THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

We all need to understand that there is good in everyone, but there still things you would never say to Erik.

Wow nice chapter. How convient that she is a master swordsman. Let's see what the next chapter brings us.

Hello erikstalker! Thank you for the kind words. Oh, so you see the setup for future events with the introduction of Emma's skills with the broadsword, huh? Good eye!

The best is yet to come. New chapter soon to come. Please don't go away.

Thank you to all who have read and reviewed. I love you all.

Now let's see what Doone and the others are doing. The last we saw them, Doone was acting an awful lot like Erik.

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

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Labyrinth Under Paris Opera House 2006

Doone had drawn up to his full height of six foot four inches; no longer did he stand with stooped shoulders. His Valley-boy demeanor and accent had disappeared. For all intents and purposes, he had become Erik, the Opera Ghost, better known as The Phantom of the Opera.

There in the mouth of the labyrinth he stood staring at each of the frightened teens, Twanda, Kimee, Tommy, Micha, and Christine, who had now revived from her swooning.

Twanda stammered, “Doone, are you in there?”

“Doone is here, but chooses to remain silent. If you wish to leave, I will escort you back to the mirror and engage the counterweight,” Doone answered in the strange voice, as he glided past them, almost majestically.

The teens, both amazed and terrified, followed him without a word. Their friend appeared to suffer from possession, but what could they do? Exorcise the spirit? Christine bit her lip and looked to a very confused Micha.

Upon reaching the mirror, Doone instinctively touched a spot above his head, to his right. Instantly, the mirror swiveled open on its pivot. Doone led the way into the dressing room and the others followed.

As the mirror moved back in place, Micha looked to Doone.

“Who are you if Doone wishes to remain silent?”

“You may call me Erik.”

“We need to seriously get him to your grandmother,” Kimee suggested.

“Maybe she’ll know what to do?”

Tommy touched Doone’s arm. Doone looked down on him as if he knew him but didn’t. The old joking, not serious, devil-may-care Valley-boy could not be detected.

“This is way scary. C’mon Doone or whoever you are,” Twanda took Doone by the other arm and she and Tommy led him out of the dressing room.

Christine looked to Micha who could only shrug. After all, he didn’t seem much older then they and he knew as much as his grandmother.

Micha’s grandmother backed away from Doone when Twanda and Tommy escorted him into the gypsy’s shop. A recognition of terror showed in the old woman’s eyes and she once again crossed herself and mumbled a prayer in French.

“Grand-mère, this young man’s name is Doone, but now he seems to be possessed. Can you help him?” Micha questioned with a heavy heart. All of the penalties that come with magick weighed heavily on him.

The old woman mumbled something in French.

“Please grand-mère, speak English. You must help them.”

“Please sit at the table,” the old gypsy woman finally spoke English in a light French accent. They obeyed. A small crystal ball set in the center of the table. Again the old woman crossed herself and mumbled a prayer.

“Tell me your name,” she looked to Doone.

“Erik,” came the answer.

“When were you born?”

“I was born September 25, 1980.”

“Where were you born?”

“Los Angeles, California.”

The old woman trembled at this and then passed her hands over the crystal ball and mumbled something in French. Christine couldn’t take her eyes off of Doone.

“Why do you call yourself Erik? Was this your birth name?” the old gypsy continued the questions as she gazed into the crystal ball, to avoid those golden eyes.

“No. It is who I became. You remember me from your past life. You know who I am. I traveled with your people for sometime. They called me ‘le cadavre vivant’, the living corpse,” Doone glared at the old gypsy.

The old woman stood up and backed away from the table. “I cannot do this. He must leave. Micha, make him go away.” The poor woman cowered.

“But grand-mère, can you help him? If he’s not possessed, then maybe it’s past life regression,” Micha’s fear obviously showed as his heart beat wildly in his chest. He, too, cowered, but tried to be brave.

“Your friend is not possessed and this is not past life regression. He is le cadavre vivant !” The old woman tried to leave, but Christine caught her arm.

“Are you saying he is truly the Opera Ghost? But how? He was born in a later time.” Christine puzzled, but fear, also, gripped her heart. She hadn’t escaped. Her Angel of Music remained with her, no matter where she went.

“Magick stronger than mine has caused this. I cannot help you. Please leave my home. I cannot endure anymore. I have a demon chained in the other room, and now you bring me the devil himself. God help us all!” and with this, the old gypsy fled the room. Micha jumped up from his chair and went after his grandmother.

Everybody looked at Doone, who sat quietly, almost stoically.

“Well, now what? Things seem to get better and better all the time,” Kimee sneered with sarcasm. She puzzled, but the true essences of the terror from the Phantom did not sink into her mind or heart. Never had she been threatened or faced danger. All of this seemed like a strange adventure to her.

However, Tommy and Twanda shuddered with fear. Doone didn’t act like himself, and if memory served them correctly, the Phantom could toy with his victims for a long time, before he struck. Was Doone really capable of using such a deadly, gruesome thing as the Punjab lasso? Would he torture and kill them? As they studied their friend they could see they had no way of telling. His quiet stoicism held true to the saying, ‘still waters run deep’.

Not known to have friends the Phantom had become a true creature of darkness, which dwelled alone deep in the cellars of the Paris Opera House. Music and Christine Daae, the lovely orphaned diva whose voice he inspired and trained became his two obsessions.

Finally, Doone spoke. “They all fear me. And you Christine, do you fear me? I love you even now. I am still your faithful dog, ready to die for you,” tears welled up in his eyes. “Do you yet remember when your tears mingled with mine? Oh the joy of that moment! You are truly an honorable woman,” tears streamed down his face. The loneliness and sadness of a lifetime mirrored in his eyes. Everything the real Erik felt and experienced encompassed his entire being.

Christine became moved to tears. Even though she had no actual recollection of which he spoke, a strange familiar feeling washed over her, while her heart went out to this pitiful creature of darkness.

“Angel of Music, I do not fear you. I know that you love me. How is it that you have found me here, in this century? Are you not in the body of a young man called Doone?” Christine sought the answers, careful not to offend him.

“I am Doone but I am also Erik, your Angel of Music. You must come back with me, my angel. We do not belong here. We are from another space and time. I wish to return home. Perhaps you will reconsider and become my ‘living bride’,” his tone rang solemn and sad.

“Your ‘living bride’? What do you mean?” The young diva scooted her chair back from the table, as if ready to run for it. Fear clutched her heart, yet his voice held her captive.

“Too many questions, my dear,” Doone arose from the chair and offered her his hand. “We must return. You will be missed.”

“Hold on! Doone if you don’t cut the crap, I am gonna smack you upside the head,” Twanda tried to get angry instead of being afraid. She arose from her chair, but had to look way up to Doone’s face. They literally did not see eye to eye.

He glared at her for a moment. Fear washed over the young dark complected girl. Never had she been so afraid of her friend of so many years. Doone always seemed happy-go-lucky and a bit of a clown. Up until now, she would have sworn that he’d never hurt a fly. At the moment, she feared for her own safety.

“You wish to slap me, Twanda? Do you know what I am capable of? I am not in the habit of killing a woman, but I will make exceptions,” the words sounded cold and heartless.

Tommy pulled Twanda back. “Let it go. Don’t provoke him.”

Micha returned more upset than ever. “This is too much for my grandmother. We must go elsewhere. I must find my Inèz and return that thing in the other room.”

Twanda looked at Micha and then at Doone. “Will you help us put the witch back into the mirror so Micha’s girl can return?”

“Why should I? Micha is nothing to me.”

Christine took Doone’s hand and looked lovingly into his face. “Please, my angel, for me. We don’t know what to do and Micha has tried to help us return to our time.” She looked so beautiful and innocent in the dimness of the shop. Her eyes pleaded with him. Her body tempted him.

Doone gathered her tenderly into his arms and brought his face ever so close to hers. The scent of her hair and skin truly intoxicated him. Aside from the jeans and T-shirt, she still acted like the timid little girl he had tricked into believing he was the Angel of Music sent by her father’s spirit.

“As you wish, my dear. I shall help your friends. But afterwards you and I must return to our time,” and with this, Doone pressed his lips to hers sending sensual shock waves straight to her loins. She quivered in his hold and melted in his arms.

“Doone? Christine? Hey you guys! Break it up!” Tommy tried to part them.

Finally, Christine broke the kiss. “You are truly the Opera Ghost. But how?”

“Love transcends all time. Our love is eternal.”

They stood staring into each other’s eyes. Twanda and Tommy exchanged looks. The book never read this. Christine never kissed the Phantom in this fashion. Had they changed history?

Twanda pulled Tommy aside. “Can we trust him?” she asked, referring to Doone.

“No, but we got no choice. Things are way too weird with no explanations,” Tommy’s legs shook; his face flushed and his mouth grew unusually dry.

“He’s not really acting like Erik in the novel. What’s going on?” Twanda wondered aloud.

“I’m wigged. Let’s just play his game. We did agree to help Micha.”

Twanda’s gaze returned to Doone and Christine, who remained in each other’s arms. “But who’s gonna help us?”

Now this is an interesting twist. Not possession and not reincarnation? What is this then?

I can't wait to see what is next in store for Doone and Christine. You are doing a good job of keeping me guessing,


Please continue soon,


D

Ah slitherliggie I've really got you to thinking, huh? What does Doone mean that he became Erik? Interesting!

Thank you for the lovely comments. I am delighted I'm able to keep you in suspense.

More will be coming soon. Can't leave you hanging too long.

yes indeed you can't leave us hanging.

Im loving this phic more and more. So many twists and turns, mwahhaha
i love it!

Devine_Muse, so good to see you. I thought you had forgotten me. We haven't seen you in a long time.

Thank you for the lovely review. So delighted you enjoyed.

I won't leave you hanging for too long. More is coming soon.

Yeah sorry about that
school has been... hell.
haha

wow:O but..is it 2 erik`s then? how can that be??
now i gonna get a headache

sooo mysterious..lol, i love this to bits

Well Devine_Muse glad to see you. I know school must keep you running.

silver moon have I thoroughly confused you. Think back to the prologue. Erik was told that he had two separate yet intertwining destinies running parallel to each other. The answer is there.

Thank you for the lovely review and so pleased you enjoyed. More coming soon.

..and how long, do you think, is it since i read that one??
ok i take a hint, i`ll reread it. XD

you`re evil,lol

silver moon, I just told you what was said in my last post. Erik was told that he had two separate yet intertwining destines running parallel to each other.

you`re still evil. now post that godforaken chapter or i`ll smack you.. with a coconut (just kidding, so don`t worry, i`m left out of coconuts)

i`m so addicted to this, i probably gonna read it all over again ass sonn as last chapter is up..lol

silver moon calm down. No need for profanity. Thank you for caring.

Thank you to all who have read and reviewed. The next chapter has some NC-17, so if you are offended by such, you may want to turn away for a moment.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Le Harve Road to Paris 1879

Maurice D’Auberge and his men escorted the caravans carrying
their strange cargo along the road that led straight into the town of Le Harve. It would take at least two days to reach Paris, so they must move quickly in order to keep the appointment with D’Auberge’s partner.

The tavern gleamed with candlelight and roared with bawdy,
rowdy laughter. Derrell dismounted his horse and entered looking for Alain, D’Auberge’s nephew. Tonight looked like a full house, with the roughest of men filling tables all around the room, drinking, laughing and teasing the barmaids who served them, but no Alain.

Derrell pushed his way to the bar and questioned the
bartender. Alain had been there earlier, but briefly. Where he went no one knew. Derrell frowned and wondered what
to tell his employer.

“What do you mean he left? Alain could drink any one of those men under the table. Drinking is his passion!” exclaimed Alain’s
uncle. The young man had never left a tavern without being dragged away.

“Should I search the town for him?” asked Derrell, ready to
do whatever his boss commanded.

“No. There’s no time. We’ll be late for the meeting. He’ll have to find his way. He knows if we’re not on the ship that we’re on our way to Paris. This is no different from any other time. Go!” commanded D’Auberge.

The caravans pulled out with their escorts. D’Auberge’s men threatened the life of each girl if they uttered a sound. They had also stacked large rolls of silk and rugs from the

Orient in the caravans covering the secret door leading to
the false bottom where the girls lay hidden.

Spices from the Orient covered the floor of the third caravan where the opium lay concealed. The aroma of the spices would over power the scent of the opium should the authorities stop them.

The night grew damp and cold. The full moon shone over the land like a dim lamp in a pitch-black room. Something
stalked the caravans as they rolled along oblivious to their environs.

Hours passed. The drivers changed. They continued driving
nonstop except for eating and personal care. At this time, whatever lurked in the shadows could pounce on its prey if
it chose to.

The caravans made a temporary camp along the roadside. The young girls had been momentarily released from their cramped prison. The men eyed the sweet tender maidens like hungry wolves in the midst of stray lambs.

Two of the men who sought Laurette had stood guard over the
hatch on the ship. In their late thirties, like Alain, the one called Jacques, did not appear particularly pleasant to look at with his tangled dark mane and unshaven face which sported
a scar that would frighten any cosmetic surgeon. He stood at a medium height and built and smelled like he seriously needed a bath.

The other man called Arnou didn’t look much better, but at
least he didn’t sport any scars, instead he showed the lack of teeth which he’d lost in past fights and smelled for the lack of oral and personal hygiene.

These sweet things kidnapped from their native London; the
golden haired one they called Carol, the eldest, eighteen, stood tall and slender like a dancer and the red haired one, Anne, seventeen, didn’t stand as tall, but looked slender like a dancer as well.

But for some reason, Arnou and Jacques hungered for the
smallest, the most timid, Laurette. This little angel tried to cover herself with her cape, but her luscious cleavage
and delicious bare arms seemed to expose themselves now and again.

D’Auberge watched the men closely. Knowing what they wanted, he motioned for Derrell.

“Oui, M. D’Auberge,” Derrell answered, ready for orders.

“Remind Arnou and Jacques not to touch the merchandise. Just because they stood guard, does not mean they have privileges,” the nobleman said solemnly. “Remind them they I would sooner loose them in the woods then to have my goods spoiled. They are expendable.” The words rang with finality.

Derrell made a brief bow and delivered the message to the
men. Arnou growled and cursed. Jacques advised him to be silent. Another chance would come for them to get a taste before reaching Paris.

The shadow crept through the darkness taking in all it had
heard from D’Auberge and his men. What stalked the wagons moved gracefully like a lion tracking a zebra before the kill. It came so close to Laurette, that she should have sensed it.

Carol, Anne and Laurette sat around the fire eating what
Derrell had given them. The food tasted rather good and the water refreshing. They welcomed the nourishment, and yet each prayed for deliverance.

Now there came the task of taking care of the individuals’
private moment when nature called. D’Auberge knew that all of the men, except for Derrell would have great difficulty in not taking advantage of the situation; therefore, Derrell escorted each girl to a point of privacy, and waited to return her to camp.

Derrell had more self-control than anyone save the nobleman
himself. No one could call him a prude or say he preferred an alternate life style, but business came first. Spoiled goods would lower the price. At the moment, money became the object of desire. The girls would fetch a lot of it, and that would evolve into power. In the end, power became the ultimate prize.

Jacques and Arnou watched in silence as Derrell escorted
each girl to and from the woods. They calculated the time spent by each girl. It looked like the little angel would be the last. When they saw Carol take her turn, the two slipped off into the woods, unbeknown to anyone. They knew they wouldn’t be missed for at least twenty minutes; plenty of time to get a taste.

When the little angel’s turn came, Derrell escorted her to
the tree a little ways into the woods, but still in eyeshot of the camp. He turned his back to her, like a gentleman, while she cared for herself behind the wide tree trunk. Derrell never made conversation with any of the maidens. He didn’t want to get attached.

Five minutes passed. Laurette should have been done, but she didn’t come out from around the tree. Derrell called to her, but she didn’t answer. He turned around, only to meet a rather hefty, painful thump on the head.

Arnou held the struggling child tight with a grimy hand over
her mouth. Jacques retuned to him, and motioned for them to follow as he led them deeper into the woods. Derrell would be out for a bit, and they would each have time for a turn to deflower the little maiden. Her soft body felt good to Arnou. His breathing grew heavy and his arousal became obvious.

When they reached a point in the woods where they could no
longer see the campfire, Arnou held Laurette while Jacques began his turn by first stripping away her cape. Since she
had been kidnapped while undressing, she remained in a camisole and bloomers. The thought of seeing more than her soft, bare arms and feeling all of her tight naked flesh exhilarated them.

“If you scream, we’ll kill you,” Jacques whispered the threat to the child. “Arnou will remove his hand, but I swear if you scream, I’ll break your neck.”

The sobbing child nodded that she understood and Arnou
removed his hand. Jacques quickly gathered her into his arms and leaned his face down to hers in an attempted kiss, when a sickening ‘crack’ interrupted the moment. Arnou fell dead to the ground. The stunned Jacques released the girl in fear, but in that instant, another sickening ‘crack’ rang out, and Jacques
dropped to the ground, joining his friend in death.

A flickering shadow wrapped the child in her own cape, and
spirited her away from the camp and the dead men.

Farther and farther into the woods the shadow melted into
the night with the sobbing, whimpering young girl in its arms.

Laurette’s heart pounded wildly in her chest. Horror after horror crossed her mind. She knew that the two dead men would have forced themselves on her, inflicting all manner of pain on her tender body had this dark creature not killed them and whisked her away.

But what held her very tight as they moved so swiftly and
gracefully through the night? What indescribable torture lay ahead of her? Did a man or devil hold her? Would it tear her tender flesh from her bones, or hurt her as Arnou and Jacques had planned? Tears flowed freely from her eyes. She feared to cry out, lest some unimaginable horror should be fall her.

At last, they reached a tiny cottage in the clearing, so far
out of the way, that only a demon could have found it in the darkness. As they reached the door, Laurette heard the neigh of a horse somewhere behind the cottage.

Inside, a small fire blazed in the fireplace, and warmed the chill in her bones. The strong arms released her, and bolted the door behind them. When she turned, Laurette saw no devil or demon had brought her here; only Alain, the nobleman’s nephew stood before her.

Alain’s face kind and loving face showed the longing in his
eyes.

“Please, Laurette, sit down by the fire. Warm yourself,” he bade her kindly. Laurette obeyed and warmed herself. Her fears remained, but at least he had a friendly, familiar face. Alain had never tried to harm or disrespect her in spite of his intense feelings.

Alain had never tried to harm her or disrespect her in spite
of his intense feelings.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” he brought a blanket and
wrapped it around her shoulders as he sat next to her.

“Yes. Alain. M. D’Auberge’s nephew,” came the sad reply. She stared into the fire, afraid to look at him. She trembled even as she drew the blanket around her. “Are you going to rape me?” Tears rolled down her delicate cheeks. She looked like a life-sized porcelain doll. So dainty and fragile.

Her words hurt his heart. Alain loved, more than lusted for her. He could feel her sadness and fear, but he also felt the ache in his crotch for her. As the flames of passion rose up in him he struggled for breath.

“I love you, Laurette. I want to marry you. I swear I will protect you,” he reached for her, but she flinched. “Marry me.
I will take care of you and we can visit your parents,” he promised.

“Visit my parents?” the prospect excited her, and she turned
her tear stained face to him. “You promise?”

“ I promise. And I will never let any man lay hands on you.
Please, say you’ll marry me,” Alain drew a small box from his pocket and handed it to her. At first she looked at the box and
then at him.

He motioned for her to take it. She obeyed and opened it. Inside, gleamed a beautiful gold band, much like the Phantom had given to Mae. The child took the ring from the box, and Alain put it on her finger, and smiled. Then he took both of her hands in his, kissing first the back of each and then the palms.

“Yes, Alain. I will marry you,” she replied softly, partially in fear and partially by choice. She had no one to protect her here. It would be better to stay with one man, than to be ravished by several and perhaps killed.

“May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” she gave a faint smile and reached for him. The man’s heart leaped with excitement. He embraced her quickly and crushed his lips to hers. The warmth of her soft body
next to his felt so good. She smelled like heaven’s garden and her lips tasted like nectar from the Gods.

“I know that you want to make love to me,” she whispered
quietly. “I will not resist. After all, I will soon be your wife.”

He swallowed hard as his breathing became ragged and uneven. Flames of passion engulfed his entire body. Every inch of his skin flushed hot and moist, as he kissed her long and hard. Her lips parted and his tongue plunged deep into the depth of her warm soft mouth. He kissed her hungrily, while his hands roamed her beautiful, tight body. The thin material of the camisole and bloomers drove him mad to have this thing
between them.

His throbbing manhood made him tug and pull at her clothes until he removed her camisole, exposing her plump, full breasts. They looked so large for such a small girl. He cupped them in his hands as he tasted each one with his tongue.

His throbbing manhood caused him to tug and pull at her clothes until he removed her camisole, exposing her plump, full breasts. They were large for such a small girl. He cupped them in his hands and explored and tasted each one with his tongue.

To her surprise, Laurette enjoyed the sensation of his sucking and gentle nibbling of her nipples. She closed her eyes and caressed his head and face with her tiny hands.

Alain gathered her into his arms and carried her to the bed in the far corner. Before pouncing on top of her, he ripped away his own shirt and lost his pants. He had forgotten her bloomers, and found himself tearing them from her like a wild beast.

By now, he had completely lost control and went at her violently. His kiss and touch felt rough, yet sensual. Laurette found herself aroused and even enjoyed the pain he inflicted on her.

Roughly, he parted her legs and felt the warm, wetness of her womanhood. He could no longer hold back, and finally he plunged himself deep inside of her.

She felt tight around his manhood and the sensation made his knees buckle. He didn’t thrust for long before he popped inside of her. He held her tight as she dug her nails into this back as they both cried out when they reached the crescendo to their Music of the Night.

Alain collapsed on top of her. He had never known such ecstasy. Laurette never knew that such a sensation could bring pleasure. Actually she enjoyed the feel of Alain inside of her. Never could she have imagined anything like it.

“Did love feel like this?” she wondered as they recovered from their lovemaking, clinging to each other to savor the moment.

Aww, sweet! Now why can't real men be like that?? Whisking a girl away to a far-off cottage and then propose to her... *sigh*

Very good chapter, , for a moment there I thought it was Erik who was saving her.


Please do continue soon,


D

slytherliggie I agree. What happened to men like that? I thought the description of the lurking shadow might throw you.

Thank you for a lovely review. So happy you enjoyed.

More coming soon. Please don't go away!

yeah i have to agree that i thought it was erik.
lovley chapter suspense in the begining and then a passionant ending.
bravissima.

Oh Devine_Muse, thank you for kind words. I fooled you too, huh? Aren't I a little devil? Now that you've met Alain, you will see who mentored him.

So happy you enjoyed. More to come, so don't go away!

very good can`t wait to see their connection to erik & co.

silver moon always a pleasure to see you. Thank you for the kind words. So happy you liked this chapter.

I am going to post another chapter and tease you all for a moment.

Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PART ONE

Hotel Lobby Paris 2006

The chaperones had laid in wait in the lobby and bombarded Twanda and Tommy with questions when they reached the hotel first.

Making up a story that would satisfy their curiosity became a difficult task. While the chaperones grilled them, Kimee, Micha, Christine and Doone crept to the elevator and up to the tenth floor to their rooms. Since Micha could no longer conduct magick at his grandmother’s shop, he had come here to do it.

They needed a mirror, a map of Paris and a special crystal for scrying. Scrying involved the use of a crystal or a special object to find a magical being, usually a witch.

Two lovely mirrors already decorated the room shared by the girls. The dresser had a small one and the closet door had a full-length one.

Micha spread the Paris map over the table near the window and closed the drapes to keep out the night’s prying eyes. The girls gathered around the map with Doone and watched as the gypsy boy held a crystal attached to a thin black cord over the map. For a moment, the crystal did nothing.

“What’s supposed to happen?” asked Kimee, as she tied her blonde tresses into a ponytail.

“The crystal should move and show us the location of the witch,” explained Micha.

“I hope you know what you are doing,” Christine sat by the window, in view of the full-length mirror, admiring her own reflection. “I don’t look bad in men’s apparel.”

“No, you look wonderful,” Micha smiled.

Doone said nothing during the journey to the hotel and said nothing even now. Whether Doone sat before them or the infamous Phantom still remained a question. Christine watched him closely and gave a wry smile, remembering the kiss at the old gypsy’s shop. He nodded, but even she couldn’t say for sure who sat with them.

After a bit, the crystal began to swing back and forth. Then it went from side to side. In another moment, it spun madly, nearly out of control. At this point Micha released the cord, and the crystal went flying and crashed into the wall.

“What was that about?” Kimee ducked the flying crystal.

“You tell me. I’ve never seen it do that before,” Micha took a deep breath, trying not to be discouraged.

“It means there are too many witches in the area. The crystal is confused,” Doone almost sounded like himself, but yet he possessed the demeanor of the Phantom.

“How do you know?” Micha grabbed the crystal from the floor.

“It happened one night while I traveled with your people. Hearne did the scrying. He was as good a seer as he was a spellcaster. At this time he searched for the witch who had destroyed three tribes of gypsies. We camped in an area two days away from here, in the mountains,” Doone finished and reached for the crystal. Micha handed it to him.

“Turn off the light and burn a candle, instead.”

“We don’t have any candles,” answered Kimee.

“Use a flashlight, then,” sighed Doone in exasperation.

Kimee went to the bed and rummaged around in her backpack until she found a flashlight. She turned it on, while Micha switched off the light.

“You have much to learn about gypsy magick, Micha. There is a spell, which will allow you to see all of the areas that contain magical beings. The chore is deciding which one you seek,” and with that, Doone crushed the crystal in his bare hand, while chanting in old French.

The chanting completed, he opened his hand and blew crystal dust all over the map. Instantly, little dots of light illuminated it.

“Wow!” exclaimed Kimee.

“What she said. Wow!” Christine stood in awe of the scrying as well. Micha could say nothing.

“Your way of scrying can confuse if more than one magical being stands in the same area. Obviously, more than one exists in this section. Make your choice,” Doone stared at the awe-struck gypsy.

“Great, just great! Our luck the whole town is magicks-ville!” Kimee sighed and flopped back on the bed.

“Where did you last see the old witch?” Christine stared at the illuminated map.

“Montmartre, near Sacré Coeur,” came the reply. “She was running and laughing as she mocked me. Then she disappeared into the crowd.”

At that moment, Twanda and Tommy burst through the door, panting, as they closed it behind them.

“That was so not fun,” Tommy caught his breath. “Those chaperones are tough nuts.”

“What did you tell them?” Christine looked up from the map.

“First, we told them we got lost. They didn’t buy it. Then we told them Mae was sick. So they wanted to see her,” Twanda flopped back on the other bed.

“Then we told them the truth,” Tommy found a chair to stretch out in and sat.

“You told them the truth? That can’t be good,” Kimee sat up.

“It was so not good. They really didn’t believe us then. So we made a break for it and came up here,” Twanda added.

“Just great. That means they’ll be up here any minute,” Kimee jumped up from the bed and put an ear to the door, and paused as if listening for something.

“You disturb the moment,” broke in Doone, as he frowned at Tommy and Twanda. Then he turned to Micha, “Gypsy boy, you must make your choice. Where do you want to start?”

“What’s up?” Tommy realized the only lights that broke the darkness came from a flashlight and the illuminated map.

“We’re looking for the witch. Doone did a spell,” Christine gestured toward the map.

“I am called Erik,” corrected Doone.

“Forgive me, Erik,” Christine apologized and shyly looked down at the map to avoid those piercing golden eyes.

“Okay. Erik is still with us, casting spells no less, and we’re literally on a witch-hunt,” Twanda moved to examine the map. “What’s all this?”

“The illuminations indicate a witch is there,” came the reply.

“Then it looks like we got a lot of witches in Paris. This thing’s lit up like a Christmas tree. Where do we start?” Twanda continued.

“Micha?” Doone looked to the young gypsy, who shrugged. He had lived with magic all of his life, since his grandmother raised him when his parents got killed, but he’d never seen anything like this.

“Did the witch go into Le Basilique du Sacré Coeur?” asked Christine; her eyes never left Doone. She tried to remember how they connected.

Yes, he gave every indication of being The Phantom, and she did feel that something would happen between them, but she didn’t know what. Everything he recalled seemed familiar, yet it hadn’t actually occurred. His voice mesmerized. His countenance reined just as authoritative and demanding as her Angel of Music, but not. Why?

Micha thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, I believe she did. She was rushed in with a tour.”

“Let’s go,” Tommy jumped up from his chair.

“Shoooo,” hushed Kimee, who had an ear to the door. “Someone’s coming.”

At that moment, female voices chatted outside the door, just before the knock. Nobody wanted to answer it. Twanda held a finger to her lips as a sign for all to keep quiet. The voice of Mrs. Carlyle pierced the door like a two-edged sword, “Twanda, I know you’re in there. Open the door this instant!”

The knock persisted and grew louder. Doone could stand it no longer, and flung open the door, only to face the two chaperones.

“Please, ladies, won’t you come in?” Doone bowed. The women eyed him suspiciously, and slipped past him quickly.

“What’s wrong with him?” Miss Peters frowned. “And why are the lights off. Are you young people having…?”

“No!” interrupted Kimee. “We’re not having sex or anything. We’re just talking.”

“I wasn’t going to say ‘sex’, I was going to say ‘séance’,” Miss Peter’s stared at the glowing map, and then at Christine.

“Who are you?” Miss Peters moved closer to them while Carlyle brought up the rear.

“Christine.”

“Christine? Where is Mae?” Peters looked around the room. Carlyle switched on the lights.

“Yes, where is Mae?” Carlyle wanted to know.

“Mae’s visiting Christine’s home and Christine is visiting with us. Sorta like the student exchange program,” Kimee pushed herself between Peters and the map.

“Student exchange programs don’t work like that,” Peters glared at her.

Doone took each lady by the arm and glided her toward the open door. “Why don’t we talk about this over a bite to eat? Perhaps some tea and pastries? My treat. Lovely ladies like yourselves should not be without an escort,” his voice and smile held the two women captive. They could do nothing but obey.

He turned briefly to Micha and the others and nodded. “Please continue. I will meet you there,” and with that, he and the women disappeared out the door and down the hallway.

“Like, wow!” Tommy watched them vanish into the elevator. “He is good!”

“He got us off the hook. C’mon, let’s go, guys. It’s really late, but if we don’t do this now, we may never get the chance again,” Twanda grabbed her backpack from the side of one of the three beds, and headed for the open door. The rest followed suite.

TO BE CONTINUED

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PART TWO

MONTMARTRE PRESENT DAY

Montmartre, the mount of the martyrs, became famous for the legend of its first martyr, St. Denis, the first bishop of Paris in the third century. Legend has it that the headless corpse of St. Denis picked up its head and carried it away to die. Some say the head and body got separated at burial and that the headless corpse arose from the grave in search of its head.

In half an hour, the young people found themselves at Montmartre on the gypsum hill facing the famous La Basilique du Sacré Coeur .

During the day, the great white dome and unique architecture gleamed, magnificent to behold, but in the wee hours of the morning, it looked a bit spooky. Shadows appeared to dance around the Basilica as if mocking them. Christine shivered. Tommy put an arm around her, giving her a small sense of security, as she snuggled next to him.

“Aren’t you the little tart!” remarked a jealous Kimee. “You cuddle up with Tommy and then kiss Doone. I’ll be glad when you go back the 19th Century.”

“That was rude,” Christine frowned.

“Hey, get over it, Kimee. Since when were you and Tommy an item?” Twanda moved in between Kimee and Christine.

“I never knew you ‘liked me’, liked me,” Tommy exclaimed in surprise. He had hung out with all of them for at least four years and never realized Kimee had affection for him. She appeared somewhat pretty, in a child-like way. Usually he thought of her as ‘one-of-the-guys’, so to speak. She lived in jeans and T-shirts and never dressed feminine. But then on the other hand, a thought or two about her as a woman had drifted through his mind from time to time.

Kimee huffed away from him and hooked arms with Micha. For a moment, no one said a word. They really needed to go inside. A church usually remained open to anyone at any time. Yet somehow, this scene did not look inviting.

As they gazed around them, people still walked the streets. Paris always seemed alive, but something felt foreboding about Sacré Coeur. Tommy and Micha swallowed hard and stared at each other a second, as butterflies tied knots in their stomachs.

“Shouldn’t we go inside? It’s cold out here,” Christine complained.

“You’re not afraid, are you, Micha?”

“No, of course not. We just want to be sure what to say should the priest ask us what we’re doing,” came the awkward reply.

“Just pretend you’re praying,” Twanda huffed and led the way straight to the church. The others followed.

Entering the Basilica seemed simple enough. The high ornate ceiling looked down upon the empty pews and dead ahead a large crucifix stared at them as candles burned at its foot.

Twanda moved on first. Christine and Micha, the only Catholics, genuflected and crossed themselves before following her. Kimee looked to Tommy who shrugged and moved toward the crucifix.

Christine and Micha each took a candle, lit it and placed it with the others which burned. At that moment, a middle-aged priest, with salt and pepper hair came out to greet them. He donned white robes, much like a cardinal or a monsignor.

“Bon matins mes enfants ,”greeted the priest.

“Hi,” replied Twanda. “Some of us don’t speak much French.”

“Sorry. Good morning my children. Have you come to pray? It’s such an early hour, I am surprised to see you.”

“Believe me, it’s not by choice,” Twanda sighed.

“Do you remember seeing a woman with raven black hair and hazel eyes, very beautiful, but with a nasty mouth? It was about three months ago. She was pretty upset with me, and I need to find her,” Micha tried to explain.

“Three months ago? That’s difficult to say. There are so many people who come go.”

Before anyone could say another word a voice broke in from the back of the Basilica.

“She may have used the mirror you hide behind the crucifix,” the voice sounded melodious and soothing. The kids turned to see Doone. No longer did he wear jeans and the tie-dye T-shirt; instead he dressed in a black, long sleeved silk shirt, black jeans and a black leather duster, reminiscent of Angel from “Angel” and “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”.

Christine stood in awe of him. He looked so handsome with the air of her mentor. He walked straight to her, took her hand and kissed it. Then he turned to the priest, who crossed himself in terror, kissed the rosary which hung from his neck and backed away.

“Father Orestes, do you remember me?” He bowed to the Father. The priest cast his eyes to the floor speechless. He took another step back and mumbled a short prayer in Latin as he kissed the rosary.

“Why Father, you still recall the night we met. It was another lifetime. I am flattered.”

“What’s he talkin’ about?” Twanda looked to the Father to explain.

“I…I seem to recall the journal of a priest in the late 1800’s. He spoke of the devil…” his voice broke, and he began to cry.

“I came into the church after the Punjab lasso had done the deed on two unfortunates who sought my purse. Father Orestes gave me sanctuary. I had just broken my ties with the gypsies,” came the gracious explanation.

“I…I must go.” But as the Father turned to leave, the Angel placed a hand on his shoulder and drew him back.

“First, show us the mirror behind the crucifix,” his words commanded and sent shivers up and down the Father’s spine.

The priest obeyed and led them to the crucifix, where he pressed a particular section of the wall that gave way, and a hidden door popped open, revealing a secret room. The priest led them inside and straight to a full-length mirror with an antique gold leaf frame, much like the one in Christine’s dressing room at the Opera House.

Terror filled the eyes of the priest. He crossed himself and bowed his head, waiting for the next command of the Phantom. Doone dismissed him. The grateful priest wasted no time in fleeing the room.

A dim light hung over a plaque attached to the mirror, which read: Le Passage à l'Enfer.

“The passage to hell?” translated Kimee.

“Passage or Gateway to Hell,” answered Doone. “Speak to the mirror, gypsy boy.” He looked to Micha. Micha stood trembling before the glass. It seemed ordinary, but in light of the circumstances and the plaque attached to it, and his mistake in spell casting, his mind drew a blank. What if he made another mistake? Would another creature from the nether world enter our dimension?

“I don’t know what to say,” Micha stepped back from the mirror. “I could make another mistake.”

“Ask the mirror what you want to know,” demanded the Angel. “We don’t have much time. The longer she’s in this dimension, the more difficult it will be to send her back.”

Micha looked to Christine, who drew from her pocket, the pouch with the powder they had used before. She handed it to the gypsy and he opened it and took a pinch of the powder and threw it at the mirror, while chanting something in French.

No one uttered a word. Doone crossed his arms impatiently. The mirror remained unchanged. Micha repeated the ritual. Nothing happened.

“Ask the mirror a question. You do remember the story of Snow White, don’t you gypsy boy?” taunted the modern Phantom.

“Well, yeah.”

“Never mind,” he pushed Micha aside and raised both hands to the mirror. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who last demanded ‘who is the fairest of us all’?”

In a moment, a mist formed and two eyes appeared in the mirror. “The magic mirror tells you true, Brianna was the one, that’s who,” boomed the voice from the looking glass.

“Mirror show us where Brianna is and take us there.” At this, the mist swirled in the mirror and then dissipated, leaving a vision of a beautiful, sensual raven-haired woman, in a theatre on the arms of two gorgeous men. Then, the mist seeped from the mirror and swirled around the young people, sweeping them away to where the woman sat.

At this time, they found themselves at a performance of Manon, a very popular opera first performed in Paris in the late 1800’s, going on at the opera house. Apparently, the mirror had brought them there at eight o’clock the following evening. They stood in the aisle of the immense theatre, and there before them sat Brianna, Snow White’s witch/step-mother, sitting between two of Paris’ most handsome men. An ash blonde model-type sat on her left and a dark-haired pinup-boy sat on her right.

Twanda looked up at Doone. “Now what? There’re no operas on at 2 am. What’s up with this?”

“It’s not 2 am anymore. It’s the next evening’s performance,” he answered, annoyed with the time shift. The others frowned, not understanding a time shift.

“Do we like confront her?” Kimee whispered.

“All of you go to the lobby. I’ll confront her,” Doone pushed the others toward the doors at the back of the theatre. Then, he glided to Brianna.

The enchantress had to be one of the most beautiful, seductive women he’d ever seen. Her long, silky raven-hair caressed her bare shoulders, tempting any man to surrender his will. The curves of her luscious cleavage beckoned to him. The gleam in those cold, dark eyes made his blood boil. Undoubtedly she possessed magick for she nearly bewitched him.

He swallowed hard. But now, of all times, Doone no longer felt like the commanding Phantom of the Opera. The air of authority and mystery had drained. Even with the black silk shirt and leather coat, Doone became Doone again, Valley-boy extraordinaire.

“Like, excuse me, but I like need to talk to you. Like you are Brianna, right?” as the words left his mouth, Doone knew he was in trouble, big time.

“You dare address me, you lowly mortal!” with the wave of her hand, Doone went flying across the room, over the heads of the audience, whose full attention fell upon the opera, they didn’t notice.

As Doone picked himself up from the floor, he mumbled, “This is so not good!”

He tried to think of what the Opera Ghost would do, but nothing came to mind. He had lost all recollection of Erik and as Doone, he could think of nothing to do but run, as Brianna now headed straight for him in all of her beautiful fury.

Poor Doone, seems he is in a bit of trouble. I sure hope the others decide to go back inside so they can help him.

I like the new twist in your story very much, please continue soon, I am waiting anxiously for what will happen next.


D

.. what she said..^

must say erik really picked the right time to disappear,lol

Very glad to return and read your updates. The story captures the magic of a time gone by; your plot is consistent and your characterization remains on key. A lot of lustin' and lovin' going on, lol.

Thank you slitherliggie, silver moon and chica de nueva york. So good to see all of you and thank you for the kind words. So happy you enjoyed.

Now I shall post the next chapter. Please R&R. Enjoy!

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PART ONE

The Woods, Outskirts of Le Harve, France 1879


When Derrell regained consciousness in the woods between Le Harve and Paris, he looked about in the dark, blinking and squinting, trying to get his bearings. Moonlight streamed through the trees, allowing only a small bit of light to tease the weary traveler. With the campfire still eyeshot away, the silhouette of Maurice D’Auberge, his employer, headed straight for him carrying a lit torch. Derrell remembered Laurette and spun around behind the tree.

No one.

“What’s taking so long?” D’Auberge’s gruff voice roared.

Derrell rubbed his sore head. “Someone hit me from behind. Knocked me out.”

“Where’s the girl?”

“I…I don’t know. When I came to, she was gone.”

“Come. Jacques and Arnou are, also, missing,” the nobleman led the way into the woods, holding the torch a little ahead of himself.

The cry of the nightbird filled the air. In the distance, a wolf howled. The night turned increasingly cold. D’Auberge halted a moment.

“What’s wrong?” Derrell tried to see around him.

“Look! Jacques and Arnou,” the nobleman bent down and cast the light over the dead bodies. He examined them.

“Their necks are broken. The girl didn’t do this,” the nobleman continued and cast his eyes about nervously.

“Do you think it was…?” Derrell started and swallowed hard.

“Auberge stood up and glared at the man. “Who? My partner, Le Fantôme?” He laughed out loud. “In the woods? I believe he’s more suited to the Opera House.”

“So he’s never been known to linger in the woods or kill outside of the…”

“Silence!” he cut off Derrell before he could finish. Then he again looked about nervously. “Let us return to camp.”

“What about them?” Derrell nodded toward the bodies.
“Leave them for the wolves.”

The nobleman headed back to the camp. Derrell took one last look at the bodies and a quick scan of his surroundings and shivered, before following his boss.

“M. D’Auberge, should we look for the girl?” Derrell caught up with his employer.

“No. There’s no time. We must be in Paris tomorrow night.”

“Do you think the girl is dead?”

“We’ll find out soon enough. For now, we move on before anything else happens.”

Upon reaching camp, the nobleman barked orders to his men. At first, they didn’t want to move on. Fear seized their hearts. Two of the cruelest men they’d ever known lay dead and their assassin roamed free in the woods. Any one of them could be next.

D’Auberge pulled out a gun and threatened a slow death for each one who refused to obey. As far as they could see, they faced death no matter what. At least if they moved toward Paris, they had a chance to earn their money.

As they ushered the girls into the false bottoms of the caravans, the howling wolf in the distance unnerved even the bravest of the men. They murmured quietly to themselves, careful not to let their employer hear.

Mae had once again graced the stage of the Opera House in her performance of love and passion, with her rendition of the songs from the musical film version about the Phantom. Again, she closed the evening with the Phantom’s solo, which she dedicated to her beloved Erik.

The crowd gave her a standing ovation as they had the previous evening, and as before, Mae looked up toward Box Five and threw a kiss to the shadow with those penetrating golden eyes.

Erik stood in a standing ovation for his lovely wife. His heart thrilled, not only from her performance, but because she recognized him in public; she seemed proud to be his wife. Openly, she dedicated the song to her beloved husband, Erik, who sat in Box Five.

Amidst the crowd of patrons and performers, Raoul met Mae in the lobby of the theatre and congratulated her, as usual. Fearfully, she looked around, knowing those blazing eyes watched her from some dark, obscure corner.

“He’s here, isn’t he, Mae?” Raoul looked around nervously.

“Yes, so do not attempt to kiss or embrace me, as I will not be responsible for my husband’s actions. It was only by the grace of God that I could stop him the last time,” Mae smiled and acted natural as people passed to and fro.

“Indeed, Madame. And for this I thank God and you,” he responded, rubbing his neck. He could still feel the tightening of the lasso and the swirling darkness that tried to engulf him.

“Where were you at noon? I waited at the mirror, but you never arrived. Were you ill or had some misfortune be fallen you?” Raoul continued.

“Crap! I forgot. Erik and I slept late. Forgive me Raoul,” apologized the new diva. “Did anything happen in the mirror?”

“No. Nothing. I tried talking to it, but nothing happened. What shall we do? Is my Christine lost?”

“No. Don’t worry. We’ll get her back. Excuse me, I must go to my beloved.”

Mae turned to leave, but Raoul caught her arm, “Erik is most fortunate to have you.” Then he slipped a small, folded paper into her hand. “If you should need, please feel free to call upon me,” and with this, he bowed, and took her hand and brought it to his lips.

As Erik lifted his beloved wife from the boat, he held her in his arms as they kissed on the shore of the grotto of their home.

“I know,” he smiled, realizing she was annoyed with his mask. “You may remove my mask.” Happily, she obeyed.

“You sang like an angel,” he kissed her again.

“I have a good teacher,” she smiled.

“I have taught you nothing. You sang like this the first night you performed. You are my Angel of Music.” This time, Erik gently touched his wife and kissed her tenderly, while his hands roamed her body, slowly, exploring all they could though her clothes.

Finally, Erik broke the kiss. “I must leave you for awhile tonight. I have some business to attend.”

“Can I go with?” Mae looked up into his face.

“I beg your pardon? Can I go with? Are you asking to go with me?”

“Yes. Sorry. More speech from my time.”

“Interesting. Can I go with? Mmm, no! You may not go with.” Even though he smiled his words rang with finality. “Where I must go, a lady should not attend.”

”You’re not going to use the lasso, are you?”

“I hope not. I will be in the city, and will return by one or two in the morning. If you wish to wait for me, you may.”

“Well, if you had a television, I could entertain myself that better. Even DVD’s or CD’s?” Mae loved to tease her man.

“What are you talking about? Never mind. Explain later,” he kissed her once more, and then left her on the shore while he jumped back into the boat. She handed him his mask, but he refused, and from his inside coat pocket he drew out the black death’s head, which covered his entire face.

“This time I must truly blend into the night. Your Angel must merge into the depth of darkness,” he bowed to his true love.

“Be careful, sweetheart. Come back to me safely. I’ll wait up for you.”

“Wait up for me? Yes, interesting phrase. Do that. Wait up for me,” and with that the Phantom smiled, and rowed to the portcullis, which opened at the touch of the counterweight.

Mae watched him row out of sight as the portcullis closed behind him. She sighed. He had never left her alone before and the deathly quiet echoed within the walls of the labyrinth. Deathly quiet presided over the bowels of the Opera House. The surroundings felt damp and cold, as well, so she turned and went back into the house.

What could she do until her love retuned? The clock chimed ten o’clock. She had four hours to kill. With no television, DVD’s, CD’s or radio, what could she do? She tried to play Erik’s organ, but she couldn’t figure out how it worked, so she moved to the piano. That amused for a while, but then she became bored and looked around for some books to read.

After making her way into the Louis-Philippe bedroom and she reviewed the books in a case at the far corner of the room. Loneliness and fear crept over her. How could her Erik stand to live alone in this place for so long? One could truly go mad in the solitude.

At the very top of the bookcase, what a series of personal journals set side by side, labeled by the year. They ran from 1840 to 1878. Mae knew if Erik found her snooping, she would suffer his wrath. Yet, she decided to take a peek and then carefully replace the book. No harm done.