spot making his hips snap forward and forcing a groan up and out of his throat.
All movement stilled and he hung suspended on the edge of pleasure, Angelus’ voice in his ear. "Now then. What say you we start the lesson de jour." And this was why he hated/loved Angelus so much. "Why did we attend the opera tonight?"
Scraping around in his rapidly combusting brain cells Spike located the answer and managed to push it out. "’Cos you reckoned it’d be a good place to hunt."
His reward was swift in coming, inducing a full body shudder as his mentor’s ministrations encouraged him a few rungs up the ladder towards completion, only to stop again at the crucial moment. "Very good. And why were you invited?"
"To escort Dru." No response. Obviously more was required. "’Cos…er, you and Darla didn’t want to be worrying about her all evening?"
"And why would we worry?"
"’Cos sometimes she does stuff that draws attention… Oh, bugger." Spike’s head thumped forward onto the wall encouraged by the twitch of Angelus’ fingers and the realisation of how bloody stupid he had been - again.
"Exactly. Now instead of passing her off as a mad cousin, I have a drunken younger brother to explain away. Do you understand now why I demanded your best behaviour?"
"Y-yeah!"
It may be unorthodox but there was no doubting that this teaching method worked. Angelus nuzzled into Spike’s hair, blowing cool air over the ear he revealed and grinning when muscles clamped around his fingers. As Angelus had suspected, only when the younger vampire’s interest was being held by other matters would he stop and listen. At all other times he was far too interested in the quick cynical comeback and preserving face.
"Are you sorry?" By way of illustration Angelus scratched a fingernail across Spike’s prostate and ran a tight fist up and down his cock now slick with precome.
"Yes! Christ… yes, I’m sorry Angelus."
The note of genuine contrition in Spike’s voice melted Angelus’ resolve. That and the fact that getting caught didn’t appeal to him either. Code or no code, it would generate gossip and Spike had contributed enough to that for one evening. "Hmm. Maybe you are."
"I am. Honest, Angelus. I won’t do it again." He probably wouldn’t, Angelus surmised. Although there were bound to be other equally stupid antics to deal with. And punish. Many undoubtedly worse than singing bawdy songs in the grand foyer of the Paris opera house.
He relented. "Do you want to come?"
"Yes!" It came out as a strangled squeak as was accompanied by a shimmy sideways against Angelus’ groin that had the older vampire chewing on his own lip to avoid giving the game away. The time for play was over.
Abandoning the lesson, Angelus spun Spike round by the shoulder and pushed him to his knees, saying, "Do me properly and you can come when I do."
Spike complied and freed Angelus’ erection, expertly flicking open one set of suspender buttons. Although disappointed that he wasn’t to get the full benefit of an exquisite hand job, Spike was bright enough to conceal his resentment. Frankly after the way he’d behaved tonight he was lucky Angelus was letting him come at all.
Settling more comfortably Spike bent to his task, dipping his head and flicking his tongue over the tip of the shaft in his hand. As always the first taste was overwhelming, full of Angelus’ scent yet carrying with it a salty tang that could almost be called human, sending a flood of lust through his already aroused body. Fingers tangled in his hair pressing him insistently closer. He obliged, allowing himself to be guided into a rhythm that satisfied the man above him, alternately rubbing the soft steel flesh against his palate and granting it access into the deepest reaches of his throat. Lips, and occasionally teeth, caught and held, created suction and then released, his tongue danced fleetingly, firmly, sparingly, probing from base to ridged head. His hands, now freed, split their attention; one to the heavy sac that periodically collided with his chin, rolling and pinching the skin, stroking and stimulating the orbs within. The other, almost as an afterthought, catered to his own needs, moving automatically in a strong rhythm that slacked off when his threatened climax became distracting.
This was an activity he enjoyed, revelled in, even. Dru, Darla, Angelus. The who was irrelevant, it was the what and the how that mattered. There was power in it, despite his position, as witnessed by Angelus’ continuous litany of murmured compliments, "So good," and "Never get enough of your mouth, boy". But it also carried the piety of self-denial when governed by his elder’s rules; something that appealed to the remnants of William’s temperate sensibilities.
It pleased the demon and the man, helping to bring them still closer together. His demon embraced some level of delayed gratification with masochistic glee, so long as the promise of reward was not held too far out of reach.
Angelus’ thighs trembled and his balls tightened heralding his orgasm. Spike responded by deep throating him and swallowing, purring in his chest as he was rewarded with hitched panting breaths and a second hand tangling with the first in his hair. Pulling back slightly he suckled enthusiastically, working his own member with mindless desperation now he knew he wasn’t to be denied this time. The second Angelus came Spike shuddered to his own completion, spilling his seed over the ground between them, his eyes closing in pleasured relief.
A deep groan from above prompted Spike to glance up. Angelus was staring down, his head inclined slightly to one side, eyes half lidded with pleasure, glittering gold, and apparently hypnotised by what he’d witnessed. Well aware of his abilities and the effect he was having, Spike raised an eyebrow cheekily and mugged around the softening cock in his mouth. For a second Angelus’ eyes hardened and his grip on Spike’s hair increased, then an answering grin broke across his face and the tug turned into a pat as he shook his head in amused resignation.
With a final and almost tender swipe of his tongue, Spike released him and rose to his feet. "That unobtrusive enough for you?" he asked facetiously, hauling up his dress trousers and undoing his coat and vest so he could fish for the lost ends of his suspenders. Angelus grunted a reply, too absorbed in repairing his dress to bother answering.
"Have you boys finished or do we have to wait all night?"
Two heads whipped around guiltily at the sound of Darla’s voice and, like a courting couple discovered by a disapproving parent, they started to hurriedly adjust their clothing in an effort to conceal their activities.
"I wouldn’t concern yourselves. Drusilla and I have been watching for the past five minutes." Darla stepped out from her hiding place her eyes flashing with some level of annoyance well sauced with lascivious glee. "Only to ensure you weren’t interrupted, of course. Though I think we can be certain that the Slayer herself would have had difficulties attracting your attentions." As Darla moved aside, Dru glided forward to hand over the garments that had been left behind during the rapid exit from the opera house.
Angelus accepted his gratefully, shrugging into his coat whilst studiously avoiding Spike’s eyes. It was one thing for his women to be aware of Spike’s submission to him and quite another for them to witness a - he hesitated at the phrase that sprung into his mind - moment of affection? Or anything that could be construed as a sign of weakness.
"How much repair work needs to be done?" he asked gruffly, indicating the prime hunting ground Spike had, in Angelus’ opinion, ruined with his performance tonight.
Pooh-poohing Angelus’ concern, Darla explained, "Nothing. I simply told everyone that your younger brother was still suffering after a disastrous mission to the Arctic where he was trapped aboard ship for a full year with only the roughest of sailors for company. By the time I had finished spinning the tale the young ladies were queuing up to offer the poor unfortunate Vicomte their sympathies in person."
"Hah!" Spike chortled triumphantly. "So much for all your poofy ‘lessons de jours’, Angelus. Got all the girls after me now." He grabbed Drusilla, who let out an excited shriek as he swung her round and planted a firm kiss on her lips. "Just as it should be. Bloody irresistible, I am." With an unspeakably arrogant smirk back at the two older vampires rendered speechless by the sudden mood swing from obedient fledgling to self-confident machismo, Spike took off running, still holding tightly to Dru’s hand and heading towards the alleys and backwaters to find them both a decent meal.
***
Christine managed to reach her room before the tears fell, hard and hot down her cheeks. The Comte’s rejection coming so hard on the heels of her terrible performance dragged her back into the pits of despair. Her inadequacy rose up to choke her, its grip on her throat preventing any but the most guttural sounds escaping her mouth.
Sobbing desperately she leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the full-length mirror that graced one wall of her chamber, trying to bring her ravaged emotions back under control.
"Do not cry, little bird." The voice was so quiet, so soft, that Christine could hardly believe she had heard it. Until it came again. "Tonight an angel will come to you and all your fears will be forgotten."
***
The paper protruded from the corpse’s mouth like an obscene parody of a tongue. Taking great care not to come into contact with any dead flesh Mercier reached out and tugged it free, flinching back as his actions caused Monsieur Gabriel’s head to loll forwards. Around him gagging sounds arose from the room’s other occupants as the movement exposed an empty cavernous mouth, stripped clean of its tongue. The manager averted his gaze and stepped back, eagerly putting some distance between himself and the body before turning his attentions to the letter. It was wet with pinkish saliva; a gruesome testament to the singing master’s last living moments.
Grasping the paper by one cleanish corner, Mercier tentatively unfolded it, his eyes flicking rapidly down the ungainly scrawl it contained.
He would not see but I will show you. Christine will sing the part of Marguerite a week Friday. If you doubt my word or me, consider the object lesson suffered by this fool and believe otherwise, for others will follow where he cowardly led.
Yours in music and perpetual agony,
The Opera Ghost.
After a brief moment, during which the manager considered his options, Mercier snapped out, "Bring me Christine and summon the gendarme."
A flurry of movement followed his request, the office door closing in someone’s wake, followed by an uncomfortable silence, which was only broken when Moncharmin asked, "Who is Christine?"
**
Even in her sleep Christine seemed to pull away from him as he entered her chamber. She was beautiful, her pale face relaxed and happy so unlike the tension that haunted her features during the daylight hours. Slowly he reached out a hand, tracing the contours of her body where they filled the soft sheets to alluring proportions. This would have to be done carefully to avoid scaring her but the reward would be worth it.
"Christine." His voice filled the room with silent siren’s song. "Wake for me. Be with me. Be in me."
On the bed the young singer’s eyes fluttered open, met with his and were lost in his amber thrall.
Taking a single step back, the Ghost offered his hand to the singer, "Come, child. The angel of music calls you to his side. I will teach you things you have never dared imagine."
Christine rose from the bed, her sheer white night gown clinging to her breasts and hips, and placed her hand in his. Together they passed through the secret door, concealed behind the mirror and down into the depths of his lair.
***
She was beautiful and had a voice like an angel. Her hair shimmered in the limelight, a sheet of spun gold threaded with platinum, and the high notes of the aria were enough to move his unbeating heart to tears. Her eyes dominated her face, burning like the darkest, fiery coals and her vivacious coloratura made his unneeded breath catch in his throat.
And when she flexed her diaphragm in that dress, every part of him, from man to music connoisseur, stood up and paid attention. The Magic Flute would never be the same again.
Pity the opera in question was Faust.
The intermission crept up, surprising him with its appearance, and they left the privacy of their box, ostensibly for drinks but really to peruse the livestock. Chat up the fashionable crowd. As before, no one noticed, despite the high polish on the crystal, the numerous gold fittings and mirrors. They were just an unfilled space, a gap in the swirling silk, unrecognised by the stupid humans around them because the Comtess’ presence had already been acknowledged by some. In a society accustomed to dispossessed junior royalty and the nouveau riche, they were worth courting and no one enquired too specifically as to their antecedence.
"Comtess. Comte."
The greetings moved around them, bobbing heads and bended knees, accompanied by courtesies of varying degrees as the humans negotiated their status vis a vis these newcomers. Angelus couldn’t have cared less, he was more interested in escaping backstage and hunting down dinner. With hundreds of employees and seventeen floors the Paris Opera House had indeed proved to be one of the richest furrows he’d ever ploughed. Added to that, there was always the chance of finding that exquisite little soprano and having a sip. Her blood should be as intoxicating as her voice. What was her name? Christa? Christine? From the moment Marguerite had appeared on the stage he’d had eyes for nothing and nobody else.
He met Darla’s eyes through the fawning crowd and an unspoken communication passed between them. He would hunt. She would entertain. They would meet back in their box where he would share the fruits of his labour. A fun game, and one they had played a thousand times down through the years.
***
"Run and catch, run and catch…"
"Dru! Just bloody kill the thing and come back to bed." She pouted prettily at him before resuming her pursuit of the now hysterical child crawling round the bedroom floor. Spike sighed and settled back to sort through the contents of his ditty bag, planning to ignore her if she wouldn’t do as she was bid. Darla and Angelus were hunting at the opera again, so he had been left at home babysitting Dru. Apparently he hadn’t proved himself ‘unobtrusive’ enough for them to risk taking him again.
His fingers closed automatically around the goddess figurine, the stone warm and smooth against his skin. It had proved a frustration, this piece, the diamond set so firmly it resisted his every attempt to pry it loose. He’d thought of selling it as it stood but somehow couldn’t bring himself to part with the ugly little thing.
Seconds later the trinkets flew into the air when the little girl leapt on to the bed and burrowed under the covers. He reached down after her, grabbed an ankle and yanked her back out, yelping when her fingers dug into more vulnerable parts of his anatomy and tried to hang on.
"Sodding hell! Little monster!"
"Tut, tut. Do not speak so. You’ll scare the baby." Dru’s finger waved under his nose and she took over the honours, seizing the child’s hair and dragging her off the bed.
"S’all right for you to say," Spike commented unhappily, splitting his attention between his assaulted manhood and his lover, now cradling the child in her arms as she rocked back and forth in a chair. "Wasn’t your bits she…" Realising that Dru was no closer to finishing her dinner than she had been an hour ago he broke off the complaint and barked, "Are you eating it or not, ‘cos this is getting really boring. Every night since we got here it’s been the same sodding tune. ‘Find me a treat, Spike.’ ‘Catch me a baby’. This bedroom’s seen more bloody kids than in yer average Sunday school."
In fact a significant number of them were still there as Dru only let him dispose of them when they started to smell too badly.
Dru ignored him, focusing on the little girl now paralytic with fear, her face scrunched up and her cheeks streaked with drying tears. A red tipped nail traced its way down the side of her face as Dru sang, "Mummy will eat you, won’t I kitten. Run and catch…"
***
The shadows wrapped around him as he took to the back ways, stalking the narrow staircases and haunting the rehearsal spaces, searching for an unwary dancer or a lonely stage hand. Golden eyes cutting through the darkness, still lungs and silent feet leaving the dust undisturbed in his wake. He found one, eventually. Fed quickly, efficiently. Stashed the body behind scenery that hadn’t seen the stage for a decade and likely would never see it again. Then he resumed his journey. Ready now for what must be done. A visit to his golden haired coquette.
"Excuse me? Monsieur le Comte?"
He froze, the darkness swathing his body like a shroud.
"Monsieur?"
Then he heard it. The voice that haunted his every waking nightmare. Chased sleep from his weary eyes. Cast him down even in his moment of triumph. The creature that had stolen all his dreams and created the hollowed out mockery of a vampire he now was. "Is there a problem?"
"No, Monsieur. Are you searching for something?"
"The girl. Who sang the part of Marguerite."
"Christine, monsieur?"
"Mmm. Blonde. Voice like an angel."
A light, feminine laugh then, "Christine. Do you wish to meet her?"
"Very much so. Her dressing room lies in this direction, yes?"
"Yes, monsieur. Would you like me to accompany you?"
"No need. Though a small aperitif would be welcome."
The crunch of ivory through flesh and the rich sweet scent of young blood swamped his senses. Then the dull thud of a drained corpse hitting wood and the voice again.
"Thanks for that but I don’t want to fill up on vinegar when there’s champagne to be had."
Quelling the urge to bellow his rage and attack, Erik flew through the corridors towards Christine’s dressing room. His mind alternately rejoicing and screaming.
Angelus was here, in Paris, at last, and the time had finally arrived to extract his revenge for the pot.
But it was all happening too quickly. Christine was not ready. The trap wasn’t set. He must hide her for a while longer.
**
The second half was well underway by the time Angelus resumed their box and Darla made no attempt to conceal her irritation at his tardiness.
"Where have you been?" she hissed, her voice low, so as not to attract untoward attention.
He shrugged, looking distracted and glared down at the stage where Marguerite had just made her entrance. "Hunting."
She followed his gaze, fixing on the soprano and recognising with a twist in her guts a perfect candidate for one of her boy’s obsessions. "Did you taste her?"
"Hmm?" Angelus frowned and drummed his fingers discontentedly on his knee. "No. Her dressing room was empty."
"How very frustrating for you." Darla kept her expression deliberately bland. Long experience had taught her that trying to persuade Angelus away from these games simply made him play all the harder. "You did, however, feed."
There was no answer, simply a perfunctory wrist offered over, which she bit into, refusing to be disappointed by his lack of attentiveness. Time enough to remedy that later.
"Afterwards. I’ll try again, after the performance."
Or possibly sooner. "No, Angelus, you will not. We have a prior engagement, remember? I promised Lily we would tell her everything."
"And why, exactly, should I care about that?"
Resisting the urge to reach over and thump him, Darla explained for what felt like the hundredth time. "She must be kept safe and happy. The babe must born healthy. You know this." She winced as her voice rose to a shrill protestation, hating herself for being so weak. It was bad enough that her role in this debacle had become common knowledge without Angelus starting to complain.
And all he did was grunt.
***
It was a beautiful suite, decorated in the highest Parisian fashion but it still felt like a prison. And no matter that Louis wanted her to stay here for her own protection until the birth, she found it hard not to resent her incarceration. At a familiar sound in the street outside, Lily shifted in her window seat and twitched the curtain aside, watching as Darla stepped down from the carriage. She stood next to it for a few moments, seemingly arguing with someone inside, and then Lily caught a quick glimpse of long dark hair before the door closed and the carriage drew away.
The Comte, then. The Comtess’ husband. She’d only met him once or twice, though she often felt his hovering presence, and she couldn’t say she liked him. He exuded a cold anger and his eyes… God! His eyes burned, sending her body into a near frenzy of fear and desire. He and Darla certainly made a magnificent couple; the passion raging between them was almost tangible.
She heard the bell followed by a quiet exchange as the maid admitted Darla.
"Lily, darling. How are you this evening?"
It was strange, Lily mused, but Darla’s smiles no longer reached her eyes.
"Wearied." Lily laced her fingers over her bump. "He is most excitable and allows me little rest."
Darla’s gaze bounced around the room before coming to rest on Lily. But not on her face. That was something else Lily had noticed recently. Darla rarely looked at her anymore, and when she did her eyes lingered on Lily’s protruding belly as if it contained the answer to some life-altering question.
"It will not be long, I am sure." Darla’s tongue appeared, swiping rapidly across her lips, Lily thought, hungrily?
"The midwife tells me another month."
Nodding, Darla moved around the room, fingering several ornaments before turning and saying somewhat nonchalantly, "You will not forget to send for me. When it starts. Louis would be most disappointed if I were unable to tell him directly that you are both well."
"Of course," Lily answered, suppressing a sudden shudder at the idea of Darla being anywhere near her when the baby was born. Years of mixing with the aristocracy had taught her to hide her feelings well and her visitor seemed not to notice. "And it cannot come quickly enough. I am starting to find the entire business troublesome."
Darla sat primly on the settee and patted the silk upholstery next to her, saying, "Then perhaps you should sit with me and I will distract you by sharing all the titbits I uncovered tonight."
For a split second Lily hesitated and Darla grimaced in irritation. She was losing the woman. Every tensed muscle and defensive gesture screamed Lily’s unhappiness at being in her presence and the vampire wonder briefly if it was maternal instinct or something else that was alerting the human to the danger. As Lily made herself comfortable, presumably not an easy task for a woman so close to her confinement, Darla amused herself by spinning fantasies of what she would do once the brat was whelped. Starting with extracting Lily’s fingernails and working up to removing her skin, one strip for each wasted hour and fruitless shilling.
***
"What in the hell… William!"
Only one pair of eyes swivelled towards the door when Angelus voice sounded down the hallway, Drusilla was far too absorbed in her game of dress up. The game she’d started after getting bored with the tea party in the parlour.
"Oh bollocks." An annoyed Angelus was not a tone Spike looked forward to hearing. "Dru can you stall him for a bit, love."
The dead girl’s hand thumped on the carpet as Dru pulled her dress completely off, purring and talking all the while. She was in a world of her own - again.
"Dru! Please!" He didn’t like yelling at her, more often than not it had the opposite effect to the one he wanted but at least she was paying attention now. " A couple of minutes, yeah?"
"But he asked for you, my William."
"Yeah, I know. Make it up to you later, promise." Please love. Do this for me. I don’t ask for much. And I’d give you the sodding world if that were what you wanted. Good arguments, all, though they would never make it further than his mind.
She sighed and acquiesced, rising fluidly to her feet and pottering out of the door. Spike waited until it closed behind her before fishing under his pillow for the bag Nicci had given him, tipping the contents out on the nightstand. He only had a couple of minutes to spare but even a clumsy preparation was better than none. One hand addressed his trousers as the other fumbled with the stopper and it crossed Spike’s mind that he would have to nick some more soon, the bottle was nearly empty.
"William!"
"Bugger it all, Angelus, give a bloke half a chance." Reaching back between his legs, he breathed deeply before pressing two well-oiled fingers home, wincing at the slight discomfort that still raced through his body every time. He’d like to have taken it slower - easier on himself in the short and the long term - but Angelus’ voice was obvious in its irritation. And this was almost routine by now.
**
"William!" The door open quietly behind him and Angelus’ voice dropped to more normal levels as he pointed in disbelief at the assorted children’s corpses disporting around the furniture and asked, "This. What is this?"
"It’s a party but they wouldn’t play nice so I punished ‘em." Dru’s answered dreamily and Angelus blinked, thrown for a moment that the speaker wasn’t the childe he expected.
"Where is he?"
She floated into the salon, her mind obviously miles away and sidled up close, mesmerising him by running a single finger up his chest from waistband to collar. "Running along like a good little boy." Angelus frowned and lifted his head, gazing towards the door. "Ah, ah, ah. Naughty. No looking until I say so."
"Dru!" He grabbed her wandering hand and squeezed it hard enough to make her yelp. It did little for his temper but brought Drusilla back down to earth. "Do you want me to punish you?"
Her bottom lip quivered at the promise in his voice and her guileless eyes widened and darkened. "Maybe I should punish you?" she whispered, leaning in so that her breath ghosted past his ear.
Angelus shuddered at her offer of his guilty pleasure and he bent his head, licking and suckling gently at her neck. Dru’s fingers curled around his head, her sharp nails digging into his scalp as she pressed him closer. Just as he thought he’d won her over, she raked them deeply into his skin, pushing him away. And then, eyes rolling in her head she panted, "Knives and forks. We’ll use the cutlery and have a loverly meal for two."
"Candlelit?"
At his question, her swollen lids fluttered closed and her fingers skittered through the air, capturing invisible music that played only in her mind and a smile broke over her face. "Yeah."
"Angelus?"
Irritated at the untimely interruption, Angelus glared at Spike who was hovering uncertainly in the doorway, and kept one hand firmly wrapped round Drusilla’s waist. "Don’t just stand there," he snapped eventually, when there was no perceptible ingress into the room. "Get in here and tidy up. Darla will throw a fit if they ruin the carpet."
Spike shuffled in and started to move the bodies, hauling them towards the hallway two at a time, all the while keeping his eye on the couple locked together in an embrace he had never seen the like of before. His gaze fixated on the blood staining Angelus’ collar and the livid scratches decorating his face. When the corpses were stacked by the back door, he started to chuck them into the alley for the small pack of Kalladash demons to clean up before daybreak, grateful that their presence meant he no longer had to carry bodies down to the river.
The menial task finished, Spike locked up securely behind him and went looking for Angelus and Drusilla. The parlour was empty. So was the dining room. And the only sounds were coming from the first floor. He followed them only to discover the pair making out in the hallway, with Dru pinning Angelus against the wall.
When she grabbed the older vampire by the cravat and dragged him into her bedroom Spike could only stare after them in bafflement.
It had taken over a year but Spike thought he had worked out how the family dynamic worked. It was all very simple. Angelus shagged Darla when she wanted it, Dru when he wanted it and Spike when he needed it. Darla screamed in ecstasy, Dru moaned in agony and Spike swore on everything that was unholy that he would do whatever Angelus wanted so long as the bastard let him come. The first was about lust, the second about ritual and the last about discipline. And Spike had been looking forward to tonight’s punishment. He’d left the parlour in a state on purpose, willing to risk Darla’s ire to get Angelus’ attention except now Dru had stolen him. He glared balefully at the bedroom door that had been closed in his face and then slumped down the wall. This wasn’t supposed to happen.