"Come, dance with me."
Spike shrugged off the drunken prostitute’s hand, resigned to another night alone. Around him whirled the colours and music of nightlife down the Boulevard des Italiens, more food than he could eat in a century, he reckoned, and all of it off limits. If bodies started turning up around here then the gendarme would start asking questions and sooner or later someone would mention the Englishman who sat, night after flaming night, watching the opera house.
At least for these few hours he could relax a little. Unlike the daytime when he was stuck lurking under the café awnings and trees, skipping from one to the next as the sun moved through in the sky. So far Christine had left the place three times, on each occasion it had been during the day and down sunlit streets where he was helpless to follow. The first time he had abandoned his post come dusk and attempted to track her scent through the streets hoping that she had a specific destination in mind where he could set up shop and wait for her to come to him. But it was hopeless. The singer had obviously been shopping and he lost her trail as it wound into the food markets of Les Halles. Still at least he’d fed that night.
Now he was so hungry it was becoming a distraction.
A couple strolled towards him, arm in arm, their laughter and jolly conversation insufficient to drown out the sound of their hearts beating so temptingly near. The thrum of blood surrounding them was intoxicating, heady with wine and passion. Soon they drew close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from their bodies, the pulse in their necks a hypnotic beat through skin as translucent as a fragile shroud. God, what he wouldn’t give for some of that.
"Excuse me, monsieur?" A hand tapped on his shoulder and Spike jumped, nearly changing into demon face as rage and hunger warred inside him. It was a damn good thing he’d learned some control since the incident at Lily’s London house, because a gendarme, all dressed up in his daft blue uniform, accompanied the tapper, a portly middle aged chap with curly brown hair.
"Yeah?"
"Would you mind coming with me?"
Immediately suspicious, Spike glared at both humans and then around at the crowds, wondering if he could off them without attracting attention. Unlikely. It made more sense to play along for now. "Why?" he asked, keeping his tone as mild as possible.
The commissary of police, because that was what he had to be with such a self-important puffed up attitude, thrust out his chest like a cockerel about to crow and announced; "Recent events at the opera house have been called to our attention. And we have reason to believe that you may be, in some way, involved."
Spike narrowed his eyes, the only outward sign of his displeasure at having his cover blown. Hells and damnation, he griped silently, couldn’t anything go his way for once? The officer continued on regardless.
"I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. But several people have witnessed you loitering in this spot watching the opera house and we would simply like you to answer some questions."
Sighing theatrically, Spike put on the air of a hard pressed young man and said sadly, "You want to know why I’m here and what I’m doing?"
"Precisely, monsieur."
"Right then. I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you." Spike rose to his feet and started to walk away. After a moment’s hesitation the two gendarmes followed.
He led them quickly away from the thronging streets, chatting evenly about how his sister was having an affair with an unsuitable young man and that the couple had been seen together in the general area of the opera house. And that in a moment he would introduce them to someone that could corroborate his tale thus rendering any accusations groundless.
The two humans remained silent, bemused by the sudden affability of the young man they had been sent to detain and when he paused in front of them and waved them forwards into the shadows, they went willingly, eager to see what it was he wanted to show them. The uniformed officer went down silently screaming through his crushed larynx and clutching his smashed knee. The commissary wasn’t as lucky, finding himself pinned against the alley wall by a monster with glowing yellow eyes.
"What events?" The creature rasped out between fangs the policeman didn’t feel inclined to examine too closely.
Acting on an instinct for self-preservation he’d cultivated through years in the gendarmerie, Mifroid answered, "M-murders."
As the policeman watched, the creature’s face changed, melting back into the human guise it had worn when they first met, the arm restraining him was removed and the beast took a step back.
"Murders? What sort of murders?"
The question was asked sincerely and the quizzical expression too genuine to be forced. "The singing master and several stagehands. Rumour has it that the opera ghost is responsible but the evidence suggests it was done by some sort of wild dog. The injuries were consistent with…"
Mifroid’s voice died away and the blood rushed from his face as the image of those dreadful fangs sprang into his mind, fangs that were more than capable of inflicting the sorts of wounds that had been found on the bodies. In that instant the rumours of a ghost haunting the opera house didn’t seem far-fetched at all.
"So the sneaky little bastard’s feeding inside. That would explain why we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. Might explain why Christine hasn’t been out and about much either. If she’s under his thrall and everything."
Spike paced as he talked, keeping one eye on the single gendarme who was still conscious though looking a bit green around the gills. The other one was out cold, presumably from the pain, but still alive. This new information was vital and threw their plans for a loop. Between the two of them, he and Angelus had decided that the vampire controlling Christine would have to leave her alone when he ventured out to feed and they were hoping that she would go out then, at night, giving Spike a chance to snatch her.
"Are you talking about Christine Daae? The singer?"
"Huh? Yeah, why?"
"Because one of the victims was her singing teacher and the murderer left a note insisting she be allowed to sing the lead."
"Really? And they went along with that?" Spike tried to sound intelligently interested and failed abysmally, hearing the confusion in his own voice. This whole thing was getting increasingly complicated and it made his brain hurt to think about it. Telling Angelus when he swung by for an update was probably the best way forward but now that the police had noticed him he couldn’t even stay outside to watch for Christine. Maybe…
Oh, fuck it. He was too hungry to think straight.
"Sorry mate, you’ve just become brain food," Spike muttered under his breath to the unconscious policeman, casually hauling him up and draining him. As he dropped the corpse the distinct sounds of retching and acidic scent of vomit reached him and he turned disgustedly to his prisoner. "Did you have to do that? It’s not polite to throw up when a bloke’s trying to eat."
Wiping his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, Mifroid forced himself to stand up. "Wha-what are you?"
It was too good an opportunity to miss. Spike got right in his face, pushing him back against the wall and allowed his demon forward, hissing, "What do you think I am? You’re the sodding know-it-all bobby."
Cold fetid breath skated across his face and an impossibly strong hand grabbed his chin, forcing his head to one side. Fangs wet with his friend’s blood grazed his neck and Mifroid felt his gorge rise again and his bowels loosen in abject terror. He started to pray.
"Lord Jesus Christ, who willest that no man should perish…"
"Not. Going. To help." The words muttered against his skin froze the petition in Mifroid’s throat and he died ignorant and disbelieving of what was killing him.
***
"Urgh! Stop! There’s someone coming out of the house."
"Not stopping. Can’t stop."
Darla forced Angelus’ mouth away from her neck and tried not to be distracted as she observed the figure hovering in the doorway across the street. Strict focus wasn’t an easy task when you were being fucked against the wall by a lover whom you hadn’t seen for three days, especially one who held out magnificently, ensuring you were well and truly sated before pursuing his own pleasure. Still they were here to do a job and even if he was doing that thing - oh god! - with his hips… "Angelus!" She punched hard him on the arm. "Stop!"
"Just a Watcher," he panted in her ear, his urgent thrusts becoming ragged as he slammed her backside into the crumbling brick. "Always… Christ!… coming and going. No respect… Oh. Fuck!"
His body shuddered as he spent and his head dropped to her shoulder where he nuzzled an apology. "Too good, lover."
Fingers wrapped in his hair, Darla glanced through the window to see Angelus was entirely correct. When the figure emerged to stand in the sunlight, it was obviously only a Watcher, and she recognised him as one of the ones that came and went regularly during the day.
"Told you." Angelus commented, and then sought out her mouth for another demanding kiss. It was at least another hour before either of them spoke again.
**
"Stay tonight?"
Darla was seated on his lap as they both kept watch and he felt her answer before she spoke. "No. And you know why. If I am seen out then no one will suspect that we are still targeting the child. With both you and Spike absent it will seem as though the pair of you are doing something together." She stroked his arms, taking the sting out of her words. It may be the truth but it still hurt when they had to spend so much time apart. "Where did you send him by the way? Drusilla is missing him."
"Just to tidy up some business," he dissembled not wanting to get bogged down in an argument about his vendetta. "You and Dru could bring me dinner then. I want to hang on to that one," Angelus nodded at the butler tied to the chair. "It’s useful having someone who knows the visitors that keep coming round. He tells them there’s sickness and they run away."
"Perhaps I may do that." Darla offered up her lips for a kiss and Angelus obliged. When they parted she stood up to leave and asked, "What do you fancy?"
"Something young and blonde. Something we can share."
***
"Ow! Sod it all!" Groping blindly across the uneven dusty floor, Spike groused morosely as he searched for the candle. "Ah! Got you, you little bugger," he muttered triumphantly a moment later, only to hurriedly toss the object away when it turned out to have legs. "Not a candle, then. Unless there’s magic stuff going on down here too."
Talking for the sheer pleasure of hearing a real voice, and because he’d got fed up with chatting inside his head, he added, "Doesn’t make you mad though. Not until you start arguing with yerself. Hmm, now that feels more like it."
Candle located, he shuffled back against the wall, jammed it between his feet and dug around in his pocket for a matchbook. It was damp from the clammy air, it took two attempts to get one to light and the resultant flame guttered meekly, hardly illuminating more than his shoes. "Better than nothing, I suppose," he said. "Hells, a match is better than nothing down here."
He sighed volubly, and clambered to his feet, taking care this time not to fall as he made his way across the rough stone floor. "Great plan, Spike. You could be outside enjoying the sights but where are you? Stuck in the bowels of the Paris bloody opera house, tripping over yer feet and getting lost. Haven’t even found the girl yet either. Prat."
That probably did qualify as arguing with himself, so he stopped quickly, focusing on the tantalising scent that had led him in this direction in the first place. It smelled like Christine, though why she was wandering around where it was too dark for even a vampire to see properly remained a mystery. Cautiously following the wall with his free hand, golden eyes straining to see further into the shadows, Spike stumbled off down the passageway.
Before the candle had completely disappeared from view a shadow detached itself from the wall and moved confidently after him.
***
Christine woke with her pulse hammering in her neck and her throat constricted with jagged lumps of fear. Cold sweat drenched her body as pools of icy moisture formed between her breasts and ran like dead fingers down her belly when she rose shakily to sit on the edge of her bed. Exhausted beyond hope, the singer rested her head in her trembling hands, searching for a moment of peace where she could escape her nightmares. This attempt, like all those that had preceded it, came to naught. Slowly her heart began to slow, no longer deafening, and the sweat dried on her skin.
Glancing longingly at the rumpled sheets, Christine’s hand raised in involuntary supplication. She desperately needed to rest, her bones ached with the desire to sleep but her understanding had evolved beyond that and she knew she would get no more this night.
The jug on the washstand offered a paltry measure of tepid water, which she splashed sparingly over her face and neck, using the last drops to soothe her dry lips and throat. It helped. Anything that drew her further from her dreams was a fleeting boon.
Following a pattern ingrained on her body and soul from frequent repetition, the singer dressed, her simple soft woollen garment falling in hugging folds that warmed away any lingering chill. After adding a cloak with a deep satin-lined hood, she lit a candle, opened the door to her room and took to the stairs, treading lightly on creaking boards all the way to the roof.
***
If Darla didn’t show up tonight he was leaving. Damn prophecy, the Council, Lily, the Master and anyone else who insisted on messing with his existence.
Angelus paced restlessly around the small cellar trying to work off his excess energy, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand. Periodically he would stop, take a swig and glance towards the house opposite. Three weeks of watching and so far not a sign of anything remotely like a baby. He hadn’t been able to swing by and speak to Spike for nigh on a week. Nor had he had any visitors for the last two days.
He was starting to go mad.
This morning he’d ended up playing cards with the butler.
And the butler won.
A movement across the street caught his attention and he hurried to the window, careful to avoid the stray shaft of sunlight that filtered through the dirt. Several figures stood huddled together, recently disgorged from a landau that pulled away down the street. As he watched, one of them broke away, went up to the Watcher’s house and knocked on the door. It opened quickly and a man stepped outside, glancing nervously up and down the deserted road.
"Watcher," Angelus growled, his fingers curling into the window frame, he’d recognise that uptight posture anywhere.
The group of humans splintered. There were five of them, not including the one who had now disappeared inside. Four men, definitely. The smallest of them could be a woman; there was no way of telling until she moved.
And then she did, swinging her cloak wide to accommodate her skirts as she strode up to the house. Angelus found himself glued to the window. The woman moved with a power and grace to rival Darla’s and radiated a kind of sexual energy he had never seen before. There was only one possible explanation as to what she could be. The Slayer.
***
Delicate strings of song and the co-ordinated drum of dancing feet pulled him gradually up through the numerous levels of the vast building. It was the only sound Spike had heard since the candle finally died, leaving him wandering helplessly through a living hell, and he gravitated towards it, powerless to resist the promise of blood.
Following Christine’s elusive scent deep underground, he’d become woefully lost in both time and space, though the hunger thrumming in his veins suggested it had been several days.
Even now the distorting effects of the labyrinthine passageways misled him continuously, casting phantom echoes that lured him into blind stairwells and long forgotten chambers. He roamed through them disorientated, senses rendered mute by the pungent damp that permeated the air, coating the world in the earthy hues of stagnant rot. The only company lay in his memories, most vividly of Angelus’ brief visits and the ways they’d found to pass the time after business was concluded. There were moments when even those felt unreal and he fingered the badly healed bite marks on his neck constantly to reassure himself of his sanity.
Eventually the walls under his right hand turned from rough damp brick to slimy algae covered wood and thence to tinder dry lathes. The sounds came more frequently; music interspersed with snippets of conversation that seemed to flee from his questing ears when he ventured too close.
Hovering on the verge of abandoning stealth, Spike was ready to punch his way back into the world when a ribbon of light blazed through the shadows, a beacon in the darkness, and the scent of humanity once again swelled through his senses. He paused, focusing intently on what lay beyond the wall. One human, a young male, his heartbeat strong and the smell of honest sweat lingering about him. The perfect meal for a half-starved demon.
The hidden door swivelled silently under his hand and he stepped through it, peering into the dimly lit rehearsal room where he and Angelus had originally hashed out their plans. In the corner standing with his back to the mirrors, a towel slung around his neck stood a young man. Collar length dark-hair formed loose curls against his olive skin and drops of moisture ran enticingly down his sculptured back. The heat radiating from him was astounding and Spike’s fangs itched in temptation. With seductive ease the vampire approached, feet silent on the dusty wooden boards.
Oblivious to his peril, the dancer continued his warm down exercises, stretching muscles he spent hours driving to perfection. He bent, catching his ankles, easing the strain on his back and dropping his forehead onto his shins. And then froze. Through his legs he could see another pair of feet.
"Blin!" The expletive exploded from the young man’s lips and he spun round to confront the figure leaning casually against the wall watching him. "Your pardon. I didn’t see you there." When the pale man failed to respond, he added, "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I reckon you can. Got this little problem."
"P-problem?" There was something about the way the visitor was staring at him. Something predatory about the way he stood, the way he stretched, the way he walked, the way he…
"Goes something like this." Cold hands fastened around his shoulders, spinning him in the man’s arms until his back was pressed against the other’s chest and a voice whispered in his ear. "I need a snack and you look right tasty. What d’ya say? We gotta deal?"
Death had never tasted so sweet, a proverbial feast after a famine and, as the mortal’s heart faltered to a stop, Spike withdrew his fangs, oblivious of the blood dripping on his shirt and heaved a huge sigh of relief.
That was unequivocally the last time he went exploring without supplies.
Hunger temporarily sated, he hefted the corpse over his shoulder and dumped it several feet inside the passageway, making sure to leave the door wide open while he did so. No way in hell did he plan on getting lost down there again. Unfortunately that meant having to go through the public parts of the opera house to get back outside.
He glanced down at the drying blood marking the front of his filthy shirt and his ripped trousers covered in mud and dust and then back at the body, doing a quick tally of his options.
This was going to be a problem.
The state of his clothes would definitely attract unwanted attention; in fact he’d be lucky to make it without someone noticing him. Maybe? He turned the body over with his foot. No, the trousers would have to do because there was no way in hell he was wearing those poncy things. Not to mention it smelled like the chap had pissed himself. Perhaps his shirt would fit?
A quick hunt around proved that the dancer must have been shirtless when he entered the practice room, so Spike artfully arranged the discarded towel around his neck to cover the blood stains and opened the door. The corridor was empty but the crowded sounds of everyday life at the theatre resounded up from the lower floors. Cautiously he headed towards the noise, dodging into doorways every time someone passed by in the hopes that they’d turn out to be wearing clothes he could nick. Unfortunately, unless tutus had suddenly become de rigueur for gentlemen, the numerous female dancers were worse than useless.
After an hour of sneaking and hiding Spike gave up. It obviously wasn’t his night and there were easier ways of dealing with the problem. At the next staircase he headed up, rather than down, aiming for the roof and a way to escape his erstwhile prison.
***
"Darla!" Angelus bellowed, slamming the front door behind him and thundering up the stairs to her suite. The sitting room door opening brought him to a skidding halt and he spun round to see his sire standing in the hallway, arms crossed and looking more that slightly annoyed. "Thank Christ," he began, "You’re here. I feared you might already have…"
"For your sake I hope you have an extremely good reason for being here." Darla’s foot tapped out a harassed rhythm and her eyes gleamed icy with temper. Drusilla hovered in the doorway behind her, clothing slightly dishevelled and with swollen lips. "I was under the impression that I told you to watch the house day and…"
"No time," he interrupted, storming past them and grabbing a piece of paper from the writing desk. He scrawled something on it and thrust it at Drusilla, saying urgently, "Go there. They’re waiting for you. And don’t do anything except watch the house across the street. Anything! You understand?"
Dru took the note and vacillated for a moment, her mouth opening and closing.
"Go! Now!" Angelus snarled, pushing her towards the door, not interested in hearing what nonsense she might spout.
The second it closed behind her Darla started in again, her voice tinged with concern. She hadn’t seen her lover this bothered for years. "What the hell is going on, Angelus?"
"The Slayer." His comment was met by stunned silence so he tried again. "They’ve brought the Slayer to Paris. She arrived at the Watcher’s house before dusk." There was still no reaction. Angelus grabbed Darla’s arms and shook her, hard. "The Slayer, Darla! Guarding this damned baby!"
Releasing her with a violent backwards shove, Angelus paced away waving his hands as he fumed, "What now? Do you want us to take her on as well as the Watchers? As well as your Sire? For god’s sake, woman, how many enemies do you plan on making trying to pull off this feat? It was bad enough when it just that idiot Luke."
Something in what he said jerked Darla out of her shock and she snapped, "Well panicking certainly won’t achieve anything."
"Panicking? Panicking!" Angelus strode towards her his eyes flashing at the insult. "I don’t think pointing out how…"
"Where’s Spike?"
Her question brought him up short. "What?"
"Whatever it was you sent him to do, he’s not been seen for five days and…"
"I told you, Will’s doing a job for me. It’s not important right now."
"It is if the Slayer is in town. You know how foolhardy he can be and the last thing we need is to attract further attention."
"He won’t." Angelus waved away her concern, remembering the strict instructions he had given Spike before they parted. And the threats he had used to back them up. "I think I can safely say that there is no chance of him attracting attention."
***
"Two of your men, you say?" Mercier spun a pen through his fingers as he listened to Renan, the new, more senior, police officer who had been placed in charge of the case.
"Yes, monsieur. Commisaire Mifroid and Constable Sainclair. Their bodies were found crammed into a sewer off the Boulevard des Capucines. They had been dead several days and just like the earlier victims their throats were mauled," Renan paused, "amongst other things."
"Other things?" the opera house manager asked reluctantly, remembering the mutilated corpse of the singing master.
"Constable Sainclair. He… It… Let’s just say it wasn’t an easy way to die."
Relieved that the gendarme didn’t feel the need to go into details but still disturbed by the implications, Mercier rose from his desk went over to his sideboard and poured two large brandies. "I realise that drinking whilst on duty…" he began, offering it over.
Renan took the drink with a smile. "Thank you, monsieur. You are a true patriot."
Rather than return to his seat, the manager continued to stand, shifting the bottles and glasses around and looking increasingly uncomfortable. Eventually words like racehorses burst from his lips, straining to reach the finish line.
"There have been rumours. About what is committing the murders. Some say it’s vampires, which is impossible. And there are strangers in the city - Englishmen - who say they know how to fight them."
In the distance the evening performance began and the sounds of the overture rose to a crescendo, adding to the tense silence in the room. Finally Renan’s glass clunked onto the desk and, he muttered, "Merde," under his breath. He’d try this once but if the manager didn’t believe him he was damn well telling him the truth, whatever the cost.
Taking a fortifying breath, the policeman leaned back in his chair and said confidently, "Well, as a better man than myself once said the English are all ‘poltroons, cowards, sulkers and dastards’. I wouldn’t believe the rumours if I were you."
"Then you still think it is some sort of animal?" Mercier’s face held a kind of deluded hope and Renan’s heart went out to him. It was difficult enough keeping a business such as this afloat without rumours of the supernatural haunting your establishment. And if the man was willing to hide from the truth far be it from this policeman to drag it out into the open.
"That is exactly what we think. Whoever put the note into the singing teacher’s mouth was playing a sick joke. The fact that the rest of the corpses were hidden suggests we are dealing with a kind of big cat, perhaps a leopard escaped from a private menagerie."
"Mon dieu! I knew it was ridiculous but, you know, sometimes it is hard not to believe."
"Monsieur Mercier! Monsieur Mercier!"
Both men’s heads turned towards the door being flung open by a terrified stagehand. "Monsieur Mercier! Please, come quickly. It’s Alexei! He’s… he’s been murdered."
"Alexei?"
"Alexei Kisselev." Mercier explained to the confused gendarme as the pair ran after their guide. "A premier le danseur visiting from Russia. We were hoping he would attract a new audience, there are so few male dancers these days."
The group of distraught dancers gathered in the rehearsal room left no doubt that the ‘ghost’ was responsible for this death as well. Amongst the tears and fits of the vapours, it was the only coherent word to be heard. "The ghost. He has struck again."
As the policeman and the manager pressed forward the dancers moved aside, revealing a dark opening in the wall where one of the floor length mirrors should have been.
"He’s in there." The stagehand whispered, pointing towards it. "No one had seen him since after the performance last night, so Meg came to find him and saw blood on the floor. And then the open mirror…"
"Well," Renan declared, stepping into the hidden passageway and looking around him curiously. "I think we’ve discovered how this ‘ghost’ finds his way around."
***
The roof had been a great idea; in fact Spike wished he’d thought of it before. It would certainly have been a more comfortable vantage-point than the cafes and shops he’d been lurking in to date, and head and shoulders better than those bloody corridors and tunnels he’d gotten lost in. The ornate architecture provided plenty of holes and corners to shelter from the sun and after dusk he could move around with impunity keeping watch on the crowds that flooded the building. The only downside was the lack of food but then he hadn’t exactly been eating well before and at least here it was only a short trip to go hunting. As he had proven last night when he took advantage of the throng to get a meal and a clean set of clothes.
Invisible behind one of the fantastical angels gracing the front of the building, Spike hugged the bronze leeching up what remained of the sun’s warmth and watched the first of the opera goers arriving for the evening’s performance. It was unlikely that Christine would be out until the show was over, so for now he could afford to relax a little and take in the sights and smells of the Paris evening.
Therefore he was somewhat surprised to hear footsteps on the roof, and even more so when he turned to see the intruder was none other than the woman he was seeking. She sang quietly to herself as she approached the edge of the building, her cloak billowing around her in the breeze, its deep hood a scarlet pocket on her back. The thin white material of her costume clung to her legs, clasping them in a desperate lover’s embrace as she walked. Her hair streamed behind her, a white pennant against the darkening sky. Skin as pale as any vampire’s, soft milky and smooth, perfection in itself. She was as William had always imagined Ophelia to be, beautiful in her madness and suicidal in her love.
With a great effort of will Spike bit his tongue hard, the sharp pain and sudden flush of blood in his mouth breaking the spell the singer was unwittingly casting around herself. And when he was seeing clearly again, he noticed that she was shivering and unattractive goose bumps raised her skin. Tears streaked her face and her nose was red from crying. Not quite the ethereal beauty that had him mesmerised moments before.
At the parapet she stopped and her lips started to move. Spike slunk in closer, wanting to grab her but loath to do so when she was so close to the edge. One wrong move could see her plummet to her death and that was far too quick. The singer continued to stare up at the sky, her lips forming words Spike could finally hear and understand, tears again running down her face.
"We turn to you for protection, holy Mother of God. Listen to our prayers and help us in our needs. Save us from every danger, glorious and blessed Virgin."
She was praying, her voice choked and tight and, as she reached the end of the formal plea, Christine broke down completely, sobbing out her story to the unfeeling night.
"He has killed again and it must be my fault. I don’t know what to do. He said he was an angel. The angel of music sent to watch over me but now my dreams are full of horror and death. The fear he promised to free me from stalks my nightmares and his face haunts my days. I am held prisoner by my own pride and yet too scared to deny him."
As he listened to her confession Spike suddenly understood exactly how to get the singer to go with him. A method that was infinitely more satisfying that knocking her over the head. He stepped forward and cleared his throat. She started, frightened by the sudden noise, and spun, catching her foot and stumbling, hands clutching at nothingness. In a blur of movement Spike grabbed her, yanking her back from the edge and into his arms, where she rested shaking against him, heart beating wildly in her throat.
"I’m terribly sorry about that. I didn’t mean to frighten you."
Christine looked up into the dark eyes of the man who had rescued her. They were blue; she was sure but couldn’t remember how she knew. And that voice. The accented French he was speaking.
"Have we met?"
The man released her and stepped back, putting a more appropriate distance between them. Clearing his throat he said, "Yes, actually, I’m the…"
"Vicomte de Chagny. I remember. You came to my dressing room with your brother and then, and then…" The rest of the encounter was a void in her mind. Like so much of her life, a gaping maw filled with yellow hypnotic eyes and music. "I’m sorry," she said dropping her head, flustered by her inability to recollect their introduction. "I haven’t been well. There are things…"
"The angel of music?" The Vicomte asked quietly, dipping down to look at her face. "I couldn’t help overhearing. Would you mind if I asked are you in some kind of difficulty? Is there anything I can do to help?"
Christine looked at him in mute desperation. He sounded so kind, so gentle. Could she trust him to help her?
"Please," he added, a concerned smile curving his lips. "I only wish to help."
Won over by the Vicomte’s regard, Christine relaxed a little. "You won’t believe me," she started, "I hardly believe it myself."
"Try me," he said holding out a hand and guiding her to the edge of one of the huge water tanks where they could sit and talk. "You’d be amazed the things I have seen in my travels."
With her new friend’s gentle support, the singer found herself opening up and sharing the entire story of the angel of music. How he had come to her and said she could be a great singer. How she had accepted the offer only to be drawn into a world of darkness and fear, where her dreams had been turned against her. She no longer remembered performing, in fact if she sang more than a few bars her awareness faded away until nothing but the music and his eyes remained. He followed her constantly, watching her, never alone. And sometimes things happened, and she would wake up with blood in her mouth.
"And then there is this," she finished, removing the choker from around her neck to reveal the puncture wounds in her throat. The Vicomte’s expression darkened and he reached out a hand, letting it hover above her skin. Just as she was certain he would deny her, he tugged his own collar aside displaying scars of his own.
"Like I said, my dear, I have seen much during my travels and experienced more."
Christine’s hand reached out towards his neck and then flew to her mouth. "I don’t know what it is. I don’t remember it happening. But I think it is the same thing that killed all those people and I’m so scared that someone will see it and think that I had something to do with it and…"
The enormity of the whole business hit her in a way it never had before. Somehow sharing her experiences with another person made them real, so real she could no longer hold herself together. Tearing sobs escaped her chest and she flung herself into the Vicomte’s arms. "Help me, monsieur. Please, you must help me!"
Fingers brushed through her hair and he whispered in her ear, "I will my sweet. Come with me and the Comte. We will make everything better."