A Rose with Thorns

Chapter 1

What Should Have Happenedby the Lakeside

Christine rose from sleep with music in her head and warmth all around. The black curtains were lowered, allowing her privacy…but from whom? Her feet touched the cold stone floor as she rose from the bed and felt herself drawn toward the sound of music.

Memories flooded back, a torrent of emotions she had never felt before ebbing to the surface. Hands, strong, steady, masculine hands that had guided her down the candlelit corridors, down into a world she had never seen before.

Her heart raced as she once again witnessed that same candle filled world. She remembered how those same leather-gloved hands had held her, caressed her, set her blood hotter than the flames that had surrounded them.

And there he was again; that beautiful stranger playing a pipe organ for her, sound wrapping around her as she tiptoed up, wondering who he was.

He turned and saw her but said nothing. He merely played and Christine could not deny how strongly she felt drawn to him. Her hand caressed his face, his smooth, clean-shaven face. Her fingers brushed past his lips as he savored her touch, his eyes closed, head rolling back as he silently permitted her to feel him.

Touch me, he had said. Trust me…

Her fingers touched the mask, her mind set on ending his ruse. Surely this was part of a masquerade, the game that was at an end now that she was awake.

He lashed out so violently that Christine had no way of reacting. She was shoved to the floor, forced to watch through strands of her thick hair as he shoved candles to the ground and cursed her. He uncovered several mirrors and taunted her as she sat unmoving, his mask in her hands. As he stormed about her gaze traveled between him and the mask. He briefly held his hand away from his face, showing her his scarred reflection.

Try as she might, Christine could not help but blanch, though her reaction was more to his sudden burst of rage than his revealed face. She lowered her eyes as his anger subsided and he sat on the stairs with his back to her and his hand over the right side of his face.

"Oh, Christine…"

Slowly he reached back, requesting the mask, the only thing that could hide the monster he had become before her eyes.

Christine held it out, and as his fingers grasped it at last she pulled her hand back, taking the mask with her. She stared at him as he sat slumped over, his body heaving with each breath.

"I will not beg," his voice rumbled. "For what is rightfully mine."

Christine wobbled to her feet, her heart pounding with fear, hands trembling as she carried the mask away and returned to the bed where she had lain.

"No," she murmured. "I don't expect you will."

It was quite some time before he followed her, and when she saw him again he was wearing a different mask, one which covered both sides of his face, leaving only his lips and chin visible. Though she could see little of him she knew by his eyes that he was livid.

"Come, we must return."

She turned away from him, sliding the mask she had taken from him under the pillows.

"Those two…" he paused."What are you doing?"

Her dark eyes stared up at him. "Why must I return?"

Confusion flashed in his eyes. "Because that is where you belong, Christine."

She studied him a moment, her brows furrowed.

His jaw tensed. "I command you—"

"Angels have wings, don't they? And halos and—"

"Stand!" he bellowed.

Christine jumped but didn't move from her spot on the bed. She looked away, hearing him breathing harder than before.

"You're only a man," she whispered. "You're not an angel, you're not a ghost. You're just…who are you?"

"That is none of your concern," he snapped.

His words angered her and she glared at him. "Because I am to be your victim?"

He looked away before she did. "Get up," he tried again, his voice losing strength. His eyes had softened, appearing more sorrowful than vengeful as he stood over her. "Before someone notices you are missing."

Christine nodded but still didn't move. "May I ask where we are?"

"No."

"Are you going to kill me?"

His lips parted and he blinked at her before finally shaking his head. "It is time I take you back. Stand."

"If not to kill me, then why did you bring me here? Was it to…molest me?"

She saw a smile tug at the corners of his lips before he shook his head. "You have always asked so many questions," he sighed as he turned away. "For as long as I have…known you."

Her eyes brightened when he turned away. She did know him. She knew that voice, that deep, kind, almost remorseful voice. This was the Angel of Music, this was the entity that had lulled her to sleep, that had badgered her when she skipped her ballet lessons or given up on her singing.

"Say something more," she said as she closed her eyes. "Tell me once again about the Great Wall of China, the pyramids in Egypt, the—"

Christine heard his feet shuffle toward her and felt his hands on hers. "No stories."

Her head lowered, eyes remaining closed as he lightly caressed her hands. "You cannot look at me, can you?"

"No," she admitted, her eyes peering open to search his. In her mind she had always pictured a man with hair so blonde it was almost white, with wings so long he could not fit in the dormitory. He would have light blue eyes and a round, chubby face with apple cheeks. "Not if you wear a mask."

He drew back but didn't stand, his eyes turning from green to a dark bluish gray. "It would be a grave mistake on your part, Mademoiselle, if you were to remove this mask."

"Why?" she whispered. "Why were you angry with me?"

"You should not take what is not yours, Christine."

Christine leaned forward, studying his eyes. "Why did you take me through the mirror?"

He didn't reply and Christine wondered if he knew the answer. She watched as he climbed to his feet and took several steps back.

"What is your name?"

"It's not important."

"It is to me," she blurted out, shooting up from her seat. She caught herself too late and sighed, mentally cursing herself as she decided to continue, frustration winning out over good sense. This man was not a stranger to her. He was an enigma, but she felt close to him.

"No, it is not," he argued. "It is not important to anyone."

"I've known of you for years and never seen your face or heard your name and now when I do see you, you act as though you want me to be gone."

He stared at her grimly but offered no words.

"Now, Monsieur Opera Ghost—Angel of Music, if you please, why have you brought me here?"

He considered her words a moment before he turned away. "My name is Erik, and now it is time for you to leave, Christine."

She waited for him to turn around again, and when he finally did he looked as flummoxed as she expected.

"An hour more," she said, but before she spoke Erik disappeared around the corner, leaving her alone in the bedroom.