Page 119 of Angel's Fall

She let go as Erik came, joining him in the orgasm that pulsed through them. So many times before, her pleasure had engulfed her in beautiful silence, a tidal wave of delight and peace that took her from the mortal world and into the realm of angels. But not now. Finally, she was present. Pleasure coursed through her blood, and she stayed on the earth, experiencing every second of it as her lover poured out his climax inside her. It went on and on, the spasms of her cunt, the bucks of his hips, and the delirious joy of being one with him.

At last it was as it should be. Christine was joined in body and heart and soul to the man fate had linked her to so long ago. She was not lost, not subsumed or fading. She was herself and her own. She chose him, right now, and would continue to, as long as her soul endured.

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Raoul had slept onthe train, thanks to a bottle of brandy and his general exhaustion. So now, he found himself wide awake in the wee hours of the morning at the hotel in Brussels, glowering at the city as he waited for dawn. Even so, he was not expecting a knock at his door. His heart surged at the sound – could it be Christine already? Had burying that thing finally freed her heart and had she rushed to him on the next train?

It took Raoul a moment when he threw open the door to understand that the familiar woman looking at him across the threshold was not his fiancée, but his sister. She was still in black and looked as dour as when he had last seen her.

“Sabine, I told you: you cannot tell me who to marry or interfere!” Raoul growled as he retreated towards the fire.

“I don’t need to interfere. Your Christine isn’t coming,” Sabine replied, and Raoul spun to her in shock. “I came to bring you home.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Here.” Sabine handed him a letter addressed in Christine’s delicate hand. “Read it.”

“Where did you get this?” Raoul sputtered. “Did she—”

“Your Persian friend brought it.”

Raoul stared at the words on the paper, his brain struggling to put the words into focus.

My Dear Raoul,

I regret how this letter must reach you, but I think it is for the best to say my goodbyes in this way. When you return to Paris, I will be gone, and I ask that you do not try to find me.

I cannot be your wife. I feared it was true before, but the burial and my final moments at the Opera confirmed it in my heart. I love a man you hate, and I will love him until my days are done. What is more, you deserve a wife who can bring you heirs as much as she can give you her whole heart, and I can do neither. It is better for you and your family for us to part.

I am so sorry, Raoul, for all the grief I have brought you and all you have sacrificed in my name. I pray you find the strength to forgive me, yourself, and all of us, for what has transpired. I pray you thrive and grow and find joy and build the life you deserve. Do not forget the brave young boy who saved my scarf from the sea. Make him proud.

~ Christine

Raoul read and reread the letter, trying to make sense of it. He had arrived in Brussels buoyed by one single hope, one single spark of light in all the vile darkness: that Christine would be his, finally. And now, she was gone.

“Did Motlagh say where she was going?” Raoul asked numbly, looking at the letter for some clue. “We spoke of going north. To her homeland.”

“She was quite clear she did not want to be followed. Are you going to listen to her for once?” Sabine’s voice was sharp as a slap.

“How do I know this is not some deception?” Raoul demanded. “She has lied before.”

“Then why in the name of God would you still want her?” Sabine cried, and unmanly tears stung his eyes.

“I... I don’t know. It is one thing to be denied my revenge, but to also be denied my prize for all I have endured is another.” Raoul ignored his sister’s grunt of disgust. “Now I have nothing.”

“You have your life, you fool! You have a future free of that cursed trollop.” Sabine grabbed his shoulder and forced Raoul to look at her. “You have a chance to save our name and our family. You should be thanking her for that.”

“But Erik—”

“Your Phantom is dead!” Sabine drew a folded newspaper from the folds of her traveling cloak and presented it to Raoul. “Look!”

Erik is dead.

The words were there, as plain as day, in the pages ofL’Époque. The obituary that the monster had asked for so that some strangers could know a man named Erik lived and died. Even that was more than the thing deserved.

“So it truly is over.” Raoul was as unmoored as when he had learned Philippe was gone, for all his ideas about what his future would be now had to change. How could that be? How could the story have ended without his involvement or action again? He had woken after the torture chamber to learn Christine had saved them all. He had learned from the Persian that the beast was dying. Now, while he was looking away, he had lost Christine as well.

“It is. Now come home. There’s a train back to Paris in a few hours,” Sabine entreated. “Come home, and we can start again.”

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