Page 5 of Angel's Kiss
But then...her. Even though he could not look at the woman behind him, he could imagine her. He could die a hundred times and still hear her voice in his heart and see her smile in the dark of his mind. She had become his hope, somehow, and with the thought of her, the melody returned, in glorious major harmony as rich and beautiful as Christine herself. She was the music, the hope he had held onto for so long in the dark was her. It had to be. She had to hear that. She had to.
The final notes of the organ lingered in the air, echoing as Erik’s home returned to silence and he listened once again for her breath behind him. It was rougher now, unsteady. Worried, he turned to Christine to find her standing just a few feet behind him. Her face was wet with tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and, for the first time, Erik did not feel the instinct to avoid the pressure of her gaze. She was looking at him differently now. Perhaps it was pity in her expression, he truly could not say. But the fear and anger were gone. For now at least.
“I’m not accustomed to people, as you may have intuited,” Erik told her slowly. “It may take me a little while to remember how to be a proper host. I beg your indulgence for that shortcoming.”
“You’re as afraid as I am, aren’t you?”
Erik nodded. “Tomorrow, I will be more forthcoming. I promise.”
“And for tonight? Will you play more for me?” Christine asked carefully.
“The organ?”
“What instrument soothes you most when you’re afraid?” It was an intimate question, the sort that would have made him turn away an hour ago.
“The harp,” he said at last, and her forest eyes widened in interest. It was a relief to retreat to the instrument in the corner as Christine took a seat on the couch by the fire. He chanced a look at her as he began to play. Perhaps she had expected something suited to the Opera or the fine salons of Paris. But she had asked for comfort, and so that was what he provided: an ancient song of Ireland. It was music that sounded like rolling green hills and gray skies, of ocean waves and lost places.
He was not sure how long he played for her, selecting ballads and bard’s tunes; even a few airs of his own composition, until the candles around them began to gutter. He played her ancient songs of magic and tragedy and watched her eyes droop and her face fill with peace. He would play for her forever if he had to. As long as there was music for her, even in this dark tomb where he had built a life, she would stay. It was music that had brought him to this place, and music that would keep his only hope in the darkness there with him.
2. Lessons
Christine stared atthe door of her room, willing her body to rise and her feet to move. It should be easier today. Erik was just a man; one who was apparently nearly as frightened of her as she was of him. She had nothing to fear in his company. Yet even with that maxim repeating in her head, she could not move.
She could go back to bed, but that would mean more time lying there hearing his music in her memory. It had haunted her the entire anxious night, in and out of her restless dreams. The first composition he had played for her, that incredible wall of sound from the organ that had ensnared her and told her his story. She could never forget it.
It had begun like a cry, a visceral chromatic fall into despair and loneliness. Had she possessed the presence of mind, she could have picked out the harmonic innovations that pushed the sweeping, keening melody to incredible heights. But that had been impossible. Erik’s remarkable music was too full of anguish and beauty. She had been swept into a storm, barely able to hold on as the organ filled the strange house on the lake with waves of sound, dark as the catacombs around them.
Then, out of the darkness, a new motif had emerged, thin and delicate as a spring shoot. Under Erik’s masterful hands, it had grown and bloomed into a melody of longing and hope that had taken her breath away. She had wept as her angel transported her to heaven with his music once again.
And that was why she could not move. Because she had thought her promised protector was gone, but Raoul had been right. Fate had chained her to an angel of a different kind, but his power remained as great. The music that entranced and enraptured her had not been a dream or a phantom. It had beenErik. That music could still wrap her in a spell she could not resist and that was terrifying.
In the quiet, her stomach growled. She had not eaten since the morning before, and the nervousness that had kept her from accepting Erik’s food had faded at least. Yet even her hunger could not make her move.
She dug her fingernails into her palms and screwed her eyes shut, screaming at herself in her head to stand, to dosomething. She could not run from her fallen angel forever, nor could she hide. His music would find her, even in the silence. She could hear it now in her heart: the plaintive lilt of a violin played with such mastery it made her shiver.
