Page 38 of Angel's Kiss
“Or were you looking for your friend the ghost?”
“He is not my friend,” he growled. There were many rumors about him that were tiresome, but the one Erik had sewn and nourished that he was an ally of the Phantom was the one Shaya hated the most. “Who are you? Why do you think I’m concerned with Christine?”
The woman looked him over, clearly deciding if he could be trusted. Her dark skin marked her as one like him; condemned to be invisible and marked. That did not make them natural allies, however.
“My name is Julianne and I’m her friend. And she’s—” Julianne bit her lip before saying more.
“Vanished again?” Shaya finished for her. Julianne blanched. “I suspected as much. And she has not seen fit to tell you where she goes, I would guess.”
“She says she’s safe with a friend...”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know what I believe right now.” Julianne looked him over again, from the toes of his boots to the steepled top of his Astrakhan hat. “Is Christine in danger?”
“I truly cannot say,” Shaya replied. What did this woman know? “But she is certainly not safe. What has she told you about her so-called friend?”
“Nothing I would tell a stranger who lurks about halls and spies on people,” Julianne snapped. “I’ll protect her myself.”
“Do you really think you can?” Shaya laughed.
“I’ll take my chances,” Julianne replied, chin held high as she turned and disappeared down the street. Shaya turned the other way, finally ready to go home. There was nothing more to be done tonight if Erik had indeed spirited Christine away again to do who-knows-what. Shaya shuddered at the idea and pushed it from his mind. The idea that Erik had corrupted another innocent soul was too loathsome to consider. Shaya would not let it happen again.
––––––––
Christine woke slowly, keeping her eyes closed. She was not sure what had awoken her; the cold, her body’s own clock, or the soft breath of the man beside her. She remembered all too vividly the last time she had awoken to the sound of that breath and the anguish that had followed. It made her gut squirm with shame now to think of how she had berated her fallen angel, of her blows and screams and the way she had torn off his mask. It must have reminded him of the mad mother whose name she did not know. No wonder he had been left hiding from her like a child, singing to himself.
Bracing herself, Christine opened her eyes to gaze on Erik, unmasked, once again. His was not an easy face to look at, even knowing him as she did now. Perhaps it was like his past, she thought, as she took in the collapsed ruin that served for a nose, the deep eyes, and terrible scars. If she looked long enough at the horror of it with compassion and not fear, she could endure it. She wanted to.
It was extraordinary to see him peaceful like this, exposed and vulnerable. It felt like prying to take as much time as she needed to stare. It had seemed that way last night, so she had closed her eyes. Strange, how that had been her solution, rather than simply leaving him. The idea of abandoning him to sleep alone and in pain had never crossed her mind until now and she was glad of it.
She stared her fill, feeling the way she had wading into the sea as a girl. It had always taken a few agonizing minutes before her skin had stopped feeling like ice and her lungs had adjusted to the cold. Now, after a long stretch of feasting her eyes, she could see past the scars and the death to something of the man beneath. But too long in the cold water could still kill. So she rose and turned away, composing herself.
It was seven in the morning, according to the clock Erik kept for himself in his curious room. It was similar to the one in the parlor, with a rising sun on a dial to show it was morning. But beneath the clockface was a rotating menagerie of animal figures making their way in and out of a clockwork forest. She could not imagine how long it had taken him to build it, like so many other things in his home.
Erik was still deep asleep, so she heeded her body and returned to her own room to tend to her ablutions, wash, and change out of the dress that was still smeared with his blood. It made her sick with worry and guilt all over again to look at the stains, so she gathered her dress and their cloaks and washed them as well as she could in her copper bath.
By the time she returned to Erik’s room, hands cold and withered from laundering and belly full, it was past eight and her patient was still asleep. It was good for his healing, she knew that, but it was so lonely in the quiet house without his music or furtive presence. She settled herself in a worn chair set near an oil lamp where a book had been abandoned carelessly on the armrest. It was a worn copy ofCandide, Christine observed as she examined it. At least it was in French, she mused as she scanned the first page.
She was twenty pages in when a groan came from the bed, more annoyed than pained. She looked up to see Erik stir, wincing as he pushed himself upright.
“I was worried you’d sleep the whole morning,” Christine said calmly. Even so, it startled her patient. He blinked at her, golden eyes somehow even more extraordinary without the mask to frame them.
“You’re still here,” Erik breathed.
“Where else would I be?” Christine tried to keep her face implacable and her voice steady as Erik looked at her as if she was some holy apparition. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t expire during the night.”
“I appreciate the concern,” Erik said dubiously, watching Christine as she rose and approached. The blanket she had placed on him fell back from his body, once again exposing his awful scars and the bandaged wound on his side. Gingerly, she sat on the side of the bed, slow and careful in her movements so as not to alarm her patient. Just as carefully she touched his shoulder, the left one that was mottled with scars, and Erik’s breath hitched.
“I had the strangest dream,” Erik said deliberately, not even blinking as he watched her, as if to confirm she was real.
Christine’s heart began to speed as she remembered her boldness the night before and the feel of Erik’s skin beneath her lips. “What was it?”
“You kissed me,” Erik whispered, reverent and awed.
“And you fainted.”
Erik’s mouth fell open, and Christine wondered idly if he could blush. It was hard to tell in the dim light and with the gash on his cheek was still a vivid stain against the deathly pallor of his face. “In my defense, I had lost a lot of blood,” Erik said at last.
