Raoul de Chagny comes face to face once more with his little Lottie, only to find that absence has made her stronger, and an angel has made her a woman. Oneshot.

FOR LOVE OF AN ANGEL

Raoul de Chagny remembered his little Lottie very clearly. Little Christine Daae, the wandering, waif like child who he'd allowed to follow him around during his family's summer retreats to their holiday home near La Rochelle, escaping the bustle of Paris. Every summer, his little Lottie greeted him with a joyful smile and eager voice. She was the only child of a local street musician, he learnt, a violinist who capitalized on the rich who rushed to the seaside in search of leisure. This knowledge accounted for her simple clothes, her easy wonder at his stories and manners. The awed dependence she seemed to develop on him came as a surprise, but it was one he welcomed readily. Her gasps and admiring smiles created a curiously soothing balm to his confidence, and as a younger son of very wealthy, very Parisian parents, this idolization became very agreeable indeed. As the years passed, his little Lottie began to grow and bloom, with the suggestion of something great, something ethereally beautiful hinting beneath the shy changes. Her pale skin began to glow, promising the luminescence of womanhood; those blue eyes, so often wide with wonder began to sparkle with desirable innocence; the overly thick brown hair he used to tease her for began to curl and settle in feminine waves around her long limbs. And of course, little Lottie's lovely, wonderful voice, so often hushed in whisper, began to become the lilting song of his dreams. As he left La Rochelle yet another summer, waving goodbye fondly to the precocious Lottie who was just verging on precipice of womanhood, he indulged in the thought that next year, he'd arrive to a blushing, stammering Christine in the full throes of womanly splendour. His anticipation was great, his intentions not all honourable as he thought of the lovely, untainted creature dreaming of him by the sandy shores.

As spring was chased out reluctantly by the sticky ebbs of summer, they once again set out West, towards the sea and little Lottie. Raoul looked and looked as the coach approached, having spent some extra time on his appearance. He was a man now, a Parisian man, ready to claim the freshly pretty country girl of sixteen.

He approached the simple cottage where she lived with swagger in his step – it had not once occurred to him that she might be changed. She had admitted it herself, albeit in whisper, that the seaside could be "awfully boring when you're not here, Raoul." That was the truth in her simple mind; why should that have changed?

The answer became clear soon enough as the doorbell went unanswered and a quick look in the windows confirmed that it was bare of furniture. Cross and more than a little embarrassed, Raoul went down to the house, where he overheard his mother gossiping drolly with her horrid spinster friend, who had accompanied them to the seaside for the first time.

"…I just heard the most intriguing thing about that poor dear I told you about. The little waif girl with the big eyes? Yes, her, I think my Raoul's a little sweet on her. Anyway, it appears that her father – one of those inconvenient buskers floating around these areas – passed on last winter. Girl's been sent to study music somewhere or another… Yes, yes, I know. Odd, isn't it? There was apparently talk of a mysterious sponsor. I daresay it's true, girls like that haven't the funds to go off gallivanting by themselves. She always seemed like such a sweet little thing too… I never would've guessed that she had enough feminine wiles to capture anyone of any significance. Hm? Oh, my Raoul? That's different – you know how it is for young men. They need to find the way of women themselves, before they settle down. I must say, I'm rather disappointed. I would've preferred him to seduce some silly little girl and leave her pining than have any trouble running afoot in Paris. A missed opportunity, I'm afraid."

Raoul met the news with a degree of anger that was soon patched up by indifference. Little Lottie lived in his memory as the sweet girl who had been the first to excite his adult attentions, but he harboured little sorrow at her unceremonious departure. He regretted not having been able to experience the sensation of her virgin love – he could only imagine how she might look with her legs splayed, blush flushing her pale skin. But he was young; he was a catch. He moved onwards, enjoying more female embraces than he could remember as he and his Parisian friends moved through the right circles at lightening pace.

And so, it was thus that little Lottie became forgotten, a distantly shining memory he sometimes considered when he found himself bored or inattentive. But it wasn't until nearly four years later that their paths crossed again.

"The opera?" he exclaimed doubtfully. "How dull that sounds!"

"Oh, Raoul," Celine, his latest paramour tittered disapprovingly. "Do keep up. It's all the rage right now! Ever since the new directors took over, it's been utterly splendid. Perhaps a bit of a circus, but that just makes it all the more exciting!"

Her friend, whose name Raoul had conveniently missed, leant in to speak in mock whisper. "They say that there's a tortured genius who really runs the show inside, a dark, dangerous man who's been the one writing all the confusing, intoxicating new operas they've been debuting. They're taking Europe by storm. Isn't that so romantic? Perhaps, if you come with us, Raoul, we might get to meet him."

"I don't know," he replied petulantly. No young French lad liked it when female attention strayed. "Perhaps it's all just a fad that'll blow over as quick as it arrived. Besides, I refuse to listen to that horrid primadonna again. Her intonation's awful," and she's nothing to look at, he added in his mind.

"Oh, that shouldn't be a problem anymore. Word is, that the mysterious man we were talking about has delegated her back to a secondary role – much to her ire, of course. No, there's a new prima now that's been getting all the rave reviews. Never heard of her before now, but apparently this Christine Daae, or whatever her name is, is rather good. Do come, Raoul!"

The name echoed in his mind, like a call from the past. Images flickered pleasantly of the seaside, a young girl, her quiet voice and angelic face. The scenes seemed ridiculously wholesome, yet, they beckoned to him agreeably.
"Well, I suppose I could spare some time for an act or two…"

He took an extra hour over his appearance that night, making sure he was as polished and stately as could be. His foot tapped impatiently during the pre-show chatter, for once, failing to join in with the circular flirtations of his boisterous friends, or even pay Celine much attention. To her unending annoyance, he ushered her to their private box early, not even pausing for a little dalliance in the darkened corridors of the atmospheric opera house.

"Mon dieu, Raoul," she snapped, placing her bejewelled clutch irritably on her lap. "Surely you didn't really just come for the music?"
He was saved from having to answer by the twitch of the ornate curtains as the heavily brocaded material drew apart and the circus began.

Little Lottie was really there, standing truly and sweetly on the polished stage, dressed in a ethereal white gown with stars shining against her dark masses of hair. Raoul stared in wonderment, almost missing the collective sigh of appreciation that arose from the seated audience. Little Lottie had blossomed into more than his adolescent mind could have ever imagined. There was no part of her that could not be mistaken for anything other than feminine allure. A curious mix of both the intoxicating beauty and the fresh timidity he remembered from their younger days, she elicited a fierce sense of protectiveness in his breast. It was truly remarkable: how could she seem so composed, yet untaught? So effortless, yet sweet? As her gaze swept the room, he took a sharp intake of breath as he fancied that she might have spotted him, brief as the glance was. But before he could consider the possibilities, his reverie was broken as her rosebud pink lips parted – in a maddeningly sensuous yet nervous way – and she sang.

From the first falling phrase, she bewitched the room, bewitched him. He recognized his little Lottie in every golden syllable. The sweet sigh she made when she changed breath grew dear to him in its vulnerability, yet her song soared, so powerful, so heady, so unendingly pure. He was heady with astonishment – and need. My God, he thought wistfully, she can elicit such a reaction with naught but her voice. An angel, such an angel!

Yet, as the opera moved on, he grew increasingly enchanted by her lilting song and inversely, he began to despise the music itself. The opera was complex, discordant and almost tortured in its violent emotion – nothing like the light, jaunty Germanic comedies he was used to seeing. He faintly remembered the women twittering about the hidden maestro behind the scenes, but couldn't recall enough to dwell on it. The orchestra was swooning and dark, like a giant shadow inching across the room, covering all in the darkness apart from radiant Christine. Oddly, her voice was not lost amidst the growing unrest – instead, in a way that defied all reasoning, it augmented, complimented her song, the simple, girlish melody and the dark beast merging and forging into something otherworldly; they fed off each other, the almost maniacal twang of the violins revealing colours from her voice that were not immediately apparent – her slightly raw undertone, the husky shiver at the end of each phrase, almost like a moan as she caressed it from her throat, offering it the dark energy the angry music created. It was a sound of explicit trust, of adoration, of understanding – and in a flash, Raoul seemed to understand for a split second.

She was making love to the dangerous, powerful music.

As if to accompany his morbid fascination, the distinct sound of a keening church organ struck up in the distance, adding to the swirling, vicious dissonance in the room that was only kept in check by her girlish voice. In a frenzied fever, the momentum swung higher and higher until –

Silence settled in the auditorium as the stage was plunged into darkness. There was a tangible shiver in the darkness, the remnants of the ferocious energy still reverberating in the air, the sudden cutting off of all sound leaving the loudest silence Raoul had ever heard. He wondered briefly, if all the audience had died, so intense was the stillness.

Then, somewhere near the other stalls, there was a clap. Another followed. And another – and suddenly the lights flooded the hall and everyone, bar him, leapt to their feet in intoxicated awe, banging their hands together in frenzy. Their glittering outfits, their diamond bracelets seemed so odd after such a raw show of power, the only remaining evidence of which were the tear tracks on some cheering faces, the resonant hum in his ears and the nervous shiver in his chest. The curtain lifted proudly and the soloists stepped forward, flanked by the operatic chorus and dancers. He watched, part relief, part trepidation to see Christine, his little Lottie, looking like normal, flushing prettily as she shyly curtsied to the crowd once or twice, flowers showering her feet, cheers echoing to the rafters. Looking up on whim, he thought saw a slight movement in the shadows, but when he tried to take a clearer look, it was gone. Lowering his eyes back down, he saw the curtain drop imperiously and lights in the boxes flicker back on signalling the end of another evening at the opera.

Ignoring Celine's offended cries, he tore out the box and down the ornate corridors, listening to the astounded murmuring of the crowd as they excitedly recounted the strange, almost spiritual, experience they'd shared. Calling upon his memory of the building, he turned into a secluded stairwell and used the private area to go down beneath the stage into the performers' space.

The confusion backstage overwhelmed him. Countless chorus members in their garishly bright and revealing costumes forced him to press against the wall in the fearsomely tight corridor, loudly badgering for people to move so that the giant backdrop and props could be stored. Calming his shaken senses, he grabbed the nearest chorus girl.

"Excuse me, where is Mademoiselle Daae?" he entreated as evenly as he could.

She turned and shared an amused smile with the girl beside her. "My, my, another one? Down the corridor, Monsieur, then left and left again. There may be a queue though," she added wryly. "It seems half the audience came to say hello."

He thanked her and started down the corridor.
"I wouldn't bother if I were you!" he heard her companion call laughingly. "You don't know how things work around here. He'll throw you all out soon enough, titles or no!"

True enough, he was met with several hopeful faces as he neared the room, all opera-goers, clutching the programme in one hand and a variety of flowers in the other. The door to their shared destination was shut, with only the name CHRISTINE DAAE written in tiny lettering revealing what was remarkable about this particular goal. He stood awkwardly in their midst, trying to ignore the whisperings of the ballet girls in the background as they looked on critically at the strange assortment of men bearing gifts. As one broke away with an air of routine and skipped leisurely towards the door, he stopped her eagerly.

"Would you be so kind as to give Christine a message, Mademoiselle?"

She raised a pale eyebrow curiously. "You know her personally, Monsieur?" she asked doubtfully. He sensed that this perhaps wasn't the first time she'd been asked to play messenger.

"She is a good friend from a long time ago. We met when we were young. Would you be so kind to tell her that Raoul de Chagny is here to see her?"

The girl looked him up and down before giving a non-committed shrug. "Perhaps," she sang before darting past him and into the sacred room.

His prayers were answered when the door flew open a few minutes later and the girl stepped out again. His eyes met hers hopefully and she giggled.

"She'll see you, Monsieur," she laughed. "I suppose you really are a friend. Christine never sees anyone."

"Is that so?" he murmured, his hope and confidence piqued. Perhaps, despite all her forays into such cacophonic, dark music, little Lottie's simple heart had remained unchanged. Not so long ago, she had been an easy, shy girl, ready to unravel in his arms. He straightened his formal jacket as he stepped in, closing the door behind him.

When he saw her, enthroned at her dresser, drowning in violets and lilies, thick curls tumbling down past her incredibly slender waist, he suddenly thought of the Lady of Shallot, sailing on an untouchable vessel of serenity. Their eyes met in the mirror and at the sight of the blue, so like the sea on which they'd spent so many idle summer days, he was overcome with longing.

"Raoul de Chagny!" she cried, in a voice that was a little raw – the obvious after effects of performing. "It is you!"

She spun around, wafting the scent of delicate roses. It was little touches like this, and the ornamental stars in her still shining in her curls that forced him to concede, with a sinking, wistful feeling that this wasn't his little Lottie. This was Christine Daae, a creature all the more desirable, alive and delectable. She was no longer simple, shy and awestruck. It would take more than a pretty phrase or two to get her splayed beneath him, sighing sweetly.

She approached him eagerly and looked up into his face, as if noting each change the past four years had wrought. Her eyes were still wide and held signs of naivety, but the effects were offset by the dusky, long lashes that framed them.

"'Lo, Lottie," he greeted her cordially, still clinging onto her old pet name, although he now understood that it was a poor fit.

Something passed over her face at hearing the name, before she laughed happily. "Lottie," she repeated, as if tasting the words on her tongue. "Mon Dieu, I haven't been called that in so long!"

Like that, she stepped away and sat back at her dresser. "Tell me everything, Raoul," she said softly. "What have you done, these past four years?"

Good-naturedly, he related some more palatable incidents that had happened over the years, although he was careful to leave out mentions of his more boisterous behaviour and the fact that he had paltry few achievements by the ways of honour and business. She smiled gently at the appropriate moments, nodding in her very serious way.

"And you, Lottie?" he asked hesitantly, once he had exhausted all topics. "What on earth has been occupying your dreamy head?"

"Singing," she immediately replied. There was a hint of pride in her voice as she confessed to him. "Oh, Raoul, it's been wonderful! Music is what saved me, after papa – well, I'm sure you've heard. He was a wonderful musician and singing was what kept him alive in me. And then I met – well, I've been in good hands, Raoul. The things I've learnt to do! The more I sang, the more I was able to discover that there's more to singing than following the score pitch perfect, than perfecting Mozart's arias. It much, much more than that. It's more like you have to surrender yourself completely, fuse and merge your deepest desires to-"

She broke off, pink flush staining her cheeks, looking giddy. "Listen to me, rambling on. Forgive me, Raoul."

"Not at all," he replied immediately. "You look quite enchanting when you talk about your music."

A private smile graced her rosebud lips, as she turned away, looking into the mirror. "It makes me happy," she said in a distant voice. Her eyes glistened faintly, creating an unendingly pleasant visage when paired with those pink, pink lips and tumbling dark hair. A familiar dreamy look fell across her face, features soft in the candlelight. Little Lottie's mind was wandering somewhere very far away. "So very happy," she repeated in a whisper, as if she daren't admit it too strongly. "Sometimes I fear that all this happiness was not meant to be harboured, secluded up in one person, and it's all going to go wrong some way or another. Surely it can't be healthy, living in such a state of, well, content. But healthy or no, seemly or no, I don't mind, Raoul. I don't mind. I'm not ready to give this all up."

"Why would you have to? Unless…" A distasteful thought crossed his mind. "Christine, are you married?"

She looked up in shock. "No. No! Whatever gave you that idea?"

"I don't know. I…" He sighed and reached out to lightly squeeze the dainty hand resting on the back of her chair. "Forgive my foolishness. I've missed you, Christine."

She looked at our fingers laid together on the velvet upholstery and suddenly frowned. The sudden change was remarkable.

"I've missed you too. But it's getting rather late, Raoul," she said in her quiet way. "Your friends must be waiting."

He struggled to understand her sudden turn in mood. "They may go ahead without me," he replied. "Unless, I'm causing you trouble…"

"No. Well, not really." She bit her full bottom lip and pulled her hand away with surprising force. Finally, she lifted her head to look at him again, striking him repeatedly with her exquisite beauty. "I do find that I'm rather out of sorts. Performing does that to me."

"Would you like me to get you anything? Ice? Some cooling cloths?"

"That's very kind, Raoul, but I think you better go. If you don't, you might get in trouble."

Before he could answer – professing something rakish, something dashing – something beside him creaked open very quietly, so stealthily that he might not have noticed it had he not been right there. Surprised, he noted a very narrow door he had failed to see before, made of the same dark panelling as the room so that it was most cleverly concealed. Perplexed, he allowed his eyes to stray to the stranger who allowed himself into the angel's domain so freely, but as he did so, he was overcome with a sense of foreboding, the same terrible shiver that had wracked him during the strange, strange opera during which Christine had seemed like an unknown creature, appearing now in his bones. The stranger wore a long, formidable black cloak and which concealed any garments he wore beneath, up to his shoulders. He was quite tall, and of moderate build, although there was an electric energy that clung to his presence which made the better formed Raoul fight against taking a step backwards. His apprehensive eyes arrived at the stranger's face – and were arrested by the perfectly smooth, porcelain white mask that concealed half his expression in a sleekly terrifying manner, the white expanse so smooth, it appeared to be sculpted to his skin.
He held in his hand a single dark red rose, entwined with a narrow black ribbon.

"Christine," the intruder rasped, the strangely melodic yet reserved tone of his voice making his every hair stand on end. He did not look Raoul's way once, only straight ahead. "I find myself surprised. You do not usually entertain company so readily."

He had half-forgotten her presence in the midst of his morbid fascination with the stranger. With this reminder, her quickly looked at her with worry – how could one as precious as her protect herself against such a potently dangerous force?

To his utmost surprise, he registered the wide, sincere smile that crept over her face with this new appearance. It was a version of a smile that he remembered, one that had once been directed at him – only, this one seemed even more gentle, even more assured.

"Erik," she breathed.

The stranger inconceivably both frowned and softened at her sweet voice. "Not while we have company, Christine," he rebuked her, although his tone was indulgent.

"Oh." She blushed hard at his reminder. "Yes… this is Raoul de Chagny, a childhood friend. Raoul this… this is…"

"Monsieur, how did you enjoy my opera?" the man suddenly asked, inclining his head. The challenge was clear from the ice in his tone.

"You've written an opera? Well, you must let me hear it at some point-"

"You already have, Monsieur." Beneath the mask, the visible half of this fearsome Death's lips curled into something to a snarling smirk. "This very night, I believe, La Folie du Manon made its grand debut."

He dimly recalled the gossiping titters of the creative genius who had the Opera House at his feet with a renewed wave of horror.

"Oh," was all he could manage.

Christine, with starry eyes shining brighter than ever, rose with a dark cloak draped around her delicate shoulders. Both men turned at her movement – both men outstretched their palms towards the transcendent vision she made.

With a fluid motion, as if no other option had ever occurred to her, she glided dreamily past – and placed her hand eagerly into that of the masked stranger. Bitterly crestfallen, Raoul watched as he drew her off quickly. With a few strides, they disappeared out the door.

Left alone amongst the garlands of roses, and removed from the paralysing effect of the stranger's fearsome presence, Raoul began to stir in resentment. When one is left to one's own devices, insurmountable problems seem to shrink in size; the limits of one's capabilities become non-existant. So little Lottie had been deceived by this powerful creature – most terribly and unfortunately hoodwinked! He grieved for her downfall. How could this be? The embarrassment he had experienced at her rejection was not true – after all, it was nearly unheard of for a young man of titles and gentry to be so unceremoniously spurned – and by a mere opera girl! Why, it was unthinkable!

It all became very clear in his mind. Little Lottie was in grave danger. Had she not cast him a desperate glance, pleading for a saviour when she left the room? Not obviously of course, for her captor was right by her arm. But he was an educated young man – he could read between the lines. She was a true damsel – and now, he had implicated himself. Surely it would only now be chivalrous if he saved her from what was, quite clearly, a downward spiral of torment and humiliation! Of course, a lesser man might not trouble himself with such trifles, but Raoul was not a lesser man. Oh, he would go; he would call his horses right away!

It was a wet sky above the Opera House – the spidery, decaying turmoil that had been conjured up so sinuously upon the stage seemed to have manifested across the Parisian sky. Within seconds upon horseback, he found himself quite soaked. Yet, that could not – would not – dampen his fervour. What was a rescue mission without trials and tribulations? Why, this merely proved to himself his honourable intentions - as it would doubtless also prove to Christine! He was in luck – her carriage had been slow to leave the Opera House, and he could easily follow it through the downpour.

When the plain carriage finally slowed to a halt, outside a dark, nondescript in a quiet side of the city, he dawdled around the corner, straining his eyes to catch two dark shapes, one tall, one diminutive, hastening through the rain and disappearing into the depths of the building. Slower now, he tethered his mount to the gates of a property some distance away, and approached the foreboding house with stealth. No candle burned in any of the windows, he noted, and plain curtains seemed to be shut tightly across every pane. Surely this was her prison!

With renewed alacrity, he clattered the wooden door open and after finding all the apartments on the ground floor quite empty – abandoned, even – he proceeded up the first flight of stairs, where he also found no sign of the beautiful maiden nor her perfidious villain. Up and up he went, proceeding with more stealth as he checked every floor – and quite curiously, found no one. Unless –

It took him a good deal of searching to find the entrance to the basement, nearly slipping once or twice on the marbled floor. Finally, however, he found the opening – very similar to the hidden door in her dressing room – and crept inside. It had been left slightly ajar – little Lottie's entreaty to him to find her, and find her quickly? How desperate and terrified she must be!

Down and down he went, as he seemed to traipse into a labyrinth underground. A macabre place it was; cold like the entrance to the underworld, yet he sweated profusely, with each step. The plain wooden walls gave way to stony passageways, crafted in a grandiose fashion by a master architect! Shivers travelled through his soaked clothes to rake his spine – poor girl; poor, poor girl!

Then came hope. After nearly an hour of fumbling blindly in this dark netherworld, he heard a lilting melody, issuing from a throat not unfamiliar to him. Christine! He charged forward eagerly.

Yet, as he neared, his steps slowed, weighted down by a perverse feeling of cold dread. The same foreboding, swooping presence that had disrupted her beautiful melody during that accursed opera was there also! It was him, he recognised instinctively. Now that he was no longer alone, he began to remember what he tried to hard to belittle before – the paralytic effect of the stranger's presence, the cold expanse of the mask, the punishingly dark energy that had issued forth when Christine's angelic tone and the dark, snarling animal combined. Oh, this was a cursed pace indeed! The same fearful, dark aura reached him now, as he finally turned to see a plain door ahead, behind which candlelight burnt. Only, this energy was even darker, even more charged. He rocked backward, repulsed. He could hear her now, not so much singing as sighing. Such beautiful, wanting sighs he had never before heard! It throbbed and rose in crescendo, so full of passion, so full of need! As he stood, entranced, he could faintly recall hearing lesser versions of this sinuous, torturous sigh before – if only he could recall where or how –

He recoiled back as the realisation crashed upon him. Aghast, he turned haunted eyes to the door, from where he could hear the faint echo of lips against heated flesh.

Ah! Perfidious villain! He had taken what ought to have been his!

As if in mockery of this freshest disappointment, he heard that eerie voice ring out – "Go inside, angel. I will be with you soon."

Seized with a sudden sense of foreboding, he nearly missed her murmured response. Surely he wasn't – perhaps it was best to get retreat for now –

"So curious, Monsieur."

An involuntary yelp escaped his throat as he heard, with dread, the words come from behind, issued in a deceptively melodic voice, the malice and venom barely hidden beneath its lilting exterior. He could hardly move, but somehow turned in frozen horror to see the reviled figure, the masked demon, mere feet away. Impossible, he thought wildly.

"Careful, Monsieur. Curiosity killed the cat… and a good deal else."

At the taunt, Raoul straightened. "Who are you? Unmask yourself!"

The voice tittered gaily, though the danger seemed to seep through the light tone. Slowly, he began to see, with real terror, the yellow eyes seeming to shine brightly even in the darkness of the tunnel. "Such insolence, Monsieur. You are, after all, in our home. Though luck is on your side. There is a time in the not so distant past where I would not have paused to punish you for such disrespect. After all, such behaviour must be rebuked, for authority and order to thrive, do you not agree? And you interrupted us at such a delicate moment. I feel I really ought to be angry.

"You talk of her so crudely?" he spat out, repulsed. "You treat her with such coarseness?"

"Why ever not?" With these words, the façade of civility disappeared. The yellow eyes burned. Raoul began to tremble. "My Christine may be beauty and benevolence personified, but you do her great disservice by supposing that she is also simple and ignorant. No, my Christine has a natural shyness, the most becoming pink blush, but she is a quick learner, Monsieur. Surely you heard it in her song? She thrives on dark energy, on chords and sweeping dissonance that ought not mesh, but somehow do. She tempers it, she ties it to her kind-hearted bosom, she accepts and loves the beast for its wild temperament. She lets its ugly head rest against her shining flesh, she soothes its mercenary malice with her caresses, she lets her lips bring it back to the calm shores of sanity. My Christine sees the power and poignancy in dissymmetry, in imperfection; she is intoxicated by the dangerous.

"So you understand, Monsieur, that you were wrong. Your little Lottie was, for lack of a better word, dull. She was a fallacy; she never existed. You – you see her as a prize! A pretty thing to be locked away in a clothed prison of gilded reception rooms and society's opulence! Maybe little Lottie was once so servile. But sweet Christine was created for such dark, heated adventures. She will have a good guide and protector in my hands. By the Devil, I swear that I shall worship her, stimulate her with dark energy, as long as my body shall live!

"Make no mistake, Monsieur! I am the most wretched creature that ever walked the earth!" The terrible glee in the loathsome stranger's cackle paralysed Raoul to the spot. "With these decaying fingers, I have stripped flesh from bone! Look closely, Monsieur, you will see that they are spotted with blood. With this forsaken body, I have sparred with the dead in the innermost circle of Hades – and returned, triumphant!"

"My God," Raoul whispered. "You are cursed – completely mad!"

"Young Vicomte! Poor, naïve Vicomte!" the Devil-like creature taunted, in that awful raspy voice. Cruel mirth seemed to flow from his glowing, yellow eyes. "I am barely human! Yet, one mortal weakness still tethers me to this world. An angel has seen fit to reach out her luminous hand to where I seethed in the darkness. With no words did she reproach me, with no terrible gaze did she pity me! No, she loved me! Love! That capricious gift that ruins so many, that was never meant for I! She, so representative of all that is transcendent and good, gave her soul, her body, to my keeping! While she is mine, I cannot descend any farther. Make no mistake, she has not absolved my sins – but she has suspended me in her arms, saved me from falling to the lowest rung. I did not win her – nor was she ever anyone's to be won. And so, I shall not claim her, but service her wit the scarce few attributes I can offer – my music, my fierce love, my mortal body and the mangled remains of my immortal soul. No expectation shall I have of her, no price need to be paid in return. She may forsake my dark embrace tomorrow – and I shall die at last, knowing that I known the kiss of an angel!"

The tirade only half registered. The terror ran afresh through his veins, but the self-preservation warred in his mind. Flee, he thought desperately, oh, abandon this Godforsaken place.

The yellow eyes patronized him. "Go, go, Monsieur!" the Devil's voice cried. "This is not a social visit after all. There is no servant to show you out. Leave, Monsieur! Run, as fast as your mortal legs can take you! Keep on fleeing until the dread has left your heart! You are frightened, Monsieur – see, you are not more fit for the angel than I! You are not valiant, nor are you brave. What can you offer her that I cannot? You can make her a Vicomte's wife, but she is already the Queen of the darkness of my sanity. Away! Away with you, Vicomte! Come again another day! But my wife awaits me and it is bad taste to keep an angel in suspense!" The voice cackled louder and louder, until blackness seemed to swathe him completely.

Raoul could not discover how exactly he found himself spat unceremoniously back onto the sodden pavement outside the old house with no candles. But, as he righted himself and scrambled across the street, he heard the dissonant ring in his ears, the Devil's hum in his chest, a hum interspersed with unholy, melodic sighs from the woman he had chased. With wild fingers, he clawed there wildly at his skin, wanting. needing to tear out the loathsome sensation. Yet it would not abate. When finally reached his horse and untied the animal with shaking fingers, he lay low and urged him forward.

Overcome, he rested his weary head on the animal's neck, for little Lottie was no more.