Page 63 of Angel's Kiss
“Erik’s life is my vengeance, for him to live alone knowing what he has done. The grave is too great a mercy.” Shaya said it like a prayer and shut his eyes tight. He did not want to remember all the mistakes and blood that had brought him here. He did not want to brood on how he was an exile now, thanks to the man he hunted.
“Then why does it matter if he’s caught or not?” Darius demanded. They’d had this argument before, but like many things right now, Shaya could not recall how it ended.
“Because he deserves to rot in a prison cell, not rule an opera and corrupt sopranos,” Shaya growled. “He deserves suffering.”
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The piano keys sangsoftly beneath Erik’s hands, and he let himself savor the vibration of the ivory, the smooth action of the pedal, the reassuring thump of felt hammers against coiled wire. It was almost as perfect as the feel of Christine beneath his hands. He allowed the memory to mold the music, closing his eyes and letting the melody rise and sing of loneliness and consolation. It grew from the dark like the first bud of spring, waiting for the sun. But he couldn’t find it.
He stopped playing and frowned at the notes scrawled before him on the staves before he crossed out a few with a grunt. It was still not quite right.
“You were getting closer.” He looked up at the sound of Christine’s voice from her door. She was wrapped in a blanket, her pale shoulder exposed her hair loose. She was, as always, the most beautiful sight Erik had ever seen, and he caught his breath as she walked towards him. “It’s three o’clock in the morning you know,” she chided as she sat next to him on the bench.
“I’m sorry. I woke up and I was hungry. Then I was inspired,” he explained, buoyed by her tolerant smile.
“I guess we did go to bed early,” Christine muttered and took up some of the cheese Erik had left on the piano lid. She nodded her chin towards the unfinished composition. “Play it again, without the arpeggios.”
Erik obeyed, returning to the beginning of the piece – an etude or a rhapsody, he was not sure yet. Playing with her next to him was new, but not unwelcome, and the warmth of her beside him added something new, inspiring different chords beneath the melody. But as he came to where he had stopped, he was still unsure of how to go on. “It’s missing something,” he sighed.
“Because it’s a duet,” Christine said simply, her eyes not straying from the notes. “You need another instrument as a counterpoint. Here.” She pointed at a measure. “And then let it have the melody while you repeat the first chord progression.”
Erik turned to her, amazed and annoyed, and she met his eyes innocently as she took another bite. “That’s brilliant.”
“You would have come to it on your own I’m sure,” Christine smiled, just a bit smug.
“In my defense I don’t usually compose for multiple instruments,” Erik said, and Christine tilted her head curiously. “I don’t like that I’ll never hear it played properly. I’d love to write trios, quartets, symphonies, oratorios. But I ask myself what use is there in that when I’ll only ever hear it in my mind.”
“Beethoven couldn’t hear his music at the end.”
“But he at least knew it would be played. I, on the other hand...” he sighed, then started as Christine leaned her head on his shoulder.
“I’m not the finest player, but I could play with you if you wrote us something for piano and violin. I used to accompany Papa. Or you could write me a song.” Erik stared down at her perfect profile, overcome. Each day he thought it was impossible to love her more, and each night she disproved him. “I’d be honored to play the work of a true genius.”
“You flatter me,” Erik whispered.
“You of all people know what a sublime gift you have,” Christine replied. “Here. Try it again.” She nudged him and he began again, but this time, she joined him, her fingers tentative against the keys as she added her own variation and counterpoint, humming softly along with the notes. And it was perfection. It was the brilliant light of the sun, glowing upon the cold earth. And beneath that light, beauty, love, and life began to grow. It swept Erik away; not only the sound, but the joy and wonder of playing it with her. It was magic.
He stared at her when the cadence concluded, just as breathless and awed as he had been the night before as a prisoner in her arms. “You are a wonder, Christine Daaé. A miracle.”
“Now who is the flatterer?” she muttered, but he saw the shy blush on her face. He wanted to make it deepen. “Aren’t you going to write that down?”
“Later,” he breathed as he raised a hand to feel the warmth in her cheek. She echoed the gesture, and only then did he realize he had forgotten to replace the mask. Christine had not even flinched when she looked at him. “I swear, it is you who are the true angel.”
“If you’re not planning on working, you should come back to bed,” Christine said, eyes and voice languid.
“I’m not very tired,” Erik replied and was surprised by the impishness in her smile.
“I did not say anything about sleep.”
He did not need any more command than that to sweep Christine into his arms. The blanket fell to the floor as he seized her, lifting her as he stood. She kissed him as he carried her back to her bed and fell upon her. He took his time, savoring every centimeter of her alabaster skin under his rough hands. She did not seem to mind the texture. Indeed, there were places he touched her where the coarsest parts of his hands provoked the most pleasure. He wanted to give her more.
“What would you like me to do, my angel?” he whispered in her ear, leaning above her.
“Your fingers,” she panted. “I want your fingers while you kiss me.”
Again, he had no choice but to obey.
It was a wonder, the way she opened to him. She was slick and quivering, eager and tight as he massaged into her, kissing every part of her he could find.
