Immortal Darkness (Phantom Diaries #3) (9 page)

He has a fabulous mind that is in tune to everything going on in Paris… so long as it involves the art.  With the greatest of ease he spoke of every opera to ever entertain Parisians.  Whether Italian or French or German, he knew every lyric, every meaning, every emotion and every intention.  Melodies cling to his ear like slugs to wet grass.

Though he’s not a singer by any means, he has a deep, husky and manly voice that is perfect for passion and love.  My skin thrilled on his every word, on every breath between those words.

I’ve known men. I’ve been with men. But nothing like this. Nothing like Eric. In one evening he made every man I’d ever met look like toddlers in a sandbox.

“How can you waste your time talking to such an oaf?” Maxime Gaudreault had asked the moment Eric stepped away to get me a refreshment.  He was obviously jealous of Eric’s undeniable masculinity.

“I happen to find him very interesting,” I’d shot back. 

For the longest time Maxime has tried to convince me to give him a chance.  He’s almost thirty-four, has a large crooked nose and one eye who doesn’t care where the other one is looking.

I’m tired of dealing with old, ugly men who think they can please the flesh of a beautiful young woman.  I have so much to offer.

And I want to offer it to Eric.

I shut the journal when Aaron came to my side with a perfect glass of red wine. “You know I don’t really like to drink alcohol.”  I said, already hearing a cheerier tone to my voice.  “You yourself said I had to preserve my voice.  That’s why I’m here and not in my arctic apartment.”

“One sip won’t render you mute.”

I smiled and flipped the journal open the moment he stepped away.

Le 19 mai, 1881

I saw Eric again today.  This time we were alone.  If he was enthralling and irresistible the other night amidst the throngs of masqueraders, you can only imagine how he was when I was alone with him.

What struck me as odd was the half mask he wore.  It hid one eye, one cheek, a good portion of his nose and down to hide his jaw.  Caught off guard, I chuckled and let out an amusing quip.  Well, not so amusing to him apparently, but he offered no explanation as to why he wore it.

So be it.  It just adds more mystery to this magnanimous man.

We met in the park, innocent enough, but that wild beast, that savage man with hands so large, it’s impossible to think innocent thoughts. I wanted to throw myself at him, to beg him to take me, to ravage me.

On two occasions I almost did just that.

But there are a few things that concern me.

For all my attraction to him, he seems only minimally interested in me.  All my life men have thrown themselves at me.  Some have thrown jewels and promises of more.  Yet here I find myself with a real man, a man I could sink my teeth into, a man who could crush me to his chest, restrain my dainty little wrists in one monstrous hand and have his way with me… and all he wants to do is talk about music, about opera.

Le 23 mai 1881

Eric’s passion for music now serves me more than I could have imagined.  He caught me singing last night. Strolling through the nearby park, the beauty of the evening, the burst of spring had me singing a lighthearted and playful song.

When I stopped I heard gentle applause.  It sounded mocking to my ears and as I’d turned to him, I was certain he ridiculed me, but no.  He honestly and sincerely enjoyed the sound of my voice.  I think ‘pure, rich tone’ were his exact words.

I’m to see him again tonight. We’ll sing together, perhaps stroll through the park together, then, when we’ve walked and sung enough… well, who knows where we’ll end up.

Le 24 mai, 1881

He’d left his mask at home last night when we worked on an entrancing piece of music, but his long, thick curls fell over his face, keeping from my view the face his mask has kept secret.

As I sang, letting the notes ring out, clear and strong, he listened attentively, noting any improvement that could be made.  But as I reached the climatic close of the song, he rose, applauded and inadvertently flicked his hair back, exposing a ravaged face.

Shocked, I fell silent and stared.

Anyone who knows me would have predicted I would have packed up and run.  After all, how could the beautiful and ravishing Kristine hold company with a man with half a face?

I surprised myself.  As he let his hair fall over his face, I approached him, pushed the heavy locks of hair back and looked closely at what he’d been hiding since our very first encounter.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Eric.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Look at me. There’s nothing to love.”

But I swear, mon chere journal, I’ve never felt such emotion for a man.  I could have easily argued it was all physical, all animal, but as he revealed his face, a surge of love and affection, of a strong desire to protect and please took over me.

Le 13 juin, 1881

Great news!  Eric has done the impossible.  He’s arranged for an audition with the Opera House.  Wish me luck!

Le 14 juin, 1881

Even greater news!  I got it!  I got it!  Alright, I’ll be realistic and admit I’ll be an understudy, but dare I say, Miss Carignan, the young woman who presently holds the lead, seems rather pale and weak.  After rehearsing only two songs, albeit rather challenging ones, she coughed and choked.

I say they’ll be begging to have me take her part before the week ends.

Le 18 juin, 1881

Mon chere journal.  I’m languishing in my bed, reluctant to rise, reluctant to leave my room, for last night, Eric came to share it with me.

I knew he was a beast, a sexually charged animal with deep passion, but last night he proved to be so much more than that.  I’ve never been taken, possessed, and pleasured as I was last night.

His hands, his fingers took a hold of my body with such ardor, with such desire; I knew he wanted me to derive just as much pleasure from our late night encounter as he did.

How many men can claim that?  Most men are selfish, if not absolutely ignorant of the workings of a woman’s body, of the capacity to have such pleasure.  But Eric knew, knew well, and acted upon that knowledge with proficiency.

My love for him has taken on a whole new meaning.

But while I would love to languish longer, to take in the remnants of his scent on my bed sheets, I have just as much reason to rise and face the great day ahead.

Yes, as predicted, Miss Carignan has fallen ill.  I know it’s inappropriate to celebrate the malaise that has cut short her run at the Opera House, but, well, I can’t help it.

I’m ecstatic.

Shutting the journal, my thoughts were filled with Eric; his passion, his raw masculinity… his hands. After reading such a personal and intimate passage, I would have expected to feel jealousy, but not at all.  Through Kristine’s eyes, I felt my own love for Eric grow and blossom into something that was beyond my control.

Hearing Aaron clanging his way through the kitchen, I opened the journal again.

Le 24 juin, 1881

My world, my life has been sliced in two.  I’m beyond thrilled by my place at the Opera House.  I’m the talk of Paris and every musical director wants to get his hands on me, both figuratively and literally.  The applause, the encore, the raving critics, it has all come together to make me the star I’ve always dreamed of being.  Men of power and influence come to me, offer me gifts of great value, offer me a life of leisure if only I would spend my nights with them.

But my love still belongs to Eric, and therein lies the problem.  Eric refuses to show himself.  He’s heard me sing every night at the opera, but from the bowels of the House.  Never does he come up to watch me, to take part in the great spectacle.

It may partially be my fault.  I forced him to come the first night, but the questions about his mask were nonstop. Everyone insisted on knowing why, on seeing what he was hiding.

One rather rude and obnoxious cast member came up to him and ripped off the mask, exposing him before a crowd of shocked and horrified patrons.  The gasps, the screams and the grunts of disgust had a profound effect on Eric. One elderly woman even fainted at the sight of him.

I have to do something. I can’t go on in this relationship with a man who refuses to see the light of day. But I love him, and can’t bring myself to see how dim our future seems.

The glare of the limelight is increasingly on me while the gloom of darkness increasingly beckons him.

I’ve spoken to him, many times, about repairs to his face. Surely something can be done to diminish the appearance of his scars. He’s refused to even discuss the matter, but I’ve taken it upon myself to find some kind of treatment.

For the moment, funds are a problem.  Medical attention in Paris is painfully dear, almost impossible for mere mortals. But I’ve heard of treatments, modern and expensive, that can be had in Sweden.

I want to show the world the beautiful being Eric is. For the moment everyone shuts him out because of the scars on his face and they refuse any and all contact with him.

It breaks my heart, for he deserves better.

Tears sprang to my eyes as I read about her love and commitment to Eric.  I closed my eyes as emotions racked my chest, clotted my throat and left me clutching the journal to my heart. Reliving Kristine’s time with Eric, I travelled back through time, letting my imagination bring me to the time and place where she first fell in love with the very same Eric I’ve come to love so much.

My imaginary travels became heavy with sleep, and the draw of dreaming of Eric pulled me into slumber, deeper and deeper. In the distance, I was vaguely aware of Aaron’s presence. 

He tugged the journal from my hands and slipped his fingers through mine as he remained nearby for a long moment.

“I know you want us to simply remain friends…”

His voice pierced through my sleep, battling with Eric for my attention.

“I don’t think I can do it.  I don’t think I can spend such time with you and not let my emotions take me where they will.  I love you, Annette.”