A/N—This is the first chapter of a new novel, based on the characters from The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux, Phantom, by Susan Kay, and the musical by ALW and the Really Useful Group. The scenery is my own, as are the slightly different characterizations. This novel is not set in my Red Rose timeline, though it borrows many aspects of that phiction. You will no doubt recognize the underground home and other parts of that story finding their way into this story as well. It is set immediately after the end of the ALW stage play, and I'll probably change the title later.

To my long-time readers—no, I've not forgotten about the lastof Night Encounters, but those Muses are being rather stubbornly uncooperative these days. I'll complete and post them eventually…

The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French language are mine, and for that, I apologize.

Please read and review.

Revised December 2004

A Second Chance

Copyright 2003, 2004 by Riene

Chapter 1

Close Every Door

Close every door to me

Hide all the world from me

Bar all the windows, and shut out the light…

Do what you want with me

Hate me, and laugh at me

Darken my daytime, and torture my night…

If my life were important

I would ask--will I live or die…

Lyrics by Tim Rice

From Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

His breath coming now only in shallow, agonizing gasps, he dragged himself slowly, painfully to the edge of the lake and lay there beside the cold, deep still waters. After the blackness receded, Erik trailed a bloody hand through the water, fouling it with dirt and his life's fluid. Slowly he pulled the hand back to his throbbing face, dripping the bitter droplets into his cracked and swollen mouth. Water…that most precious of liquids…water for a dying man.

How long he lay there beside the lake, Erik did not know. He drifted in and out of consciousness, aware the only reason he lived was that the crowd had thought him dead, had left him for dead. He had been oblivious when they had looted his underground home, had stripped it of the treasures accumulated over a solitary lifetime of travel.

Now he lay beside the lake, his life ebbing. He was bleeding internally, he knew, shuddering away from the memory of booted feet striking him over and over; the knife-like scrape of cracked and broken ribs raking his sides with every labored breath. His fractured right arm and fingers were tucked inside the tattered remains of his jacket, where he had wedged them before this final journey. The men had beaten his body with clubs, had stamped on hands, even as his writhing fingers had curled convulsively inward on themselves for protection. He would never make music again.

Erik forced himself to roll over onto his back, shivering as the chill water lapped at the back of his bare skull and shoulders. At this rate, he would die of exposure or pneumonia before the bleeding took care of that issue. Already his vision was dimming, although whether it was due to the swelling of his eyes or the final flickers of the last guttering candle he could not tell. He could no longer think; the darkness was dragging him down, and there was no longer any point in fighting.

He gave way to the shadows.

--------------------------

Christine twisted the end of a long brown curl restlessly through her fingers, staring out the window. She had done little else but think these last two days, replaying the final events in the underground lair over and over in her mind. There had been little else to do; Raoul was silent, temporarily recalled to his naval detachment, and Don Juan Triumphant was of necessity, no longer an option.

She rose from the settee and walked listlessly into the small kitchen of her small home, starting water boiling for a cup of tea she didn't really want. Christine sank down in one of the hard wooden chairs, hiding her face in her hands.

She could not get him out of her thoughts.

Over the months they had grown close, sharing conversations about books and music, playing chess, sharing the occasional meal. Erik had taken her for carriage rides over a Paris darkened by nightfall, had walked with her along the boulevards and winding pathways of the great parks, had lavished gifts of clothing and jewelry upon her, had given her the gift of music. In return she sang with him, sang for him. She was his only companionship in the haunted underground world of the Opera, his self-imposed prison.

The kettle whistled, even its cheery tone sounding mournful to her ears. Sighing, Christine rose and poured the boiling water into the white porcelain pot, inhaling the exotic steam as the leaves uncurled. Somehow, her eyes had been blind to the truth.

She had been so naïve. Her Angel of Music was not some heavenly tutor, but only a man, a desperately lonely, brilliant and tormented man who loved her, not as an indulgent father, but as a lover who wanted to make her the center of his world. This abrupt shift from teacher to suitor had frightened her with its passion and intensity. His fury over what he saw as her betrayal with Raoul had further driven Christine to seek refuge with her childhood friend, and Erik's reactions, always unpredictable, grew violent. Confused, heartsick, she had fled from him…from her feelings for him.

But now, despite the weeks of horror and fear, she missed him. Her movements stiff and strained, Christine filled a cup and moved to the small window and pushed aside the white broderie anglaise curtains, looking down into the garden all tenants shared in this block of flats. Thoughts of Erik, her dark angel, kept intruding in her mind, and she could not stop wondering what had happened after their departure. She leaned against the window, thinking, turning the events of the past days over and over in her mind, then impulsively sat down the now-empty teacup. The broken man she had left was no longer the violent madman who had terrorized the Opera House for so long. He was a man, and a murderer, but she had no fears he would harm her.

Vacillating no longer, Christine wound the heavy blue cloak about her shoulders and gathered her reticule. The Opera was not open, but she had a key. Raoul was away; no one would ever know she had visited the Opera in their absence. These two days of solitude and introspection had cleared her mind of doubt, and only one thought was now present; she must know his fate. The crowd had been very near when they had fled, and her friend and mentor had seemed so defeated, so broken. She had left him to face their wrath alone. It was very possible Erik had not survived that encounter.

The coachman had pulled the carriage around to the rear of the Opera without question. Using her keys, Christine quickly entered the lower service entrance and made her way through the darkened, deserted passages quickly up to the small dressing room assigned to her. She swept the clutter of the dressing table aside and rapidly penned a note to Madame Giry.

Madame—I have gone again to the underground house. I must know of his fate. Please do not worry—I do this of my own free will. I wanted you to know, should I not return soon.

--Christine

Frowning, she looked about the room. There was little here that could aid her in this quest. Christine took a deep breath, forcing herself to slow down and think. It was very likely Erik would be gone, having retreated down one of the many escape passages where he had cached emergency supplies. Should she find him dead, there was little else possible other than to enlist Madame's aid in a burial. Raoul might even be willing to help her, for the sake of the debt she owed her former teacher. And if he were injured… Christine compressed her lips tightly. She was no nurse, and had no idea where to turn. Somehow, she would have to muddle through.

After sliding the note under Madame Giry's office door, Christine proceeded around to the Rue Scribe tunnel that accessed the labyrinth. It was not the quickest way down, but she had never mastered the art of poling the gondola boat across. A faint smile curved her lips, remembering Erik's exasperation and amusement as he had instructed her in the art, but in this matter his tutelage for once had proven ineffective. The pole had slipped from her hands, and only his tight grasp on her upper arm had prevented her from falling into the lake after it, or upsetting the boat.

He looked down at her, rare amusement sparkling in his dark eyes, the visible side of his mouth lifted in an unaccustomed smile. "Mademoiselle, you will never find employment along the canals of Venice, I fear, and you have lost us the pole," he said ruefully.

Christine felt the laughter burbling up inside her at his mock indignation and she smiled openly. "I'm sorry about the pole, Erik. I'm a great trial to you, obviously."

The amusement in his eyes had deepened, and he raised one graceful hand in a negligent gesture. "Oh, no," he murmured, "you are never that."

Shivers ran up her spine at the intensity of his passionate expression and she could not repress a frisson of response.

Erik looked down at where his darkly gloved fingers still clasped the fine challis of her dress and he carefully released her arm. "Did I harm you? I fear I seized you rather abruptly."

"Oh, no," she whispered, still staring at him, absently rubbing the tingling spot on her arm where his hand had touched her.

He turned away, repressing his unhappiness. Once more, the moment of laughter and friendship between them had been severed. He turned from her and surveyed the water thoughtfully, forcing his mind away from such considerations. The pole was now far out of reach, and paddling toward it might only cause the rod to float further out of range. There was not time to leave it and transport Christine to the underground house; already the current was pulling the pole toward the opposite shore where an outlet drained the lake. Erik sighed and began removing his gloves.

Christine watched in surprise and growing discomfort as Erik slowly stripped the gloves from his long elegant hands, the movements unconsciously sensual. He unfastened the cloak and folded it neatly, dropping his gloves on top of it.

"I will have to swim for the pole," he told her brusquely, "do not be alarmed."

Having quickly removed his boots and waistcoat, Erik hesitated. He should remove the mask as well; swimming with it on might prove impossible. But he had seen her face, her horrified, terrified expression weeks ago, now, after her stealthy removal of his mask, and his soul cringed. It was not an experience he cared to repeat.

He turned, narrowly eying the pole, and without warning, dove into the cold water, breaking the surface cleanly. She watched in fascinated silence as he retrieved the rod and swam with it back to the boat. Erik shook his head at the tentative hand she extended him and pulled himself back into the small vessel, shivering in the chill air.

The white shirt clung to his skin in nearly transparent wet wrinkles of fabric, the sodden trousers molding themselves to his narrow hips, revealing the outline of his compact, muscular body beneath, and Christine's eyes widened slightly before she blushed hotly and averted her gaze. She had never before seen a man in quite this much state of undress. Clearly, the deformities of his face did not extend to his body…

The knowledge that he must be chilled struck her abruptly and Christine lifted his black cloak, leaning forward to drape it carefully about his shoulders. Erik clutched it gratefully, drawing the warm folds about his body, his dark eyes meeting hers. His breath stilled in his throat, for in her eyes was a look he never thought to see; concern for his well-being.

"Thank you, my dear," he whispered softly, and she nodded, frightened by her own sudden feelings for this man she had considered only as a mentor, as a friend. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to press herself against him, press her breasts against his wet shirt, cling to him, lift her lips to his and warm him with her own body's heat…

Christine shivered and turned away, a sign he interpreted incorrectly as regret at her choice to touch him. Reluctantly, Erik rose and silently guided the boat to shore.

At the underground house, she prepared a hot drink for him as he rapidly changed into dry clothing, wrapping a dressing gown about his lean body for warmth. Christine had stayed with him, fussing at him until he consumed the tea, clearly enjoying her role as a nursemaid almost as much as he enjoyed allowing her to do so.

Thinking about this now, she smiled shyly. His cold fingers had brushed her hand, lingering for a moment longer than necessary when she had come to take away the cup. Christine had insisted he stay by the fire, even though Erik had patiently explained that he was quite warm and in no danger of falling ill. She had remained with him that evening, for her dark angel was in an unusually gentle mood. The ordinary dressing gown had made him seem so much more approachable, so much less remote, forbidding, and austere as did the formal attire he typically wore.

What would she find now, Christine wondered, hurrying toward the portcullis gate. What had happened in her absence to the man who lived beyond the lake?