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Madeline Baker/Amanda Ashley

Paranormal romance is a supernatural force to be reckoned with. Although packed with a menagerie of werewolves, shapeshifters and assorted demons, its undisputed king is none other than our favorite centuries-old bloodsucker - the vampire. We're now living in a post-Buffy world of dark urban fantasy a la Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake, Sherrilyn Kenyon's irresistible Dark Hunters and the blood-lusting soul mates of Christine Feehan. But it doesn't stop there. This Mammoth collection opens a vein to reveal the mind-boggling scope of the supercharged phenomenon created when vampires meet romance. Let the biggest and brightest names in the
paranormal romance business take you hot on the hemoglobin trail of the sexiest creatures of the night. Witness the bewildering array of complex vampire codes of conduct, dark ritual and dating practices, as they chat up the locals and engage in the most erotic encounters you will sink your teeth into this side of un-Death. These ain't your mother's vampires!

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The Music of the Night

Chapter 1

Cristie Matthews couldn’t believe it, she was actually inside the Paris Opera House. It was everything she had ever imagined, and more. Try as she might, she couldn’t find words to describe it. Beautiful seemed woefully inadequate. Awesome came close, but still fell short.

She owed her fascination with the Paris Opera House solely to Andrew Lloyd Webber, or, to be more exact, to her fascination with his amazing production, “The Phantom of the Opera”. She had seen the movie, of course, but it didn’t hold a candle to the stage play. She had seen the play once, and once had not been enough. The music had enthralled her; the plight of the Phantom had touched her every emotion from joy to despair, and she had eagerly joined the ranks of those who saw the play again and again, never tiring of it, always feeling emotionally drained when the Phantom’s last anguished cry faded away.

She had become obsessed with all things Phantom. She had collected everything she could find with that world-famous logo: music boxes and posters, ads in the paper, books and magazine articles. If it related to the Phantom, she simply had to have it: dolls and figurines, snow globes and playing cards, picture frames and jewelry, Christmas ornaments and collector plates, every version of the music on tape or CD that she could find.

Before coming to Paris, she had researched the Opera House online and found a wealth of information. The Opera House had been built by Charles Garnier, at that time a young, unknown architect. Completed in 1876, the Palais Garnier was considered by many to be one of the most beautiful buildings on earth. The theater boosted two thousand seats; the building’s seventeen stories covered three acres of land. Seven levels were located underground, among them chorus rooms and ball rooms, cellars for old props, closets and dressing rooms, as well as numerous gruesome objects from the various operas that had been produced there. It was rumored that these grisly effects had sparked the idea behind Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera.

And now, after scrimping and saving for three years, she was there, in the Phantom’s domain. Alone. Shortly after the final curtain, she had hidden in one of the bathrooms. If she got caught wandering around, she would simply say she had lost her way.

Which would not be a lie, because she really was lost. There were so many hallways, so many doors, she no longer knew where she was.

Her footsteps echoed eerily in the darkness as she climbed a set of winding stairs and then, to her relief, she found herself inside the theater.

She sank into a seat near the back of the house and gazed around, wondering if this had been such a good idea, after all. It was dark and quiet and a little bit spooky sitting there, all alone.

Resting her head on the back of the seat, she closed her eyes, and music filled her mind…the haunting lyrics of the “Music of the Night”, the Phantom’s tortured cry when he saw Christine and Raul pledging their love on the roof top, his heartbreaking plea when he begged Christine to let him go wherever she went, his anguished cry as he took her down to his lair, his rage and anger and the faint glimmer of hope when he demanded she make her choice; the last haunting notes when he declared it was over.

There was a never-ending discussion on any number of web sites about whether Christine should have stayed with the Phantom, and polls asking whether the listers themselves would have stayed with Erik or gone with Raoul. Poor Raoul, he seemed to be disliked by one and all.

There had never been any doubt in Cristie’s mind that she would have stayed with the Phantom. She knew what it was like to be left for another, knew the pain and the heartache of unrequited love, knew there was more to life than sweet words and a pretty face.

Sitting there, with her eyes closed, she seemed to hear Christine’s voice, but of course, it was only her imagination.

Still, it seemed so real. Opening her eyes, Cristie stared at the stage, blinked and looked again. Was there a figure standing there? A figure wearing a hooded cloak, and a red scarf? Cristie rubbed her eyes. Not one figure, but two. A dark shape wearing a black hat with a long curling black feather stood beside the cross on the cemetery wall. A long black cloak covered him from neck to heels. Was that a staff in his hand? Canting her head to one side, Cristie heard him sing ever so softly and sweetly to his wandering child.

Cristie she sat up straighter and leaned forward. It wasn’t possible. She had to be dreaming. She rubbed her eyes again. The figure of Christine seemed transparent, ghost-like, but the Phantom…she was certain he was real.

Fear sat like a lump of ice in her belly, and then she realized that what she was seeing was probably just some star-struck member of the cleaning crew, or a night watchman wearing one of the Phantom’s costumes, or … of course, it was an understudy who had stayed late to rehearse. It was the logical explanation, except it didn’t explain the ghostly Christine.

And then, echoing through the empty building, came the Phantom’s cry of rage as Christine turned her back on him and left with Raoul. Fireballs spit from the Phantom’s staff to light the stage and the image of Christine disappeared. But the figure of the Phantom remained standing near the cross, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his head bowed.

It had always been one of her favorite scenes, one that had never failed to move her to tears. This performance by some unknown actor was no different. With a sniff, she wiped the dampness from her cheeks.

And found herself pinned by the gaze of the man on the stage. Even through the darkness, she could feel those black eyes burning into her own.

Her mind screamed at her to leave, to run from the theater as quickly as possible, but try as she might, she couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her gaze from his.

It took her a moment to realize he had left the stage and was walking rapidly toward her. He moved with effortless grace, the long black cape billowing behind him. His feet made no sound; indeed, he seemed to be floating toward her.

And then, abruptly, he was looming over her. The half-mask gleamed a ghostly white in the darkness.

“Christine?” His voice, filled with hope, tugged at her heart.

She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the mask that covered the right side of his face. No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t real. He didn’t exist.

He took a step closer, and then he frowned. “Forgive me, you are not she.”

Cristie tried to speak, but fear trapped the words in her throat.

“You are very like her,” he remarked, a note of wonder in his voice.

His voice was mesmerizing, a deep, rich baritone. Haunted, tinged with pain and sorrow and a soul-deep loneliness.

Caught in his gaze, she could only stare up at him, her heart pounding a staccato beat as he reached toward her, his knuckles sliding lightly over her cheek.

“Who?” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Who are you?”

“Forgive me,” he said with a courtly bow. “I am Erik.”

She swallowed hard. “Erik?”

A slight nod, filled with arrogance. One dark brow arched in wry amusement. “Some people know me as the Phantom of the Opera.”

Cristie shook her head. No, it was impossible. She was dreaming. She had to be dreaming. Soon, her alarm clock would go off and she would wake up in her room at the hotel. And she would laugh… She looked up into his eyes, dark haunted eyes, and wondered if he had ever laughed. Wondered if she, herself, would ever laugh again.

“And your name?” he asked.

“Cristie,” she said, and fainted dead away.

He caught her before she slid out of her chair.
She was quite lovely, he thought, light as a feather in his arms. Her hair was a rich auburn, soft beneath his hand. What was she doing, here in the Opera House, long after everyone else had gone?

A soft laugh escaped his lips as he carried her down the aisle, turned left, and disappeared through a secret door.

Down, down, down, he went, until he reached the boat by the underground lake.

He placed her gently in the stern, then poled across to the other side.

“Cristie.” He spoke the name softly, reverently, certain it was short for Christine. Wondering if, this time, he might be blessed with a happy ending.


copyright Madeline Baker 2007