THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

silver moon so happy to see you. I was wondering where you were. Missed you so much. So glad you caught up and enjoyed the chapters you hadn't read. Thank you for the kind words.

I will post in a day or so. I just want to give others enough time to read. Welcome back!

More coming soon. Please stay tuned.

silver moon welcome back!!!!!!

Slytherliggie I agree with you I bet it is the persian. Remember he's the one that suggested that they get married right away. This was a lovely chapter Fay let's see what happens next.

erikstalker so good to see you. Thank you for the kind words. So everyone thinks the Persian is the spellcaster, huh? Well, we shall see what we shall see.

Thank you so all who have read and reviewed. Now for your reading pleasure I post the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Christine’s Dressing Room 1879

Three minutes before noon, found Mae waiting for Raoul in Christine’s dressing room. Frayed nerves made her pace the floor, stopping every now and again to stare at the mirror in hopes that she’d see her friends.

Raoul hurried through the corridor to the dressing room. He hesitated only a moment when heard a door close. It didn’t sound like a regular door. The sound came from the floor. A trapdoor perhaps? A chill surged through his body. He looked around, but saw no one. Again he shivered and continued on to the dressing room.

As soon as Mae saw Raoul burst through the doorway, she
closed the door softly.

“No one saw me enter the Opera House,” the Vicomte panted.

“Good,” Mae turned to the mirror. “I don’t know how to make it work. It seems to work on its own.”

Raoul said nothing but studied the young woman closely,
almost lovingly. How petite and voluptuous she looked, unlike Christine who stood taller with ample breasts. Mae’s pretty little face captured his heart. She seemed so innocent and vulnerable.

“You sang beautifully, Madame,” he smiled as he kissed her
hand and trailed light, sensual kisses up her arm. Quickly she jerked her arm away.

“Raoul, we’re not here to talk about me,” but the Vicomte
cut her off with an unexpected kiss on the lips. He held her close and tight. His lips felt warm and soft; his touch so
gentle.

Mae pushed him away quickly and looked around nervously.
“Don’t do that. I love my husband.”

“He’s a very fortunate man. Loving you would be easy.”

“Raoul! M. Vicomte, snap out of it,” Mae snapped her fingers.
“What is wrong with you?”

“Ever since I heard you sing, it’s like…”

“No, no you don’t. You love Christine. Christine, remember?” Mae shook him hard. He pushed away and shook his head.

“Why are you shaking me?”

“You love Christine. Not me. My husband will kill us
both!”

“I’m concerned for your safety. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Raoul, are you drinking or what? We’re here for Christine. Remember, Christine?” As the last word fell from her lips, the
clouds roiled in the mirror. But this time, none of Mae’s friends appeared, instead, a woman with hair as black as ebony and skin as white as snow popped into view.

“Are you Mae?” asked the woman.

“How do you know my name and you are?” Erik’s wife stood in
awe.

“Snow White. I need your help.”

“Snow White? Are you serious?” Mae puzzled. Raoul stumbled
back speechless.

The girl in the mirror said she tried to help a maid called
Inèz, who had passed through the glass at the same time her wicked stepmother did. Now she reigned as mistress of the
mirror, and cannot escape the destiny of a witch. Talking to a fairy tale character felt like a hazy dream. Yet, Mae explained her plight and how she sought to return to her own time.

“What is your time? Inèz says she came from the year 2006, Paris, France. The spellcaster is named Micha.”

“I’m from the year from 2006 and I left from Paris. What’s going on?”

The image started to fade. Snow White mouthed some words, but her voice grew inaudible. Then the image vanished.

“Mae, what just happened? This was sorcery,” Raoul touched the mirror gingerly.

“You think? SnowWhite? What is this mirror? A dimensional doorway?” Mae examined the glass.

“Isn’t Snow White a storybook character?” Raoul puzzled.

“Look who’s talking. Storybook character…” Mae mumbled.

“What?”

“Never mind! Okay, what did the witch say to make the mirror answer her?”

Raoul frowned in confusion. “Okay? What is this word,
‘okay’?”

“It’s an agreement, like ‘bon d’accord’.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

Mae turned to the mirror. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of us all?”

No response.

“Was something supposed to happen?” Raoul regarded her as if she had lost her mind.

“One can hope. Maybe I need to find different words. Let’s
see. Mirror, mirror tell me true. Tell me what I need to do.”

In a moment, the roiling clouds again appeared in the mirror
and a voice boomed, “Who calls forth the magic of mirrors?”

Mae jumped into the arms of the Vicomte and the two trembled before the glass.

“I said who calls forth the magic of mirrors?” The voice
again roared.

The young bride swallowed hard, and replied, “I...I did.”

“Speak up. You have a question?”

“I went through the mirror, trading places with a woman from
this century. How do I return home?”

“Click your heels together three times while saying, ‘there’s no place like home’,” the mirror roared with laughter.

Mae’s fear drained as she grew angry. “Wise guy, huh?”

“I’ve always wanted to say that. You 21^st Century people have no sense of humor.”

“I’m trying to get home and you make jokes. How do I get home?”

“Look for the spellcaster. The magic of mirrors was not involved.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look, honey, I talk to dozens of people from different
centuries and dimensions. I don’t control portals or doorways. I’m only a guide.”

“Snow White talked to me…”

“Yes, I know. Same answer. Look for the spellcaster. They control the portals. Not me.” At this, the clouds churned, then dispersed and the voice was gone.

“Mirror!” The new diva tapped the mirror. “Mirror! Voice! Where are you? Great! Just great. Even the mirror’s
cryptic.”

“Who is the spellcaster?” Raoul wondered aloud.

“Don’t I wish I knew the answer to that question,” Mae
sighed.

She and the Vicomte waited a few minutes as she fidgeted
with the lace on her dress hoping the mirror would do something. Raoul tried to touch her, but she moved away
quickly.

“Mae, we need to talk. Your husband is a criminal,” Raoul started.

“Raoul, please. If you don’t want to die, you’ll let it go.”
With that, Mae started for the door.

The clouds reappeared in the mirror, roiling and churning. The two turned slowly. “Again?” Raoul frown. “Now what?”

“Mae, if you want to talk to your friends, return here at noon tomorrow,” the voice boomed from the looking glass.

“You know my name?” Mae asked in surprise.

“I know the name of everybody who looks in a mirror. I’m trying to help. So come back at noon tomorrow.”

“Thank you, mirror. Tomorrow at noon.” In a moment, the clouds vanished, and the mirror went back to normal.

“Then we must return tomorrow. Perhaps Christine will be here,” the Vicomte gestured.

“That’s right. Think of Christine. She’ll be here tomorrow,”
Mae smiled and opened the door. The two left the room not seeing the mask with two blazing hollows watching them
through the looking glass.

Nice! So Micha's lady is with Snow White? That's a relief. Well, I certainly hope that Erik heard what both Raoul and Mae said, otherwise I think there may be trouble ahead. Big trouble.

I suppose the spellcatser would have to be someone from the Opera, right? I wonder, from which century is this spellcaster? And, is it safe to assume it isn't the 'wicked witch' who escaped Snow White's fairy tale?

I thought the “Look who’s talking. Storybook character…” was funny, wonder what dear old Raoul would say if he knew the entire story,


Please continue again soon

D

My dear slitherliggie Erik is Erik, quite mad and insanely jealous. We'll what happens in the next chappie.

Keep watching for clues to the spellcaster's identity. You may be right or you may be wrong...

Thank so much for the lovely review. More coming soon.

wow, this is starting to get more and more facinating.
you know exactly how to keep a poor phanfic lover at the edge of her seat don`t you.
*sniffing in the air* i sense a mad erik now, am i right? lol

btw..why do i have this feeling that the reading time is over too soon*sniff*

Yes, my dear silver moon, Erik would be quite mad in seeing his beloved being kissed by another. What do you think he might do?

The chapters should be getting longer. Remember, there is another Phan fic of mine posted here. Check it out as well.

Thank you for a lovely review. More coming soon. I promise.

Thank you to all who have read and reviewed.

Here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Christine’s Dressing 2006

Doone appeared in the doorway of the dressing room. He panted and looked behind him, making sure no one had followed. Quietly, he closed the door and began examining the mirror.

“I so wish I had brought my cell. I’m so not liking this. Mae, if you’re in there, please, please answer!” Doone cried half aloud and half to himself.

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach for he couldn’t bear
the thought of losing the woman he loved. Why hadn’t he told her how he felt? Why didn’t he just go to school and become an architect like his father? Mae would have been proud to be his girl. Maybe, even his wife.

Frantically, Doone pounded on the mirror in frustration. It looked like an ordinary full-length mirror, with antique gold leafing on the frame. How could anyone find passage through this solid, obstinate framed glass?

Suddenly, something occurred to him. He began feeling for something along the frame. Voices were coming from the
corridor. They drew closer. Doone quickly, but carefully continued feeling for something along the sides and finally the top of the mirror’s frame.

Just as the voices reached the door, he heard a tiny ‘click’
sound and the mirror swung open on a pivot. Doone disappeared through the hidden passage and the mirror swung back into place, just as the door opened and a security officer and a female tour guide entered.

They chattered in French as they checked each corner of the
dressing room. Nothing. Finding no evidence that anyone had entered or that anything had been touched or missing, the security officer and tour guide left.

Behind the mirror, Doone breathe a sigh of relief. He had seen everything through the two-way glass. Though enveloped in darkness, he could see quiet well, as if he had been raised in a pitch black environment.

Instinctively he felt for the counterweight, which he knew
rested at his right, a little above his head. How did he know that? Déja-vu? He didn’t know how, he just knew. At the
moment his fingers touched the counterweight, a small flash of light sparked and a sting of electricity struck his fingertips. Doone jumped back in pain and surprise. Gingerly, he again tried to engage the counterweight, but as before, the small flash of light stung him.

He mumbled a small curse under his breath, and turned from
the mirror to the pitch black of the labyrinth. Something seemed to beckon to him in the shadows. He walked on, without a thought for light; as if on his way home. Somehow, he knew this path by heart, as if he had walked it many, many times. Each twist and turn felt familiar. He couldn’t get lost.

Deeper and deeper he forged his way down into the bowels of
the cellars, and found a lake and a small boat tied to a tiny harbor. An eerie dimness illuminated from the phosphorous on the walls. Doone freed the boat, and jumped in and rowed as he had done so many times before, or so he thought. The cold dampness of the labyrinth didn’t seem to bother him. Did this path lead to the Phantom’s lair? Had a legend come
to life?

As he rowed, he maneuvered the boat through each familiar
twist and turn of the lake. Finally, at what seemed forever, he came to the remains of a portcullis. The solid wall, which replaced it, had since been broken. Doone passed through the damaged wall and found himself in another small harbor and a tiny grotto. Set back a ways from the shoreline stood a
house. Had this been the residence of the Opera Ghost?

Doone docked the boat. As he walked, he noticed the fountain whose water had dried up, where he had sat with Christine’s head in his lap while he dabbed her face with the cool water of the fountain. Where he had sat? Did he remember correctly? Had he lived here before?

The house seemed untouched for decades. The cold of the never-ending night had preserved it. Doone opened the door and instinctively went to the nearby table he knew had matches. Upon finding them, he lit several candles.

An old organ rotted in the far corner of the room. Dust and cobwebs covered the piano and scattered remains of the furniture. The air hung dank and musty with the smell of long since gone.

A metal box laid hidden deep in a secret compartment of the
desk. He drew it out and pressed different areas of the box in a special sequence. The lid popped open. Inside rested the finished score of Don Juan Triumphant, his pet project of so many years, till in tact, as if waiting for his return.

Sadness filled his heart. Tears welled up in his eyes. His
home had gone, moldering with time. This feeling of déja-vu overwhelmed him, making him break down and cry like a baby.
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Meanwhile, in Christine’s dressing room at the Opera House,
Twanda, Tommy, Christine, Kimee and Micha found themselves trying to evoke the powers of the mirror. They had just missed the security officer and the tour guide.
As long as they stayed quiet, no one would discover them.

Micha mumbled a few magic words in French, and waved his
hands over the mirror.

Nothing.

Christine handed him the pouch she’d been carrying for
him. Taking it, he opened it and removed a pinch of its dusty content and threw it at the mirror. In a moment, the clouds appeared, roiling and churning. Then the voice of the mirror
guide boomed forth.

“Who summons the magic of mirrors?”

“I, Micha, spellcaster of the Toecan clan,” replied Micha
with authority.

“What do you desire of me?”

“I opened a passage through the mirror and my love has
passed through to a mythical dimension, trading places with an evil witch…,” Micha began, but the mirror guide cut him off.

“Mythical dimension? You mean Snow White’s fairytale land?” asked the guide sarcastically.

For a moment they bantered with the guide and he repeated
what he told Mae and Raoul. At the mention of her name, the group got excited.

“Mae! What about Mae?” Tommy became excited.

“She’s good. Trying to get back to you. Told her to find the
spellcaster. She asked about Micha’s girl. Told her the same thing. Find the spellcaster.”

“Why would Mae ask about Micha’s girl? She doesn’t even know Micha,” Twanda looked confused. By now she wished they’d stayed home in California. What a nightmare!

“Ooops! Caught me. I’m not supposed to volunteer info,”
the mirror guided taunted the kids.

“You’re a crazy mirror,” Kimee eyed the churning clouds
suspiciously.

“I am the spellcaster and I don’t know what to do,” Micha
continued.

“You 21^st Century people are a pain! Reverse your spell. Do I have to tell you everything? It’s a trade for a trade,” the mirror guide sighed in exasperation. “I told Mae that. Thought she’d tell you.”

“We haven’t been able to speak to her again,” Tommy moved
toward the mirror.

“Don’t get too close, kid. Don’t like people in my space,” boomed the mirror guide. Tommy backed up quickly.

“Trade for a trade?” Twanda puzzled.

“That’s all I can tell you kids. Gotta run. Being summoned by someone in the Renaissance era. Ciao!” The clouds dispersed and the mirror went back to normal.

“A wise-cracking mirror?” Kimee laughed. “What’s that about?”

Still at a loss, Micha felt the ache in his heart as his dark eyes glistened with the tears he fought to hold back. Kimee put an arm around his shoulders to comfort him. This time, Tommy frowned and pulled her away in jealously.

“Hey!” Kimee protested.

“Chill guys!” Twanda attempted to restore order. “If they find us here, we’ll get kicked out.

Christine remembered something about the mirror that made
her push on the frame with her fingertips. Micha and the others joined her, and someone pushed the right section. A soft ‘click’ sounded and the mirror pivoted open.

“I thought so!” exclaimed Christine as she disappeared into
the secret passage.

“Awesome!” Tommy followed her, as did the others.

The mirror swung back in place. The teens found themselves swallowed in darkness; with the only light filtering from the other side of the glass. They pushed and shoved the two-way mirror, but it wouldn’t budge.

Micha took out his lighter and flicked it on. A dark, dank passageway lay before them. Decayed sconces held burned out torches. He grabbed a torch and lit it. Tommy followed suite and Micha lit it.

“Guess we follow the passage,” Micha suggested.

“This sure ain’t no yellow brick road,” grumbled Twanda, as
she too, grabbed a torch, which Tommy lit with his.

“I believe this may be the way to the home of my Angel of
Music,” Christine shivered and Tommy put his arms around her. Christine clung to him for protection as she might have done Raoul, but the longer she lived in the present time, she felt drawn to Tommy.

Kimee saw the gesture and cuddled up to Micha who
instinctively hugged her to him to warm her; something he used to do for Inèz.

They moved on down the passageway, as their torches pushed back the shadows and the darkness. Their footsteps echoed softly. For a while no one spoke.

At last, they came to a section that veered off into five
different directions. Which one should they choose? The five teens exchanged looks. Unlike the story of the Minotaur
of Greek mythology, they didn’t have a ball of twine to mark their way so they wouldn’t get lost.

Tommy pointed to their extreme left. Good guess, but where would it lead? Micha pointed straight ahead. Another good guess but who could be sure? After all they stood in a labyrinth, an underground maze.

For a moment Christine moved a way from Tommy. Something felt familiar about the place as much as she hated to admit it. From the depth of the blackest night something haunting and cold beckoned to her.

She attempted to choose a passage, but something moved in
the shadows. Christine jumped back into Tommy’s arms. What or who moved quickly with the stealth of an ally cat on a moonless eve.

The shape loomed up and the five teens gave out a scream in
unison. The shape stopped.

“Yo, guys, what’s up?” asked the shadow.

Twanda haltingly stepped forward with the torch ahead of
her. The flame reflected on the face. Doone!

Tommy sighed with relief. “Doone! Crap, man! You like scared the bageezes outta us! How’d you get down here?”

“The mirror. I was like hidin’ from the security guard and tour guide and I like found this secret passage behind the mirror,” Doone moved closer to them.

He looked to Micha. “Like who are you, dude?”

“Micha Toecan. I’m trying to help your friends,” Micha replied.
The two shook hands.

“How did you get down here without a light? And where did you come from?” Micha continued.

“Yeah!” Twanda realized. “How did you get down here without a light?”

Doone shrugged. “I just felt my way around.”

“No way, man! You like cannot feel your way in pitch black,” Tommy protested.

“You went further than here. Where have you been?” Christine felt something oddly familiar about Doone and the dank darkness of the underground maze.

“Just a ways down there,” Doone pointed to the passage
second to the right.

“What’s down there?” Christine continued.

Doone‘s mind began to drift and he answered absently
mindedly. “To my house by the lake. It’s abandoned and decayed,” his voice sounded strange and different, almost
hypnotic.

“Y…your house by the lake?” Christine stammered as she and the others stepped back and exchanged puzzled and frightened looks.

Doone went on talking. “They’ve broken the wall where the portcullis was. The house seems only touched by decay. It was sad like my end. It looked just as I had left it.” Christine seemed to recall what he said. More déja-vu?

“And my room?” she questioned, looking at him as if seeing
him for the first time.

“Just as you left it. But you did return. You kept your
promise. For that, I thank you,” Doone answered in a strange voice. His Valley-boy accent and demeanor had gone.

“My God!” gasped Christine. "It’s him. The Phantom of the
Opera!” she swooned and Tommy caught her. The others stared at Doone, who now looked at Christine with a rather
sad, yet majestic air. His eyes seemed to glow with an eerie yellow blaze.

so doone is a reincarnation of erik?

this get more and more mysterious for every new chapter`
omg i love this story to bits

My dear silver moon, so happy you loved the chapter. Now for all intents and purposes, it looks like Doone is a reincarnated Erik, but is he? Or is he really the Erik Leroux wrote about?

Thank you for the lovely comments. I am thrilled you love my story.

More to come, so don't go away.

*confused* if he`s not.. what`s the point of all this remembering stuff?
wow you know how to keep me on the edge of my chair! wait... have i said that before? anyway, i`m saying it again

"Or is he really the Erik Leroux wrote about?"?? You mean there is supposed to have been two? Or does the disappearance of Christine mean that the Erik who is with Mae has actually changed for the better, as he didn't have all that crap going on with Christine and Raoul?

This is getting all the more interesting the more I read! I will definately be waiting anxiously for the next chapter.


D

Slytherliggie so happy to see you. Thank you for the lovely comments. Happy you enjoyed this chapter. This is mind boggling one, isn't it? All I shall say is remember the words of the seer, "...you have two separate, yet intertwining destinies running parallel to each other."

Next chapter is coming soon. Don't go away!

Thank you for all who have read and reviewed.

Here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Opera Garnier, Paris Opera House 1879

Mae and Raoul quickly made their way down the corridor away from the dressing room, when the quiet click of a door sounded. They froze. It seemed to come from the floor. They looked behind them.

Nothing.

But just as they turned around, something swooshed over their heads and around Raoul’s throat. The Punjab lasso! He couldn’t breathe, nor could he loosen the grip of the thing. A wave of nausea washed over him and the light grew dim as he began to loose consciousness. Mae’s voice swirled around in his head.

“Erik! No! Please! Don’t kill him. My beloved, I beg you,” Mae pleaded with the Phantom, whose grip on the lasso compared to a vice. In a moment he would have snapped the neck of the young Vicomte, but his wife’s touch aroused him to distraction and he loosened the lasso. Raoul dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

Mae pushed aside the Phantom’s vest, and he could feel her soft gentle caress through the thin material of this shirt. He grabbed her up into his arms violently, and his wife brushed her lips against his.

“The Vicomte was not himself. Don’t hold him responsible,” Mae pressed her lips hard against her husband’s. Erik responded like a starving beast to a fresh kill.

“I saw him kiss you. I won’t let him take you from me!” Erik hissed half crazed. His wife soothed him with another kiss, and held him tight in her arms.

“I love only you, my husband. The Vicomte is just a friend. Please,” she kissed Erik again, and at last his anger subsided. After removing the lasso from Raoul’s neck, he offered his hand.

Raoul coughed and sputtered as he continued to rub his throat. He glared up at the Phantom and the extended hand. Never had he been treated like this. Part of him felt relieved to be alive, while the other part grew angry and wanted revenge.

“Take his hand,” he heard Mae’s voice. Raoul obeyed and the Phantom helped him to his feet.

“My apologies, M. Vicomte. My wife assures me that the kiss was harmless and that you were not yourself.” The Phantom eyed him like he would a dangerous beast, one he may remove when not in his wife’s presence.

“Your wife speaks the truth, monsieur. I have not been myself. I beg forgiveness from you and your beautiful wife. The incident shall not be repeated,” sputtered Raoul as he rubbed his throat aching throat.

The Phantom rolled up the Punjab lasso and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. “See that it doesn’t happen again,” he muttered, upset for the interruption.

“Raoul, please go. I will see you tomorrow,” Mae smiled and waved him on.

“Tomorrow at noon. Madame. Monsieur,” with that, the young Vicomte quickly disappeared down the corridor, holding his throat. The thought of death made him shiver.

Mae glared up into her husband’s face. “You could have killed him.”

“I would have, but you stopped me.”

“Don’t you ever ask what happened before you strike?”

“Ask what? I saw him kiss you. I became enraged. Only you could have stopped me,” the Phantom hissed again.

“You can’t kill everybody that makes you angry.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not right. You need to talk to the person that made you angry.”

“Why? They will do it again.”

“Depends on the sitch.”

“What? Sitch?”

“Ooops! I mean, situation. Raoul doesn’t deserve to die because he kissed me. If you were eavesdropping, then you know I shook him hard and assured him that I love only you.” The young bride embraced her husband, and began to unbutton his shirt.

Erik gathered her up into his arms, once again, and growled sensually, “Would my wife undress me here in the corridors of the Opera House?”

She only smiled and pulled open a small part of the shirt to reveal his bare flesh. Gently, she pressed her lips against his warm, naked chest. His eyes closed and his arousal became evident.

Because these are short chapters I am posting two.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Le Harve, France Shipyards 1879

The Le Harve shipyards seemed eerily quiet in the cold dampness of twilight. A rough looking, stocky nobleman of fifty-something, barked out orders to the crew of the ship upon which he stood.

The ship known as The Lady Phantom belonged to a silent partner, while the nobleman, Maurice D’Auberge, infamous for his shady deals of smuggling illegal goods in and out of France, commanded the ship and oversaw the imports. The seaport town of Le Harve nestled on the northern coast of France, some 125 miles from Paris, making it very convenient for the trade he carried, like tonight.

Tonight’s cargo would bring a higher price than the usual collection of spices from the Orient or natives of various lands. Young Caucasian girls thirteen to eighteen years old kidnapped from their families and sold to the highest bidder would bring much more profit.

Along with this strange cargo, came another new addition, opium, straight from the Orient. Another item sure to profit the seller more than rugs and silks.

D’Auberge smiled an evil smile as he listened to the girls’ soft cries from the cargo hold.

Maurice’s nephew, tall and muscular Alain, wore his straight, dark hair shaggy and unruly. He often worked for his uncle in hopes that someday he’d save enough to have a ship of his own. Alain’s heart raced with excitement as he opened the door of the cargo hold and peered into the depths of the ship where the girls stayed. He eyed one in particular, a pretty little brunette named Laurette, which translated means ‘little angel’, and that she was. The petite little angel, barely fifteen years old, would make a delicious treat for any man. Already she showed womanly curves and plump, full breasts, which made Alain drool and his arousal obvious.

Day and night he ached for the child. He longed to gather her into his arms and taste her lips, to crush her tender, bare flesh next to his own. The ache in his groins grew, and when he could endure no longer, he closed the hatch, and went straight to D’Auberge.

“Uncle, I have a request,” Alain panted and his body glistened with perspiration.

D’Auberge looked at him like would an insignificant insect, but he couldn’t forget his nephew on his father’s side, and he indulged Alain his whim at times.

“What now, Alain? Do the cries of the girls arouse you?” D’Auberge smirked knowingly.

“Only one girl arouses me. Laurette. The little dark haired angel with the beautiful sad eyes. I beg you, uncle, give her to me. My desire for her drives me mad,” Alain asked as he looked back now and again to where the girls stayed.

“She will fetch a handsome price. Why should I give her to you?”

“Please. Keep the money you would pay me for this journey, and give me the girl.”

“You would buy her? Intriguing. But why? Don’t tell me you love her? You at thirty-eight and her, barely fifteen? She will fight you. You will wish I had sold her,” D’Auberge laughed wickedly, as he taunted his nephew.

“I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I crave her more than food. She’s all I think about,” Alain’s body burned with passion for the child. His uncle laughed again.

“Not tonight, my nephew. I shall consider your request, but tonight, we must wait. My partner will come in a day or so, and all of the cargo must be here.” D’Auberge handed him a few coins. “Amuse yourself in town. There must be some wench who can satisfy you for the night,” at this the nobleman dismissed his nephew and motioned to the other men to watch the girls.

“No one goes in or out. Food will be lowered into the hatch as usual. Understood?” D’Auberge ordered the two rogues, Jacques and Arnaud who guarded the hatch. Each man bowed his head in acknowledgment that he understood, and each tightened his grip on his rifle.

D’Auberge shot his nephew a look. “This means you. Stay away from the girls. My men will kill you, regardless of our kinship.”

Alain cursed under his breath and stormed off the ship, passing a courier, a young lad of fifteen or so, who walked directly to Alain’s uncle.

“M. D’Auberge?” the boy looked to the nobleman. The boy’s drab colored clothes pegged him for a child from the lower class tying to eke out a living. His dark blonde hair looked disheveled and his face could have been cleaner.

“I am D’Auberge. What have you got there?” came the gruff reply.

The boy handed him an envelope. The nobleman dug into his pockets and tossed a few coins to the courier.

“Thank you, monsieur!” the lad smiled at the generous tip.

D’Auberge took a moment to read the letter. Then he shook his head. “No reply.” And with that the lad took off with a smile on his face.
The nobleman walked to the other side of the hatch where his cabin stood. Turning to the men who guarded the girls, he then shouted for all hands on deck.

The cargo needed preparation for the trip overland to Paris, since his partner would not meet them in Le Harve after all. Because of such a perilous journey, it became necessary to conceal the young girls with the opium. Any sign of his illegal merchandise could cost him and his men their lives.

Maurice acquired three rather large wagons which looked much like the caravans the gypsies used. Quickly and quietly his men loaded the frightened children into two of the wagons and filled the third with opium.

Derrell, another faithful man in D’Auberge’s employ, stood at the nobleman’s left making sure that the wagons looked inconspicuous. A false bottom in each concealed an area large enough to cram in four of the petite maidens at once.

Derrell stood about as tall as Alain, but more mature in age and in mind. He had no thought of the females, only money. Along with money came power; the ultimate goal.

“Are we ready to leave Derrell?” asked his employer.

“We are, monsieur, but what about your nephew?”

“We must pass through town. Fetch him then,” and with that, the nobleman mounted his horse and rode along side the wagons. Derrell mounted his steed and caught up with D’Auberge.

Sorry I haven't been here for a while... Nice chapters, I want to meet Doone. Oh,
and I love the part, "Wold my wife undress me here in the corridors of the Opera House?"

Again you have made me smile with your awsome creativity.

erikstalker I missed you. For a moment I thought everyone had deserted me. So you like Doone well enough to want to meet him, huh? Which Doone? The Valley boy Doone or the Phantom Doone?

Thank you for the kind words. You've made my day.

More coming soon.

Well, that's interesting. What does the selling of young girls have to do with Erik and all the rest, I wonder?

I sure can't wait for the next chapter, I'm curious as to where this is going.


D

slitherliggie good to see you. Now I've got you wondering. Yes, there is a setup here and soon you will see how this is all related. Thank you for the lovely comments.

Now to add to the mystery, here is the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

****************************************************
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Phantom’s Lair 1879

While Erik wrestled with his music at the piano, Mae explored the remainder of the house, stumbling across the Louis-Philippe bedroom, a larger than average room, where she marveled at the luxurious furnishings, along with the tapestries and swords that adorned the walls.

The locked door in the corner piqued her curiosity, but for now, she spent her time admiring the sword collection, especially, the small broadsword that seemed to call her name. Gently, she reached for it and ran her fingertips along the blade, as if to seduce it, as she would man.

Erik appeared in the doorway and watched his wife with interest. She seemed so out of place in front of a sword collection. By now, he no longer wore his mask in the presence of his wife. Finally, he felt comfortable around her.

He walked to the broadsword and removed it from the wall and handed it to Mae. With delight, she grabbed it with both hands, slicing the air with expert precision.

“You surprise me. From where did you learn such skill?” the Phantom seemed curious. The surprise of her knowledge of weapons made him feel a tighter kinship with her. Perhaps even as a soul mate.

“From home,” she smiled, as she again went through the katas for swordplay.

“I take my life in my hands, should I upset you,” he chuckled.

“A joke? First my husband laughs and now he jokes? Amazing!” his wife gave a broad smile.

For a few silent moments the petite bride whirled around, slicing the air; splitting open an imaginary foe.

“Brava, my sweet! Brava! I am amazed! You could truly do damage with this sword. Have you drawn blood?”

“No.”

“Then, you have not killed…”

“No, I have killed no one. I have learned the skill for discipline and exercise, not to kill,” Mae held the sword at her side, as her husband leaned down and kissed her.

“We make a fine pair, you with the broadsword and me, with the Punjab lasso,” Erik smiled, but it soon faded when he saw the look on his wife’s face.

“You worry me with that thing. You nearly killed poor Raoul.”

“We’ve discussed this. I allowed him to live, didn’t I?”

“Yes and I thank you.”

Erik moved to a screen and pulled out a mannequin. He pushed it toward Mae and motioned for her to practice. She bowed and proceeded with her swordplay, eventually killing the dummy.

The Phantom applauded her. How magnificent!

“I’m impressed. You are very different from the women in this century. I’m intrigued. Are women from your time skilled like you?”

“No. This was an option. Not a requirement. I just like weapons,” Mae laughed.

“Then why do you dislike my lasso? It’s quick and much cleaner than the sword?”

“Maybe because you use it to kill and not for discipline or exercise.”

“Oh.” The Dark Angel hung his head with shame. Old habits died hard.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” his wife leaned the sword against the wall, and reached up to her husband. He stood so much taller than she. At seeing her little up turned face, he couldn’t resist, so he leaned down and wrapped his arms around her and held tight.

“Forgive me, my husband,” she whispered softly in his ear.

Erik said nothing. Softly, gently he buried his face into her neck and kissed her as his hands roamed her body. When she turned for his lips, his mouth covered hers hungrily.

“Mmm, no corset?” he mumbled as he placed light kisses all over her face and neck.

“Too tight. Can’t breathe,” came the reply. His wife closed her eyes as the ache of her arousal rose in her crotch. Then she whispered, “Do I frighten you?”

“With a broadsword in hand, yes,” he began unbuttoning her dress.

Mae pushed him back gently, playfully, and grinned, “You’ve made another joke.”

He gave a lopsided smile. “No joke. You are frightening and dangerous with that sword.”

Mae nodded toward the locked door. “Is the torture chamber in there?”

The Angel from hell narrowed his eyes at her and his demeanor changed. Without warning, he flew into a rage and began shouting like a madman. “The torture chamber again? Do you want to see it?”

Breaking away from her, he disappeared into the next room, leaving his wife reeling in the wake of his rage.

In a few minutes, he returned with a small leather bag.

“I call this the ‘bag of life and death’. You must never touch it!” he grabbed her arm and shook her hard. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” he screamed. Mae nodded, afraid to utter a word. Untold fear clutched her heart as did the pain from his violent touch.

From the bag he drew out a key and opened the door, and then dragged her inside the forbidden room.

The torture chamber appeared as a small hexagonal room, where mirrors covered all six of its walls from top to bottom. Segments of mirrors attached to drums lay in the corners, which could then rotate.

The Angel from hell touched the high part of the wall near the door making the place illuminate with a light that intensified as it reflected from the mirrors, which surrounded them. In the far corner stood a metal tree upon which hung a Punjab lasso, a lasso made of catgut. It looked hideous; a sickening yellow color that reeked of death.

The Phantom roughly pushed her further into the room. “Is this what you wanted to see? You keep asking about it,” his eyes blazed and his face flushed with anger.

“Erik, please, I meant no harm…”

“No one knows about this room. I designed it after the one in Mazenderan,” he continued shouting.

Mae cowered at her husband’s anger. She didn’t know what to do. Her heart pounded with terror. Fearing he’d strangle her with his signature weapon, she trembled in terror. Would he do that to her? Rumors from ballet rats and drunken stagehands said ‘yes’. Even though he loved her, would her punish her? Torture her? Kill her?

The Dark Angel grabbed her arm and dragged her from mirror to mirror until they reached the dreaded metal tree upon which hung the lasso. The heat became nearly unbearable, even with the door open, Mae still trembled and gasped for air.

“Do you know why this tree is here?” he hissed with a wicked tone, putting his face next to hers. Mae shook her head and tried to turn away, but he forced her to look.

“This is the mercy I grant my victims. When they can no longer endure the madness of this room, they can take their own life with the Punjab lasso. It’s quick and clean, remember?” his eyes still blazed and his face twisted in an evil grimace.

“Erik, please stop! I meant no harm. You are hurting me. Please stop!” Mae pleaded. Her arm throbbed with the vice-like grip of the Phantom’s hand.

“But this is what you wanted to see. Look around you. Look!” The Phantom shook her hard and forced her to look around, making sure she’d remember the pain of the heat and the horror of the lasso.

Then her Dark Angel said no more, but dragged her roughly from the chamber and pushed her into the Louis-Philippe room so hard that she lost her footing and fell to the floor.

After turning off the light in the chamber, he quickly locked the door. Then he realized his wife lay on the floor, sobbing in terror of him. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath. When he opened them, his poor frightened bride began crawling away, but he caught her and pulled her up into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her ear. His heart pained for what he had done and what he could have done.

“Please, Erik, don’t hurt me. I…I’m sorry,” her tears broke his heart. “Please don’t kill me. I love you so much!” she buried her face into his chest and continued to sob. Up until now she had never seen the face of death. Erik reeked of it and the thought sickened her.

“I won’t hurt you. I didn’t want to talk about the chamber,” Erik hugged her to him, cursing himself for his weakness. Wishing with all his heart to put away the ills of his past.

Mae said nothing but continued to cry, spilling tears all over his loose fitting white shirt and beautiful bare chest. Those tears tore him apart.

“Now you know what kind of monster I am. Do you still think there is any good in me?” Her Angel felt like dying for the pain he’d caused her.

“Yes,” came the reply between sobs.

Erik made his wife look at him. As he gazed into her beautiful tear-stained faced, he wiped the lingering drops from her cheeks.
“There are questions I don’t wish to answer as they stir bad memories. Please, forgive me,” he leaned down and gently kissed her sweet soft quivering lips. She responded lovingly, surrendering her body and soul to her Dark Angel. Even in the ecstasy of desire, she yet trembled from the ordeal.

Erik could feel her heart pounding like a trip-hammer in her breast. At his touch, her body quivered. He knew how terrified she felt, so he began singing softly, gently, a song of never-ending love and eternal happiness. Those golden tones enveloped and hypnotized her. Her eyes closed as the sweet strains carried her far away from the torture chamber and the horror therein. When her Angel sang, her soul lifted up to the lofty ether of the Divine One in heaven. Truly Erik existed as the Angel of Music, her Angel of Music.

ooh mad erik..*hides under bed*

teehee

silver moon so happy to see you and hope you enjoyed a mad Erik. Thank you for a lovely comment.

Don't go away. More coming soon.

Wow! Never thought rage like that could really be caused only by mentioning the torture chamber. *mental note, never mention the chamber to Erik*

Very good chapter, I can see that there are still many bridges to cross for Mae and Erik to be able to be truly happy. Also, nice touch with the swords, there's nothing I love more than a beautiful board sword,


Please continue soon,

D

slytherliggie so happy to see you. Thank you for the kind words. I'm so glad you enjoyed. That brings to mind another thread we could start, 'things we should never say to Erik'.

Yes, he has a lot of issues with the torture chamber. So , you like broadswords, too. I love weapons and martial arts. I think they call it Wu Shu now.

More coming soon. So don't go away!

great idea, sounnds like an awesome game

and yeah, an angry erik sure is..interesting,lol

don`t let us wait too long for the next chapter, pleae? *begging eyes*

silver moon, so good to see you again. Thank you for the kind words.

I will post a new chapter shortly.

Check out the game: Things You Would Never Say to Erik...