She'd sung, there, by herself, on the empty stage. Not brilliantly, not even with much emotion, but Erik heard the promise in her amateurish voice.
And then when she turned and he saw from his place in the wings the full force of her heart-shaped face, his heart—which had been protective steel for so long—softened. She looked so sad.
Lonely.
He wondered if she'd been alone as long as he had.
Now, his breath ragged, his heart thudding, his erection excruciating, Erik finally allowed himself to stop, rest, leaning heavily against the rough brick wall that edged the very top of the massive space that included the stage and backstage. He was tucked up and behind the upper proscenium. In this dark, remote corner, the ceiling was only inches above him. His fingers trembled, and he stripped off his leather gloves, and they snapped softly in the quiet… broken only by his harsh breathing.
At last, after months of watching, teaching, loving Christine from afar, he had touched her. Touched her.
Touched her, and she'd welcomed it. There'd been no revulsion, no crying, no struggling.
She'd had pleasure, had responded. Deliciously.
What it had cost him to slip away. Let her go.
Bringing the collection of empty leather fingers to his face, he breathed, smelled her on them, and tipped his masked face against the brick. His mask. Barrier to peace and satiation.
He'd fashioned several of them of leather, tanning and tooling them as if he aroused a lover, until they all were smooth as skin. He had one of black, for when he wished to move about unnoticed at night, and one of cream, which blended with the color of his flesh. If he was to wear it, it must be comfortable, pliable, sensual. He must not be aware that it was on; it must become such a part of him that the only way he could tell it was there was by touch.
Or sight.
He rarely looked in the mirror, even when he wore the mask.
The pale leather mask, more supple than even the gloves he held to his trembling mouth, covered just half of his face. One mangled eye. One scored temple. One ravaged nostril. One mottled, slashed cheekbone. And it curved around to sweep at the corner of his mouth, leaving his wide, sensual lips bare. It tied over his thick dark hair, at the back of his crown.
A faint sound drew his attention; he pulled away from the wall and, holding the rail, looked down.
A pale, ugly face gleamed up at him from the next catwalk below. Buquet, the ape.
"Quite a show you put on down there," drawled the man, looking boldly up at Erik. "A nice piece of pussy, and you managed to find your way down into it. Not that you're the first, you know."
It was nothing for Erik to launch himself from the narrow, rick ety catwalk and flip himself onto the one below. He landed, flat-footed and steady, and turned face-to-face with Buquet.
"You are a coarse, stupid man," Erik said, fury cold and steady through him. He might burn for Christine, but he had learned long ago to control his other emotions into efficiency. He did not rage; he acted with decisiveness.
Buquet had the balls to laugh, yet Erik saw that he stepped back. Fear glinted in his eyes, displayed by the low lantern the man carried, "I'd be happy to keep what I saw to myself, if you allow me to watch—"
Erik's hand shot out and closed around the man's throat. His fingers tightened over his windpipe, and lifted his weaselly bulk from the narrow wood planks. "If I find out you have even breathed the same air as Miss Daaé, if you even think to come within twenty yards of her, I will make your miserable life even more hellish!"
The man choked and gasped beneath the same fingers that played the piano with such elegance and beauty. Erik constricted, then loosened them, and allowed the man to collapse at his feet. One leg dangled off the narrow walkway.
"Do not let me see you or hear you again, Buquet."
He turned to stalk away, the frustration that had been centered in his cock now vibrating throughout his being. Rage and desire were a monstrous combination.
"You'll never have her, scuttling rat." Buquet's words were so soft, perhaps he did not mean for Erik to hear them. The coward. But Erik did hear, and he whirled back around just as the man leaped at him.
Buquet's lantern rested on the walk, leaving his hands free. One held the flimsy rope railing, and the other a glinting silver knife. "You're naught but a sick devil, scurrying about in the dark," he said boldly, brave now that he brandished his weapon. "You must hide your filthy self—"
Erik kicked out, and Buquet dodged on the narrow footbridge, continuing to taunt him. "You bury yerself in the dark, and yearn for what you will never have. She won't be looking on the likes of you, no matter that she spreads her legs when you force her. She'll not spread 'em for your cock, for the—"
Erik stopped the mocking voice with both feet, slamming into the man's face as he lifted himself with the weak rope railing on either side. Buquet tumbled to the boards and, grasping at the rope with one hand, pulled himself up, the knife raised in the other.
As he brought the knife down, Erik ducked and lunged, and knocked the man off-balance… and then felt the footbridge tip as he slid to the edge. Before Erik could turn, the walkway righted with a jerk, swaying mightily as Buquet tipped off and he hurtled through the air.
He caught, tangled in the ropes from the backdrops and lights, hanging there as he frantically tried to claw himself free. Erik watched, and saw what was going to happen before it did… before he could move to try and stop it.
Rope snagged around Buquet, and as he struggled to free his hands, one of the lines looped around his neck. As the last part slipped free from his arm, Buquet fell freely until that rope tightened its deadly grip.
His neck broke with an ugly snap that echoed in the dark chamber.
Erik turned impassively, picked up his gloves, and, leaving the lantern and the knife, walked off the catwalk to the iron ladder that lined the wall.
They would find Buquet in the morning, and it would be yet another evil attributed to the Opera Ghost.
The tussle with Buquet had eased some of the rampant lust coursing through his body, but as Erik climbed silently down the iron ladder, it all came flooding back. Images swam there, haunting him in the dark as he forced himself to count the rungs. Anything to keep his mind steady.
But the counting could not keep them away. The open curve of Christines white neck. Heavy, walnut-colored hair brushing the part of his face that was bare, he imagined it falling in long waves down her pale back. Plump pink lips, wet and full like the lips of her sex, open and inviting. Panting, as she writhed on his finger. Hard pointed nipples, shooting up, jiggling and jerking with every shuddering breath she took.
The vibration of her beneath his hands, between his palms. Her scent… roses and lavender and whatever it was that made her Christine. Slickness everywhere, the musky smell curling into his nostrils as he played her. Played her.
His throat was dry and crackling and his erection surging, straining with need. Buquet's words haunted him.
She will never spread her legs for your cock.
You will never have her.
Nothing but a sick devil, scurrying about in the dark.
Buquet's taunts mingled with memories of his youth, of those dark, horrid days with his brother, where the girls would scream at the sight of Erik's face. And his brother would shove them at him, make him touch them. So he could watch them scream, and fight.
Erik stepped onto the wooden floor of the backstage and turned. Someone was there.
Madame Giry stepped forward, holding a lantern that sent stark shadows over her aging face. "Erik… did you kill Buquet?"